Gavroche's eyes narrow, and he takes in the other. Really looks, eyes raking over the figure, taking in the features, and--

"Eponine."

There's no joy in it. Nor is there sorrow--there's hardly any emotion from the little boy as he snakes down the tree expertly and takes a few more steps. His own clothes are the exact same as they were when he arrived--probably more than a little smelly, probably kind of gross--but he doesn't seem to mind. It's something you're used to, on the street.

He doesn't say anything else. Just looks at her, evenly and calmly. Perhaps too calm.