You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent

You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent

Mosca said nothing. The word ‘damsel’ rankled with her. She suddenly thought of the clawed girl from the night before, jumping the filch on an icy street. Much the same age and build as Beamabeth, and far more beleaguered. What made a girl a ‘damsel in distress’? Were they not allowed claws? Mosca had a hunch that if all damsels had claws they would spend a lot less time ‘in distress’.

If you want someone to tell you what to think..." "You will never be short of people willing to do so.

Push something in someone’s face, and they will shove it away reflexively. Threaten to snatch it away from them, and sometimes they become convinced that it is what they want.

Every time I do what you say I tumble a bit farther down this well of darkness, an' this here is a drop too deep an' too dark for me. I have to stop falling while I can still see a bit of the sky.

It did seem hard to be doing something heroic while everyone was too busy to notice.