A general cry of “What book? What book? Let us see this famous book!
For the moment, everything had disappeared: the church, the battle, the screams and shouts and the rumble of limber wheels along the rutted road through Freehold. There wasn’t anything but her and him, and he opened his eyes to look on her face, to fix it in his mind forever.
We’ve ghosts enough between us, Sassenach. If the evils of the past canna hinder us-neither then shall any fears of the future. We must just must put things behind us and get on. Aye?
Jamie felt a strong desire to go across and see what the open books were, to go to the shelves and run his knuckles gently over the leather and wood and buckrum of the bindings until a book should speak to him and come willingly into his hand.
No hay respuestas, sino elecciones.
Hodie mihi cras tibi. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Reading is of course dry work, and further refreshment was called for and consumed.
Fat-heided creatures, the Carmichaels,” she said judiciously. “Loyal enough, but stubborn as rocks.” “Thus sayeth a Fraser,” I remarked. “The Carmichaels must be something special in that line.
Advice? You’re too old to be given it and too young to take it.
Claire knew the flavor of solitude. It was cold as spring water, and not all could drink it; for some it was not refreshment, but mortal chill.
I understood very well just then, why it is that men measure time. They wish to fix a moment, in the vain hope that doing so will keep it from departing.
He shook his head slowly from side to side, as though it were very heavy. I could almost hear the contents sloshing.
Oh, foisted, is it?” cried Mr. Ormiston in righteous indignation. “Such a word! And if it means what I think it does, young man, you should get down on your knees and thank God for such foistingness!
Well, I suppose men can make all the laws they like,” he said, “but God made hope. The stars willna burn out.” He turned and, cupping my chin, kissed me gently. “And nor will we.
Black Jack. A common name for rogues and scoundrels in the eighteenth century. A staple of romantic fiction, the name conjured up charming highwaymen, dashing blades in plumed hats. The reality waled at my side.
I’m not sure that religion was constructed with time travelers in mind.” Buck’s brows rose at that. “Constructed?” he echoed, surprised. “Who builds God?
These were people like that. The ones that cared so terribly much – enough to risk everything, enough to change and do things. Most people aren’t like that, you know. It isn’t that they don’t care, but they don’t care so greatly.
He wanted to ask whether she were insane, but he had been married long enough to know the price of injudicious rhetorical questions.
It was what you did when someone died; turned toward God and at least acknowledge the fact.
And you know bloody well that you mostly cant help them anyway; they’ve got to do it – or not – themselves.