She had a beautiful apartment, a wardrobe, a pantry that magically restocked itself every time she left the place.
The pantry stood hidden behind a closet near the bar.
Sonya passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand.
Deidre went back to the pantry, trying to remember what human-Deidre ate.
One morning I locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of the house.
On her way past the butler's pantry she told them to set a samovar, though it was not at all the time for tea.
Someone had food in their pantry at one point, but it was stale and consisted of canned food she wouldn't normally eat.
She crossed to the pantry again, suddenly curious about what kind of new, intense flavors awaited her in the assortment of boxes and cans.
Natasha glanced at her and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that she remembered the light falling through that crack once before and Sonya passing with a glass in her hand.
Adjacent to this apartment are the remains of the kitchen, pantry and buttery.
In the United States, de Tocqueville's voluntary associations still do the job and anyone willing to make her way to a church or food pantry and say she is hungry will not leave empty handed.
She rubbed her temples and issued a challenging glare to the contents of the pantry, furious once more she could eat none of the wonderful things it held.
She knew from watching human-Deidre where the food was and opened the pantry door.
When she was cleaned up, she set about doing what she did every morning: rifling through the sparse pantry then searching the mansion for more information.
She sat behind the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light escaping from the pantry door and listened to herself and pondered.