"Oh, I think most people are probably partial to their own," Jenny says simply, quick to dismiss any potential need for forgiveness. "Yours was probably more exciting than mine, c'est pas ta faute." She'd be lying to say that a part of her enjoyment at home didn't come from the contrast to Twickenham, so dull and still stuck in the past, though it at least isn't strictly that. Anyway, she can't hold it against him when he's so easily fallen into French with her, something she appreciates more than she probably should, though the fact that she does keeps her from feeling self-conscious over it. Truly, this is probably the best thing to happen to her since she arrived here, and she has no qualms about admitting as much, if only to herself. Better someone she can talk to, whom she doesn't feel like a child around, than bookshelves full of Jane Eyre and the works of C.S. Lewis, a jukebox playing songs uncomfortably familiar.