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The woman isn’t begging yet, albeit her attentions flicker to the passing shadows of the working people, eyes huge and dark and dreary in the thinning white lick of her face.
Javert stands close by. The first snow drifts fall and settle on his hat, finding their way into the tiny gape between his collar and throat.
Her shawl is clumsy wool, knitted fine with large holes. It can barely conceal the tremor of her bodice, which is stained and browned and tinged a dirty pink. Her hair is long and tangled down her shivering back.
“You shouldn’t be out here.” He towers over her. He doesn’t reach for his cudgel. “You should move on.”
She looks at him through her hair. And then slowly, slowly, her fingers scramble for her shawl and she pulls it tight across her shoulders. Getting to her feet, she bows her head and scurries by him, and he can see the blood rising to her cheeks, a scalding bloom brought on by cold.
She is a pale and withering figure amongst the white, and he watches her long after she is gone.