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“Do you think he knew what he was here for?”
“We’ll never know.”
Eponine stands up from straightening the wreath on the ground that marks where Mabeuf had fallen all those summers ago on the barricade. “If he was still alive, funny as it is since he’d be so old by now, he’d like what has become of it all.”
Enjolras nods even as he slips his hand around Eponine’s own twisted one. “I should hope so,” he says as they walk away from the Rue de Chanvrerie and back to the festivity on the Rue St Denis. He takes a deep breath, knowing they will be back next year.