There must have been some sound that made me look up, but I wasn't aware of having raised my head. John Grey was standing in the doorway of my room. His neckcloth was missing and his shirt hung limp on his shoulders, wine spilled down the front of it. His hair was loose and tangled, and his eyes as red as mine. I stood up, slow, as though I were underwater. "I will not mourn him alone tonight," he said roughly, and closed the door.
( Diana Gabaldon )
[ The Fiery Cross, A Breath of ]
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