"There's a laundry of some kind." Enjolras has no idea whether it's run by humans, rats, or advanced machinery like Bar, or even magic; all he knows is that it's formidably efficient, and he's never met anyone who seemed to be involved with it in any way. "They'll pick it up and either return items clean or dispose of them."

He's rising as he says this, to indicate the hamper. He'll leave it outside the door once Combeferre's clothes have been added.

For many reasons, that's not something that needs to lie around for a day or two.

"It's a strange place," he adds, with rueful sympathy. "Unlike anything I've ever heard of, from any philosopher or theologian. But not a bad one."