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.
I could feel his heart beating against my ribs, and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, not making love, just breathing the same air.
Alive and one. We are one, and while we love, death will never touch us.
And then later, at the funeral, members of the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.
No,” he said defiantly. “Go ahead and kill me.
By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.
I found myself thinking that I had always heretofore assumed that the tendency of eighteenth-century ladies to swoon was due to tight stays; now I rather thought it might be due to the idiocy of eighteenth-century men.
If it was killing-and it was- then I thought it not murder, but a justifiable homicide, undertaken in desperate self defense.
It wasn’t a very likely place for disappearances, at least at first glance.