There was only a particular, defined role denial could play and a set term for how long it could be clung to. Mrs. Lovett in her life had grown and come to a sort of agreement with denial, a familiar pattern to which she could fall into, play out and hold in place until it was inevitably time for the security to be let go and turned away, it's
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Too bad she hadn't the faintest idea how to do that.
Five morning cigarettes after waking up and Miss Dearheart was in the Compound, the leaden box a weight in her pocket, and she made a beeline for the kitchen. She hadn't actually spared much thought towards her older counterpart, what with other thoughts edging their way in, so her surprise at seeing her there now was slightly understandable.
"Did the ancestors of that dough kill your family or something?" she asked mildly. From the way she was attacking that stuff with the rolling pin, it wasn't an entirely unreasonable question.
*More than usual, at least.
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Today, he strode through the doors with his lips set in a hard, inscrutable line that denoted little of his irritation at having to leave the house in search of sustenance. This expression, however, was quick to shift into one of confusion as his eyes fell on the woman at work in the kitchen.
He said nothing, at first - merely stared, while Stelmaria lifted her head from behind Lord Asriel's legs and approached with cautious interest.
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