Well, I'm not going to finish my re-read of The Fiery Cross before I have to take a train tomorrow (or later today, now), which is a pity because I'm not taking it with me and I'll have lost the flow by the time I get back. Also, this will extend the time I'm tempted to make Scottish throat-clearing noises in response to everything:
"I hope Roger's managed all right," I said, leaning back against Jamie's chest with a small sigh.
"Mmphm." From long experience, I diagnosed this particular catarrhal noise as indicating a polite general agreement with my sentiment, this overlying complete personal indifference to the actuality. Either he saw no reason for concern, or he thought Roger could sink or swim.
"I hope he's found an inn of sorts," I offered, thinking this prospect might meet with a trifle more enthusiasm. "Hot food and a clean bed would be lovely."
"Mmphm." That one held a touch of humor, mingled with an inborn skepticism—fostered by long experience—regarding the possible existence of such items as hot food and clean beds in the Carolina backcountry.
"The goats seem to be going along very well," I offered, and waited in anticipation.
"Mmphm." Grudging agreement, mingled with a deep suspicion as to the continuance of good behavior on the part of the goats.
I was carefully formulating another observation, in hopes of getting him to do it again—three times was the record so far—when [the plot started happening again].
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