Susan opens her mouth, and then closes it slowly, finding herself at a loss for words. It isn't the first time she's come face-to-face with such desperate denial in the face of brutality, or the first time she's seen a woman lie to herself about love. It isn't the first time, but in the moment, it might as well be, and to see that faint scar on the other girl's throat makes her gorge rise, her stomach clenching in horror and sympathy. She'd been about to say something blithe and offhand about how prettiness had its own costs and unfairnesses, but the thought of it withers as 'Ponine keeps talking.

Perhaps, deep down, she had believed that ugly girls were spared some of the worst of men. She has seen how plain women can become invisible, and she has often envied it, especially in those last few months when everything she is has seemed centred down to her tits and what's between her legs, Hart Thorin's knuckles cracking and his slobber running down his chin, Jonas' hands rough and careless on her breasts. She's longed to be plain, so often, to be invisible that way. It's never really occurred to her that it might just be that their suffering, too, is invisible - and that realisation shames her more than she'd care to admit, makes her feel small and stupid and selfish.

She swallows, and now it's her turn to reach over and pat the other girl's hand. She wants to say something kind, to tell 'Ponine that she's not that ugly, really - only to say that would be worse than saying nothing, a patronising and empty kind of platitude. All she can think to say is "And Marius?"