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.

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.

Am I a man? To want you so badly that nothing else matters? To see you, and know I would sacrifice honor or family or life itself to lie wi' you, even though ye'd left me?

We have nothing now between us, save - respect, perhaps. And I think that respect has maybe room for secrets, but not for lies.

Men would eat horse droppings, if ye served them wi' butter.

When you're reading, you're not where you are; you're in the book. By the same token, I can write anywhere.

I know why the Jews and Muslims have nine hundred names for God; one small word is not enough for love.