George doesn't so much as twitch as she approaches. Doesn't turn to look even though he thinks he recognises her voice. Just stays staring at the porcelain in his hands.

"Gilbert," he says at length, voice barely above a whisper, "He's a very dear friend. I lived with him for about eight years before coming here, but it feels like I've known him forever. We hadn't spent more than a day or two without each other's company since we met. I haven't seen him in nearly seven months now."

He wonders if this is what the Catholic confessional is like. He's starting to understand the appeal.