“Sybil.” Combeferre stopped her apology with a soft word and a gentle shake of his head. He sighed. “I will not deny that it troubles me, knowing some families have such wealth while others starve. It troubles me equally that some men can receive expensive educations at La Sorbornne, and fill their pokey flats with strange medical textbooks, while other survive on three francs a day and must teach themselves to read by candlelight.” He winced a little; Feuilly would detest being held up as the example of the Parisian working poor in such a way. “But you do not need to defend your family, or your childhood, or the accident of your birth. I asked about your home because I wanted to know.” He smiled, and turned his hand over to take her, squeezing it gently.