My mother made a sound that from a lesser woman would have been a snort.

“Love you? Of course I love you. Baby, I fucking worship you.”

“I can’t figure out where you put all that,” Tucker observed. “You eat like a ho…”

“If you want. It’s not really your kind of thing,” Perry said. “It’s a snow glob…”

“She’s a doll, really.”“Mm. Bride of Chucky.”