"If this is over, I will be dead anyway. If I go home, I will be dead within six months, Sir, from either hunger or cold or Montparnasse or my father himself. It will be slow, I think. They will want me to hurt, because of what I have done. And then they'll chuck me in a ditch to be found when the snow melts. That is all there is for me." She spoke dispassionately, apparently unmoved by the predictions for her own death.

"But yes... one day, we shall go home, and perhaps you will have a nice life. We must hope for one of us, no?"