"You may rest assured that I've never been given to holding my tongue," says Susan, with only the faintest tinge of ruefulness to her tone. If Lancelot were to err, in some indefinable way that she can't at all envision, it isn't as if she'd hold it close to her chest and let it fester. She'd address it straightaway, and they'd come to some sort of resolution. Or not, she supposes, but she doesn't want to think of that possibility, and so she does not.

Something else, though, has drawn her attention. "Why does the size of your - actions, I suppose - matter?"