Eponine ducked as soon as she saw the knife coming, throwing herself flat onto the sand. And that HURT. Eponine groaned loudly; her ribs were surely broken now, and she turned herself over painfully, clutching her chest, tearing at her dress so she could examine her body. But as her fingers scrabbled against the velvet, she remembered that they were being watched, that she had already shown herself naked once and that she would not do so again. So she forced herself to stop. And she just lay. Let Don kill her. See if she cared. She was in so much pain, she could barely breathe anyway. This was worse than any beating she had ever had. Worse than her Pa or Montparnasse, or all of the gang all together. Something cold - or failing that, a quick death, would be lovely.