Susan didn't like Saint Denis. Too much noise, bustle, people who'd stab you in the back at the first opportunity. She'd choose the countryside any day.

And this sight only strengthened her feelings.

A homeless person, you, stealing bread from a food stall in the market. You looked starved and dirty, poor thing.

Susan sighed and came over to you; you were already devouring your prize in a back alley. She placed a can of meat next to you, one she'd bought for the camp. "Here, dear."