Susan presses back against him, relaxing in increments. She pulls her hair over her shoulder and then then covers his hand with hers. This, at least, feels right: she fits, nested against Lancelot. It doesn't matter how tall she is or how broad her shoulders are, because he is (once again) taller and broader than her. And lying like this, with him so close but not facing her directly, it's easier to speak of things she doesn't enjoy thinking about. She really is growing ever so comfortable with him. He's familiar, by now, and she - she -

In any event! She's focusing. She's focused. She can do this. 'It was rather like - being in Thomas's body was as if a funhouse mirror was being held up to that feeling I sometimes get."