They're quite alive, Lancelot thinks to himself, is not normally an assurance one has to make.
Yet here, in this instance, he supposes it is valid. After all, he might not have assumed that was true. He had been wondering, after all.
"Silver hair?" he echoes, curious for a moment, and as Lancelot takes a steadying breath he frowns in thought. Had he seen anyone by that description? With a tweed jacket and glances? "... Forgive me, not that I recall. Perhaps you... missed him, as you say."
Perhaps ghosts have a poor concept of time? Suddenly, and awkwardly, Lancelot wonders if she's a ghost who still thinks it's twenty years ago or some-such and is waiting for some person they knew (no longer living) to return eternally. A tweed jacket is a little old fashioned...
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Yet here, in this instance, he supposes it is valid. After all, he might not have assumed that was true. He had been wondering, after all.
"Silver hair?" he echoes, curious for a moment, and as Lancelot takes a steadying breath he frowns in thought. Had he seen anyone by that description? With a tweed jacket and glances? "... Forgive me, not that I recall. Perhaps you... missed him, as you say."
Perhaps ghosts have a poor concept of time? Suddenly, and awkwardly, Lancelot wonders if she's a ghost who still thinks it's twenty years ago or some-such and is waiting for some person they knew (no longer living) to return eternally. A tweed jacket is a little old fashioned...