Character: Claire Fraser (Randall). Page 7

- The battle is near. Wish me luck.
- I can't let you go without saying anything. Probably, good luck will come... I love you, soldier!
- Good luck will come. But "I love you" is much better. <...> Maybe the day will come when we'll be apart, but it will not be today.

- Dougal and fought many battles together, shoulder to shoulder, back to back. In the end, blood is blood.
- Yes, but you have another blood relative.
- Right. We Aren also fought back to back... And now get together face to face. There is no prayer will help.

- How did you know... - I started, but Alec gave a derisive snort.
I only have one eye, young lady, but that doesn't mean I'm blind.

Jamie was right. Looking at these monstrous signs of violence, it was impossible not to imagine the action that left them. I tried not to think about that muscular arms were stretched out, spread-eagle and bound, copper-haired head was bowed in agony, pinned to the post, but the scars that I now looked, involuntarily conjure up a terrible picture. If he cried when they did it? I ran this idea immediately. I've heard stories that reached us from post-war Germany suffering much more terrible, but he was right: hear - not what to see.

- Do not you mind if I examined your back?
- No, you wouldn't mind - he even seemed a little surprised and a few seconds were silent, contemplating this. - Probably because you are somehow able to understand... in short, you sympathize with me, but don't feel sorry for me, and I understand that.

Jamie responded by interjection, which I dubbed as the "Scottish snort" - an undefined sound that comes from somewhere in the depths of the larynx and could mean anything. In this particular case, it is, in my opinion, has expressed doubts about the probability of the desired output.

- Why did you do it?
What? he asked in reply, wiping his sleeve wet face. Gently felt the broken lip and winced.
- Took the punishment of this girl. Do you know her?
To ask was like to be awkward, but I had to know what lies behind this quixotic act.
- I know who she is, but never talked to her.
- Why did you do that? Why do it?
He shrugged and that movement made him wince.
For girls it's a shame that her risers in the lobby. It's easier for me.
"Better?" - I said in disbelief and looked at his bruised face.
He felt broken ribs with his good hand, raised his eyes and smiled at me a lopsided smile.
Yes. She is very young. It would be very shame to all who know her for a long time it would be a shame. It just hurts, but nothing special. Two days later all will pass.
But why did you? - I asked. The question clearly surprised him.
And why wouldn't I?
Why isn't he? I would say: because you don't know her. Because you are wounded. Because you need special courage to stand and face the crowd of people and getting punched in the face - regardless of what motives led you.

In older, simpler times to sleep in the presence of another person was considered an act of complete trust. If the trust was mutual, then the next dream was more intimate than a bodily connection.

- ... I woke up bound in a cart full of chickens drove me to Fort William.
You know, as gently as possible I said. - Excuse me. It was awful for you.
He suddenly smiled, and the expression of fatigue disappeared.
- Yes, chickens are very poor company, especially if you have to go long.

A well-formulated hypothesis much better than the poorly defined fact.

I stayed modest, tactful, reasonable, not exposing themselves to the fore, dressed sorhakhutte and discreet - in short, an ideal wife of a teacher and a member of the Board of the College. Exactly to the moment, as tea was served.
Remembering this, I turned my hand palm up and looked at a long blister across the base of the four fingers. In the end, it's not my fault that Mr. Bainbridge, a widower, used cheap metal tea infuser instead of porcelain or China. And it's not my fault he kindly asked me to pour out the tea. and certainly not my fault that a cloth potholder was a hole and the red-hot handle of the kettle came into direct contact with the hand.
No, I decided. to leave kettle - a completely natural reaction. The kettle fell on his knees to Mr. Bainbridge is just unfortunate coincidence: somewhere I was supposed to leave him. The only problem is that I shouted: "Damn fucking kettle!" - Yes, and still such a voice, which Mr. Bainbridge, in his turn, uttered a loud exclamation, and my Frank threw me a scathing look over the top of dish with wheat tortillas.

- What kind of dust did you put in TASCAM and banks?
Highlander pepper. Helps with hemorrhoids.
- Preparing for my close of the age? As it is very thoughtful of you, Claire!