Sarah knows, with dream logic, that this is him. She had decided back when the Dandy lay poisoned and broken on the floor of his laboratory that the Doctor's appearance doesn't matter to her; on a few of the Bohemian's melodramatic days, when he'd been lying about bundled up in his scarf insisting his body was just one of many temporary vessels and it only had aesthetic significance in her limited and superficial human mind, she'd told him what he wanted to hear, which was that he looked lovely and he would always look lovely, whatever he looked like. But even so, she can't help feeling a pang of grief.

"You look so young," she says, throat shaking. "You look about my age!"

She has to quietly lower her eyes and allow herself a moment to think of the Bohemian's wild grin and explosive eyes and dark voice, and fold it up, and put it away. She'd miss him. But it was good to see him again. You had to understand him as he was; you couldn't be too sentimental. She wouldn't be. She wouldn't...

"You've forgotten me," she says, and her vision wobbles with tears. She screws up her face; her voice comes out tiny, but there's nothing she can do to keep them back. "You've forgotten me and the last thing you did was promise me you'd never forget me, and you've forgotten me!"