Tuttugu buried his fingers in the ginger bush of his beard and scratched furiously, muttering something. “What?” I asked. “Brothel rash,” he said. “Whore pox?” That at least made me smile. “Ha!” “Snorri said—” “I ain’t laying on hands down there! I’m a prince of Red March, for God’s sake! Not some travelling apothecary-cum-faith-healer!
-Mark Lawrence
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