And there ain't no excuse for that sorta thing either, in his mind. His grin is mirthless and full of ice, the lights in his eyesockets glinting with a frosted-over emptiness. If it were any other day, if his temper weren't running bright cold, he might not've cared to this extent.
"That's the sorta thing," says Sans, low and deliberate, "that taints your SOUL unchangeably."
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And there ain't no excuse for that sorta thing either, in his mind. His grin is mirthless and full of ice, the lights in his eyesockets glinting with a frosted-over emptiness. If it were any other day, if his temper weren't running bright cold, he might not've cared to this extent.
"That's the sorta thing," says Sans, low and deliberate, "that taints your SOUL unchangeably."