Susan's nose wrinkles at that. They ain't dirt, she wants to say. Dirt's honest, and stands on itself. Scum floats on summat better. But she doesn't think 'Ponine would understand what she means by that, and she doesn't feel up to arguing. She just watches 'Ponine instead, her grey eyes thoughtful. Sheemie, she thinks. It's Sheemie she reminds me of. That beat-down edge, that mild acceptance of a bad hand dealt, like a dog used to being kicked. It hurts Susan's heart to see it - hurt with Sheemie, and hurts now.

'Ponine asks her a question, and Susan starts a little, almost guilty, clearing her throat and hoping she wasn't staring. "Aye. Aye, sure. What kind of game?"