"You're lying." She shrugs. "Fine. Do not tell me. I ought to expect that, no? Everyone lies to me. Next you shall tell me that I look beautiful." With another hoarse laugh, she lets go of the material clutched in her hand, and spins. In any other location, she'd be ridiculous. Here, in an arena of death, ludicrous.
"You know, at home, Montparnasse used to dress me up like this, sometimes, in the dresses he took from the ladies he killed. He liked to see me wear them so that he could laugh at me. He would say, 'Oh, you are so ugly. Look. A slut all tarted up to look like a lady. Can't hide those teeth of yours, can you, 'Ponine?'"
She advances on R. "But you wouldn't say it, would you, Monsieur? Think it, if you like. I don't care. You can say it, if you like. If you keep bringing me food. I like ice cream, Monsieur."
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"You know, at home, Montparnasse used to dress me up like this, sometimes, in the dresses he took from the ladies he killed. He liked to see me wear them so that he could laugh at me. He would say, 'Oh, you are so ugly. Look. A slut all tarted up to look like a lady. Can't hide those teeth of yours, can you, 'Ponine?'"
She advances on R. "But you wouldn't say it, would you, Monsieur? Think it, if you like. I don't care. You can say it, if you like. If you keep bringing me food. I like ice cream, Monsieur."