On average, she got around eight pints of blood from the average human body, while making allowances for the volume that spills all over the floor during harvest, naturally.
Slitting throats tended not to be the most efficient way of gathering ingredients; it did have a tendency to be incredibly messy, and having the floor always slick with gore gave the cellar such an unholy smell, even for London.
It wasn't really unusual for her to be forced to abandon the grinding midway through a femur through in order to stagger upstairs for a few mouthfuls of only semi-putrid air from the street above.
It was a small price to pay.
Mr. Todd and his shiny knives, those beautiful silver-handled razors, were doing her more than a favor. What of it that his mind was constantly bent on revenge, on hatred, on his poor, poor wife and wretched daughter? What of it that his method of murder was slightly inconvenient?
The packaging was what mattered.
After all, people always seem to know when they're not eating cat.