The one she hates the most says, 'You're being used, dearie,' and always at the worst of times. 'I know,' she retorts, and if it were said aloud, she knows it would have a sharp snap to it. 'What a fool,' it always replies. At least, Mrs. Lovett thought grimly, it was consistent.

Those few, precious moments in his arms never lasted for more than a few minutes, but they lingered. They replayed in her head for weeks after their occurrence. With every memory came a rather silly smile (often it came when she was dissecting the latest customer, and she imagined that he thought her enjoying her work) and unfortunately that voice.

"I know," she replies again, and she hears the sharp snap and knows she's spoken to no one, but this only makes her shout louder- "I know!" She's up now, having jumped from the couch she was lying on with her last cry. Thank God for the mirror, without it she might not have seen her shaking hands, or the look in her eyes, or heard his footsteps over the screaming- was it in her mind?

'Yes,' said the voice. The voice of reason- was that what they meant by that expression? 'Yes,' said the voice again, for it was right.