Arno's leaning back against a section of wall, claiming it, really, a cup of the mystery drink in hand as he watches Anton at work, his hood pushed back due to the warmth of the hotel, and his face a little red and slightly tingling.

It takes a few minutes of surveying Anton from the sidelines before he speaks, his tones a little cynical, as a matter of course.

"The bloodthirsty in Paris often marked the names of those to die, or other useful affairs in knit code." He begins, and gives Anton a bit of a nod. "So have you become a tricoteuse?" So saying, he's placing a donation in the box, and moving to peruse the knitted socks.