[She smiles shyly at Amos, glad that he’s accepted her past with slur or condemnation. Most people wouldn’t. She chuckles though.]
Ain’t honest if you pick a pocket whilst they’re enthralled, Sir. That is not so honest. But do they deserve it? It is only to get fair pay for it. Or enough for sausage or pie.
[ Eponine hugs her arms about her as Amos mentions the belt. Her smile becomes rueful. He wants her gone. She leans forward so she’s hunched over and shuffles her feet in the dust of the courtyard, tracing a pattern with her toe.
She still doesn’t go, though her expression is wary. She hates being hit more than anything, and she knows if she pushes the wrong buttons, Amos’ll go for her.]
You killed your gang leader? So you were the head of it? Me, no. I can’t do so. There are four heads and they are like a worm. If you chop one, another will grow. And two, two you cannot touch. Monsieur Claquesous, he is one with the shadows, him. All masks and faces and names and so slippery he even vanished from a prison cart and left his handcuffs behind. And they put ‘em tight on us, behind you and that, but he still slipped ‘em. My Pa were there with him, and he swore he didn’t see it. And Montparnasse is the other. I thought we’d be married, once. But no. He likes me for an alleyway, to warm his bed. Marriage is not for me. I’d like it though. Marriage. It’d be nice to be a lady.
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Ain’t honest if you pick a pocket whilst they’re enthralled, Sir. That is not so honest. But do they deserve it? It is only to get fair pay for it. Or enough for sausage or pie.
[ Eponine hugs her arms about her as Amos mentions the belt. Her smile becomes rueful. He wants her gone. She leans forward so she’s hunched over and shuffles her feet in the dust of the courtyard, tracing a pattern with her toe.
She still doesn’t go, though her expression is wary. She hates being hit more than anything, and she knows if she pushes the wrong buttons, Amos’ll go for her.]
You killed your gang leader? So you were the head of it? Me, no. I can’t do so. There are four heads and they are like a worm. If you chop one, another will grow. And two, two you cannot touch. Monsieur Claquesous, he is one with the shadows, him. All masks and faces and names and so slippery he even vanished from a prison cart and left his handcuffs behind. And they put ‘em tight on us, behind you and that, but he still slipped ‘em. My Pa were there with him, and he swore he didn’t see it. And Montparnasse is the other. I thought we’d be married, once. But no. He likes me for an alleyway, to warm his bed. Marriage is not for me. I’d like it though. Marriage. It’d be nice to be a lady.