She nods when he starts to speak again, no longer mirroring him as a statue, but as her own person. Listening, letting him express it. Glimpses into a life that's long since fled, some sort of fall - from a person who had servants and wealth and a grand social life, to serving himself. And then Gilbert, and all he was. All he still was, really. All he still will be, even if George makes that impossibly difficult choice.

Not mentioning it to him doesn't mean she won't think about it. It'll live in her mind, turned over as glass in water until it's gone smooth and opaque. Why live life alone now, if he's not used to it?

And the answer comes to her as soon as she considers it - no one's Gilbert, are they? How is he expected to adjust again, in so short a time?

"Do you still have the fish?"

There's a vaguely fuzzy picture in her head of it. George, and the tanks people keep fish in, so that they might be alongside in a world not meant for them.