'Ponine. Well, Eponine really, but you might call me whatever you will.

[The silence hadn't bothered her. She'd used the time to study Amos, taking in his bristly hair, his sun-weathered skin, his sturdy chest. If she forms an opinion of him, she doesn't show it, doesn't say it. As he speaks though, she edges closer so that their knees meet.]

I like that. Amos. It sounds like a word I know. Amos. Amour. It is love, no? I told you there was kindness there. See! I know lots of things, me.