Quotes About Communication

She's goin' about now bare as a wee lassie?" "She says," I replied delicately, "that men find it erotic.

There is nothing between us now but respect, and respect has room for secrets, I think—but not for lies.

So happen back fifty years, the Mohawk took and adopted the whole tribe of the Tuscarora. Don't many tribes speak exactly the same language," Myers explained. "But some are closer than others. Tuscarora's more like the Mohawk than 'tis like the Creek or the Cherokee.

whinnied loudly. An answering neigh came

Well, I don't suppose it's an impt—impeddy—impediment, after all. Not as though he'd lost his cock, I mean. He hasn't, has he?

But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul

Eejit," Ian said. "What did ye tell her that for? Now she thinks ye're a Jew." Jamie's mouth fell open in shock. "What, me? How, then?" he demanded, looking down at himself. He'd meant his Highland dress, but Ian looked critically at him and shook his head.

Talkin' like dogs fightin'," he explained. "Grrrr! Wuff!" He growled, shaking his head in illustration like a dog worrying a rat, and I saw Fergus's shoulders shake in suppressed hilarity. "Scots for sure," I said, trying not to laugh.

They had had no opportunity to speak, though—and he could not seem to invent a pretext, let alone think what he might say if he found one. He felt amazingly self-conscious, like a boy unable to say anything to an attractive girl. He'd be blushing, next thing, he thought, disgusted with himself.

I assure you, Mother," he said dryly, "you are undoubtedly the most interesting woman I've ever met." She snorted briefly and gave him a direct look. "I suppose that's why you haven't yet married, is it?" "I didn't think a wife needed to be interesting," he replied, with some honesty. "Most of the ones I know certainly aren't.

His own words brought back to him the letters he had written now and then. The phantoms, as he thought of them: letters he'd written to Jamie Fraser—honest, conversational, heartfelt, and very real. No less real because he'd burned them all.

When you write it down…" he said. "Does that make it—whatever it is—real again? Or does the act of putting it into words make it unreal? You know, something…separate from yourself.

WHY DID YE never tell me that Frank Randall looked like Black Jack?

The company of plants is always soothing, and after the incessant—well, you couldn't call it sociability, exactly, but at least the incessant presence of people requiring to be conversed with, directed, hectored, scolded, conferred with, persuaded, lied to—that I had experienced over the last few days

The Indian was a gentleman named Sequoyah, somewhat older than the young Wilsons and their friends. He nodded soberly to Jamie, and swinging the bundle off his shoulder, laid it on the ground at Jamie's feet, saying something in Cherokee.

gossip, daily medical clinics, and

turned my back to dip the cloth into the bowl, and said offhandedly over my shoulder, "Er, I did my legs, too." I stole a quick glance over my shoulder. The original shock was fading into a look of total bewilderment. "Your legs dinna smell like anything," he said. "Unless you've been walkin' knee-deep in the cow-byre.

Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, 'graceful' is possibly not the first word that springs to mind at thought of you." He slipped an arm behind me, one hand large and warm around my silk-clad shoulder. "But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul," he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. "And, Sassenach," he whispered, "your face is my heart.

appealing than truth and rationality. The words

tethered . . . "What about it, owd lass?" he asked the mare, in the

Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, graceful is possibly not the first word that springs to mind at the thought of you. But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul. And, Sassenach, your face is my heart.

Ah? Oh, it means honeylips, all right. More or less." "But—" "It's no your mouth he was referring to, Sassenach," Jamie said dryly.

I kept thinking—how should I tell ye everything, about Geneva, and Willie, and John—will ye know about John?

Un libro —cualquier libro— tenía un significado que iba mucho más allá de su contenido para un hombre que hubiera vivido en un tiempo en el que se tenía muy poco acceso a la palabra escrita