She's entirely too used to the notion of deer being prize bucks, ranked by their apparent age and strength. As evidenced by the size of their antlers. But Rose had never taken joy in the hunting of deer, neither did her family or damn him to the deepest pits of Hell, Cal Hockley. Deer were pretty. Deer were the subjects of paintings. But deer weren't often the trophy shown off by Philadelphia society. More often it was the animals of the savannah, elephant tusks and the like.

The incense doesn't smell good. But it didn't smell poorly, either.

Mirror. Gone. Me. Not me.

[she's doing her best to express that the mirror took her over, but she's not sure how accurate she can be like this]

Yes. Flowers. Roses?