The thought of hurting Tsira by blurting out a question to which he ought to have already known the answer further liquidated his innards to the point of absolute crisis, and on many of his desperate sprints to Tsira’s tidy little outhouse, he spent a great deal of time freezing with his pants around his ankles and contemplating whether it might be best to build a sledge, ride it rapidly down the mountain, ascertain Tsira’s proper mode of address from the tradesfolk in the nearest village, and then hike back up in time for one of Tsira’s horrible suppers.
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