@raggcd
❛ she’s ill. prob’y from traipsin’ about with the likes of you. ❜ who else mrs lovett would ‘trapise about’ with was unclear -- but then, he cared almost not at all for who she chose to give her time to. she spoke so much anyway, and what was he to do with that ? nothing. this invisible rope around his neck kept all his words in his lungs, bottled and sealed, rotting away inside him like curdled milk. in any case, and, regardless, she had now taken ILL with a cold. he resented the circumstance ; it was one of the few obstacles to daily, secluded life that could draw him from his room during daylight. he flexed his cold, bluish fingers and frowned. ❛ she says close ‘e shop for today, and don’t visit her, she’s sleeping. ❜ actually, her words had included a lot more instructions, like the fact she worried for passing on her cold -- but sweeney, stiff, distant and strange, crisply sitting on a chair and staring ahead with pure melancholy, was not likely to interfere, or touch her, or take unnecessary risks to his own health. she could trust him not to dally. ❛ 's’a understood ? ❜ he was, indeed, the possessive type -- but he hardly did it for her good, so much as to intimidate the boy for whom he had little time, and all too large an uncomfortable knowledge that he was the one witness to the carnivorous house. he thought the boy absurd, not in his person, but in his presence ( and for that, he had one feverish mrs lovett to thank ) and only neutralized by docility. if the boy ran away tomorrow, then -- in sweeney’s mind -- so much the better.
