Don't matter. M'sieur Claquesous from home, he were that angry when no title is used. I used to do it to make him cross sometimes, just for the fun, you know?

[She laughs at the memories, of her running like a whippet through the streets after she'd cheeked the members of the Patron Minette, dodging down alleys and hiding in cracks and crevices, climbing trees so they wouldn't catch her. It was a dangerous sport, but the fear and thrill made her remember she was alive.

To Ciri's question, she shrugs.]

My home as a child were the best. My Papa had an inn and I were spoiled by everyone. Then, when we lost it, and we moved to Paris, no. First, under our cart, but we sold it and then in a doorway. We had lodgings, all of us in a room, sometimes, but it weren't nice. Mama were always cross and Pa were on the liquor. Then we lost that and ages we slept under the bridges. God, I hated that. The ice would go on your cheeks and lips and the rats would bite your toes and that. It were worse when you couldn't feel it. Here, at least if the rats bite, you know they are there. And if I go home, I will die. My Pa or my 'Parnasse will kill me, or the hunger. Here is better than there, but me, I want to be free.