"But a scold? It ain't a belt to your arse, is it? Now that I hate more than anything. I would do anything to avoid the belt. And the buckle? When she cuts? That is the worst. But a scolding, I don't care about."
Eponine's hands have surreptitiously gone to her scarred bottom. She has felt the sting of leather too many times to count, and heard so many scoldings that she's telling the truth. Another won't make a blind bit of difference to her.
She licks her lips though. She's not stupid. Nancy is implying that she was a prostitute at home. She supposes Eponine was too. Eponine's first instinct was to protest that she wasn't a prostitute. She never whored herself out on street corners or in the park or down by the docks. But her father had sold her, and Azelma. All those begging letters. Her lips twitch. Her expression softens to sadness and vulnerability with just that little spasm. But then her mask comes back: Eponine blinks and her eyes are that dull, almost dead colour. Her expression stiffens and she tosses her matted hair back.
"I don't care anyway," she tries to say proudly. "It is something to trade, and what does it matter? It's only a hole, innit? It's useless so I may as well make money off it." The harsh words don't sound like Eponine. Clearly, they've been drummed into her, repeated so often it's become a mantra to her, so much so that she almost believes it. She just wishes she didn't.
"But now you're not?" Hope is a dangerous thing. Eponine tries not to hope. Not when it never comes through. But now, the thought of being more than what she was, of being proper and pretty and maybe even popular, gives Eponine hope. Just a tiny bit.
"I want a blue dress. Blue, with a blue bonnet. And stays and bloomers and all that. And a shawl. And boots lined with rabbit fur. That's what I always wanted at home. Rabbit skin boots. And we can have them here!"
CW: DV, prostitution, derogatory language
Eponine's hands have surreptitiously gone to her scarred bottom. She has felt the sting of leather too many times to count, and heard so many scoldings that she's telling the truth. Another won't make a blind bit of difference to her.
She licks her lips though. She's not stupid. Nancy is implying that she was a prostitute at home. She supposes Eponine was too. Eponine's first instinct was to protest that she wasn't a prostitute. She never whored herself out on street corners or in the park or down by the docks. But her father had sold her, and Azelma. All those begging letters.
Her lips twitch. Her expression softens to sadness and vulnerability with just that little spasm. But then her mask comes back: Eponine blinks and her eyes are that dull, almost dead colour. Her expression stiffens and she tosses her matted hair back.
"I don't care anyway," she tries to say proudly. "It is something to trade, and what does it matter? It's only a hole, innit? It's useless so I may as well make money off it."
The harsh words don't sound like Eponine. Clearly, they've been drummed into her, repeated so often it's become a mantra to her, so much so that she almost believes it. She just wishes she didn't.
"But now you're not?" Hope is a dangerous thing. Eponine tries not to hope. Not when it never comes through. But now, the thought of being more than what she was, of being proper and pretty and maybe even popular, gives Eponine hope. Just a tiny bit.
"I want a blue dress. Blue, with a blue bonnet. And stays and bloomers and all that. And a shawl. And boots lined with rabbit fur. That's what I always wanted at home. Rabbit skin boots. And we can have them here!"