He thinks, then, of how desperately sad she seemed to him when he first came to know her. How carefully she held herself; how changed she is now, when she's with him and elsewhere, too. His heart hurts to hear her say this, which is strange because this is a good thing to hear.

Lancelot does not look away from that unflinching gaze; rather, he turns a little so he can face her more directly, and leans in a little. "My sweet love," he says, reaching up to brush back her hair, "I thank thee."