No wonder men got impervious to superficial pain, I thought. It came from this habit of hammering each other incessantly.

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

I hated him for as long as I could. But then I realized that loving him...that was a part of me, and one of the best parts. It didn't matter that he couldn't love me, that had nothing to do with it. But if I couldn't forgive him, then I could not love him, and that part of me was gone. And I found eventually that I wanted it back." ({Lord John, Drums of Autumn}

Conflict and character are the heart of good fiction, and good mystery has both of those in spades.

I was born for you" -Claire Fraser, Outlander

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it.

A cold supper, were you thinking? I asked dubiously. I was not, he said firmly, I mean to light a roaring fire in the kitchen hearth, fry up a dozen eggs in butter, and eat them all, then lay ye down on the hearth rug and roger ye 'till you - is that all right? he inquired, noticing my look. 'Til I what? I asked fascinated by his description of the evening's program. 'Til ye burst into flame and take me with ye, I suppose, he said, and stooping, swooped me up into his arms and carried me across the darkened threshold.