"Lucy says everything is perfect all the time and there's infinite time to explore," Susan says. She should like to curl up just like the cat. In lieu of that, she settles more heavily against Lancelot's chest. "But she also said she couldn't give news of anyone, because everything is just all right forever and everything is as it ought to be." Susan is fairly certain she's been over this with Lancelot before, but she's ruminating on it now, again; it's difficult to chew on, like so much gristle, and she can only work on it a little bit at a time. "I suppose it's all right for her and even Peter, but I hate to think of Edmund there." She does, in truth, hate to think of all of them there, but she is forced to admit that Peter and Lucy are at least somewhat suited to it. "They'd be so cross with me for saying so, I'm sure."