"Perhaps in England we 'manner' the individuality out of them. I hadn't thought of it. Did you have a horse of your own at all?"
"Yes, I had one. Smoky."
She noticed the change in his voice when he said it. As audible as the flat note in the cracked bell of a chime.
"A grey?"
"Yes, a dark grey with black points. Not that hard, iron colour, you know. A soft, smoky colour. When he had a tantrum he was just a whirling cloud of smoke."
A whirling cloud of smoke. She could see it. He must love horses to be able to see them like that. He must particularly have loved his Smoky.
"What happened to Smoky?"
"I sold him."
No trespassers. Very well, she would not trespass. He had probably had to sell the horse when he broke his leg.
She began to hope very strenuously that this was Patrick.