Eponine laughs, both embarrassed and pleased by Rosie's assessment. Besides, it's a word she understands, something that has managed to keep the same connotation from her time to Rosie's and here on out. "Do you think?" She beams.

"Let's pretend we are, when we go out," she declares, hooking her arm into Rosie's and closing the door of the bedroom with the other. "Artists or writers or musicians. I don't have a lick of talent, but it does sound rather romantic, doesn't it?" Like she'd felt about Marius, refusing his family's money and being kind to her, starving away translating poetry. Instead of just starving. How much better she'd have liked to have that for herself!

It is silly, of course: that's why it's pretend. If she were really starving again here, she wouldn't endeavor to keep herself that way unless she had no choice.

"Where do you want to go first?"