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: You dress like a drag queen during Fleet Week. Ruby
: And you dress like Norman Bates when he dresses like Norman Bates's mother.
: Nearly threescore years ago, I was a child, with six older brothers - big as oak trees, all of them. Veterans of the Second Ogres War. And my father, the biggest of them all. Come one wolf's time, he decided to go out and take on the wolf. A different wolf back then, of course, but... just as fearsome. They went out there to protect me. I was supposed to be asleep. But I crawled out on the roof to watch, and lay down on the thatch. They had the beast surrounded, the seven of them, with spears all pointed in at it. And then it started. It was lunging. Not at the men; at the spears. Grabbing with its teeth, breaking the shafts. They stabbed it with the splintered end, but it didn't matter. It tore their throats so fast that not a one of them got a chance to scream, or pray. Or say goodbye. When my father died, I tumbled from the roof, and I landed in the blood, in front of the wolf. I felt its breath on my face. And it clamped its hot jaw on my arm. And I moved away. Then it looked at me with eyes so black they weren't even there. And it walked away. You ever see a wild animal just turn its back and walk away like you don't matter? If this wolf is like that one, there is no defeating it. It's already won, just by existing in our world. You don't kill it. You just hide.
: And wear the hood!
[Emma is checking in at Granny's Bed & Breakfast
: Would you like a forest view or a square view? Normally, there's an upgrade fee for the square, but as rent is due, I'll waive it. Emma Swan
: Square is fine. Granny
: Now, what's the name? Emma Swan
: Swan. Emma Swan. Mr. Gold
: [suddenly behind her
] Emma! What a lovely name. Emma Swan
: Thanks. Granny
: [handing him the rent money
] It's all here. Mr. Gold
: Yes, yes, of course it is, dear, thank you. You enjoy your stay... Emma.
] Emma Swan
: Who's that? Ruby
: Mr. Gold. He owns this place. Emma Swan
: The inn? Granny
: No. The town.
: Welcome to Storybrooke.
: Tacos? I cannot tell you the relief of cooking something that I didn't have to kill first. Granny
: Don't I know it. Meat loaf back home? What a bitch.