"He is lovely, Sir. I should want a cat... but I do not think Howard would ever get one for me... perhaps I should find him a pet to say I am sorry for running away?"

She stroked Nye thoughtfully. "Do you suppose that would work? He would still be cross, perhaps, but he might speak to me at least."

She reached for Sigma's face, though, touching his cheeks lightly with her fingertips.

"Ashamed, Sir? Of being made to fight in a game? Of being made to kill?"
She shook her head. "But no. No, that is not a thing to be ashamed of, for it is not your fault. If you are to be ashamed of that, perhaps I ought to be ashamed of being a thief and a beggar and letting men take me for a Franc."

She was ashamed of all of that, and even as she spoke, her voice caught and she looked away.

"Those are shameful things, Sir. Montparnasse even said that murder is more honourable. But no - you must not be ashamed of it. I cannot always be so ashamed of myself; already, I know I am ugly and disgusting and stupid and a thief ... and perhaps even a whore, if Javert has his way. But to be ashamed of myself for being so makes it all worse. And you must not be ashamed either, Sir. You have been kinder to me than anyone ever has, Sir. I will not turn my back because you are a murderer too."

She stroked his cheek again, tracing a path from his eye to his jaw, an invisible tear, perhaps. But his expression fell, and Eponine's did, too. She was being dismissed. A warm dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. Hesitantly, she curtseyed, knees locking and creaking as she bent.

"Sir, you are so kind to me. Perhaps I could come to see Nye on a time? I would like that, Sir. May I?"