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He knew what she used to be. What she remembered, what she couldn’t forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she had become a sorceress. Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback. He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find out what he had guessed.
??? god sapkowski be normal about physical imperfection and women's bodies for once
The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. “I don’t like grand words,” he said. “And it’s impossible to give it a name without using grand words.”
“Your argument is charming, Captain, fascinating even,” mocked Dandelion. “You’re trying to bait a man ambushed in the forest with humanitarianism, calling on his nobler feelings. You’re asking him, as I understand, to deign not to spill the blood of the brigands who attacked him. He’s to take pity on the thugs because the thugs are poor, have got wives, children and, who knows, maybe even mothers.
“So long, Geralt. Look after yourself.” The witcher’s smile was surly. “I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.”
