I'll leave it to you, Sassenach," he said dryly, "to imagine what it feels like to arrive unexpectedly in the midst of a brothel, in possession of a verra large sausage.

I do know it, my own. Let me tell ye in your sleep how much I love you. For there's no so much I can be saying to ye while ye wake, but the same poor words, again and again. While ye sleep in my arms, I can say things to ye that would be daft and silly waking, and your dreams will know the truth of them. Go back to sleep, mo duinne.

Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger's touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the softness going inward, the round-cheeked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body.

But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says "I am," and forms the core of personality.

In the second year, the bone hardens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And "I am" grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh.

The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves.

In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until "I am" is set, delicate and detailed as an insect in amber.

I talk to you as I talk to my own soul," he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. "And Sassenach," he whispered, "Your face is my heart.

I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.

“I am entirely capable."
"Of what, waddling up to someone and ruthlessly bumping into them?”

Ye werena the first lass I kissed," he said softly. "But I swear you'll be the last.

Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I said, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled me close again.

“I said I was a virgin, not a monk,” he said, kissing me again. “If I find I need guidance, I’ll ask.

Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone, I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.

A hedgehog? And just how does a hedgehog make love?" he demanded.

No, I thought. I won't. I will not. But I did. "Very carefully," I replied, giggling helplessly. So now we know just how old that one is, I thought.

I had one last try. "Does it bother you that I'm not a virgin?" He hesitated a moment before answering. "Well, no," he said slowly, "so long as it doesna bother you that I am." He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door. "Reckon one of us should know what they're doing," he said. The door closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.

I can bear pain myself, he said softly, but I couldna bear yours. That would take more strength than I have.

Kjærligheten kommer til oss uten noe forvarsel, og når den først er gitt oss, kan den aldri tas fra oss. Det må vi huske. Den kan aldri gå tapt. Kjærligheten kan ikke måles. Den kan ikke bli telt i år, minutter eller sekunder, veid i gram eller kilo. Den kan ikke kvantifiseres på noen måte. Den kan heller ikke sammenlignes, den ene med den andre. Den bare er. Det korteste streif av ekte kjærlighet kan gi næring til et helt liv. Det må vi alltid huske.

Og midt på natten våknet jeg. Lamslått av tanken på at den eneste i verden som skal leve mitt liv er meg.

Overall, the library held a hushed exultation, as though the cherished volumes were all singing soundlessly within their covers.

Det er bedre med et monster i hagen, enn et monster i magen.

I think that nonexistent mythological creature just broke some of your toes," Jack said. Oh, shut up," said Charles

But if you were Matched," I say softly, "What do you think she'd be like?" "You," he says, almost before I've finished. "You.

I'm only going to be here for a time, then leave you." His gaze met mine. "And I will cry when I go, because I could love you forever."

I apologize again for my boldness, but I must tell you that you're the most beautiful girl in Oxford. Maybe in all of England. I have to put you in my painting.