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Licyn loathed the hobgoblin with a special part of his heart. His pants had a similar loathing, beginning right in their seat, traversing their seams, spilling over and curling out like stray strands of string cut free from their woven pattern. Fear and loathing -- such a wonderful, hallowing tapestry of emotion, and it was all hers, woman without a name... and with far too many forms for words alone.