[It's easier now that she knows for a fact that it tastes good. She's free to be voracious now that she knows it isn't poisoned or otherwise disgusting. Yes, she'll have to keep this man on call. He makes good bread.

Or does he find it? Either way, much less delicately, she rips off an even larger piece and just shoves it on into her mouth. Her chewing's fortunately still quiet, and she still maintains herself with the poise and grace that's expected of her. Because she was not raised in a barn.

But she blinks when she hears him, head tilting to the side. She can't have heard that right -- which she asks after when she gets that chunk of bread down.]

... Rye, Sir? Such an odd pronunciation! You do not appear to have an accent otherwise -- the pronunciation of the word is "rye."

[She looks back down at her half-eaten loaf.]

Although this certainly tastes like no rye that I have eaten...