These streets are not from Paris. Colors are rich, everything is dazzlingly clean. A woman, thirty or thirty-five, passes them, with flowers in her arms. Red is the color of her purity, and marvelous blood red roses hammer that purity home. She smiles radiantly to them and nods:
"Welcome."
Grantaire looks at Enjolras - his handsome, charismatic, pure Enjolras - who still keeps his hand and smiles. Their clothes are not torn by the bullets, their wounds are healed, smoke does not smudge their faces.
"Thank you," Enjolras says and warmth in his voice tells everything that Grantaire needs to hear.
