"Unless the person who lived here made them." A soft counterpoint to him, unaware of his scrutiny of her with her eyes downturned. After all, why ever would someone look at her here? St. Loe, like this island, was a wisp of a memory.

Instead, she has the rather more pressing task of gathering her skirts up in her hand.

And to that customary optimism, that disbelief, even as he says it - that people could do such a thing. Hurt a spirit, who only ever helped. Her face turned up to him briefly, and she is a pretty thing, if - well, naive, apparently. But she looks to him honestly, hopefully, taking her cues from him all the same. Wide eyes and all. "Perhaps... perhaps he was lonely, and they came to join him in the dolls."