"I don't care about that either," Eponine says nonchalantly. "It might be nice, to sleep proper and that. Don't you think?" She thinks so. In fact, she longs for sleep, that deep eternal sleep of nothingness. As luck would have it, though, death has so far eluded Eponine completely.
"But only, I don't want to go as a prisoner. They'll make it hurt. I want it to be just like a dream, you know? But I shan't say no to food."

She licks the bread and nibbles just some crumbs off it.
"It ain't so bad in these cells. They give you a bun and that. But in the one all alone, I screamed and screamed and nobody came, and just a plate you shouldn't give a dog was pushed to me each day."

Eponine pushes the bread into her pocket. "I ought not to complain, really. You know, in prison in Paris, in Les Madelonnettes, where I were, they fed us the flesh of the condemned. Just bread and water and mayhaps gruel if you could get to the bars in time, but the condemned on a Sunday. Here is not so bad as there."