On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

His first thought is of Claudius, the way he sometimes seems to take out his own thoughts and feelings with the precision of a surgeon and put them in specimen jars, to be ignored or studied with scientific detachment. It's easier, Galahad thinks, for Claudius to blame himself for being hurt when he examines these bottled experiences, critiquing them as he would the choices of a character from a book.

But Susan doesn't love Claudius. She isn't thinking about him. Galahad's gaze, which has been on Susan's eyes all along, sharpens.

"Does Lancelot have traumatic neuroses?"