"Oh, my love," says Susan. She keeps touching him, soft little brushes of her fingers; it's like she can't possibly bring herself to stop. "My dear heart. I imagine your determination to be brave didn't help your loneliness." There is much she could say - about how she can read that sort of decision and determination in many of his choices now, about how she shares the same tendency, about how they're birds of a feather, about how Freud would have a tremendous amount to say on the matter. About how, of everyone she's heard about at Camelot, she should like to share Bors's hand and then make a solid list of who, of the rest, deserves a cut direct, and who deserves an upbraiding.

She doesn't say any of this though, just keeps touching Lancelot softly, giving him space to think and to speak.