The significance of two hours doesn't escape Combeferre. He remembers how each of them spent those final sleepless hours, the vigilance and the tension and the quiet. Remembers Feuilly, painstakingly carving his heart's final cry into cold uncaring stone.

Combeferre looks down at his clothes. He's willing enough to sleep in them, but perhaps it would be better to change. "Do you have a spare nightshirt?"