The night air wrapped them warmly, and the balm of the little breezes that stirred the foliage around them was the smell of damask roses from the garden. . . . She stood by the bench, one hand resting on it; she stood all in the tremulant shadow.
They stubbornly hung on to the idea that Outlander was a Harlequinesque bodiceripper that would only appeal to middle-age bored housewives.
Yes, but would anyone show up for a game of handegg?
Crossing a ridge, he was happy to see that Miz’ Doanie and her three children were all out making garden.
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