The woman turned her head, but Fulcon’s face was as blank as a piece of brown sandstone. He looked indeed as though he had never uttered a sound in his life. Dog Ban lifted his head and stared at his master as though it was unusual for Fulcon to chuckle.
The woman asked a question.
“How far is it to Guildford?”
Fulcon jerked his head like a wooden doll worked by string.
“Guildford? It may be eighteen miles,” and he reconsidered the number carefully as though he were handing out loaves.
The woman laid a hand on the dog’s head.
“I am tired,” she said suddenly. “I want a lodging.”
“A lodging.”
Fulcon always echoed a neighbour’s sentences, a trick that suggested caution, and a desire to gain time for reflection.
“There are hostels in the town,” he said.