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“A malicious dread doth smolder in my heart, and try as I might to smother its smoke, I find that it burneth yet. ’Tis a feeling rooted not in logic, but in fear most feeble, and I—I have not a single excuse. I dared not utter its name ’til now, though its face hath been bared to me for many a darkened moon: ’tis that of doubt, unquestionably.”
“Doubt?” W’htal echoed. “What have you to doubt?”
“Doubt as to my place hither beside thee—betwixt thee and Thancred both.”