You're Tearin' My Guts Out, Claire.

Oh, Aye, Sassenach. I Am Your Master . . . And You're Mine. Seems I Canna Possess Your Soul Without Losing My Own.

It Was A Beautiful Bright Autumn Day, With Air Like Cider And A Sky So Blue You Could Drown In It.

Then Let Amourous Kisses Dwell On Our Lips, Begin And Tell A Thousand And A Hundred Score A Hundred And A Thousand More

And If Time Is Anything Akin To God, I Suppose That Memory Must Be The Devil.

Sometimes,' He Whispered At Last, 'sometimes, I Dream I Am Singing, And I Wake From It With My Throat Aching.' He Couldn't See Her Face, Or The Tears That Prickled At The Corners Of Her Eyes. 'what Do You Sing?' She Whispered Back. She Heard The Shush Of The Linen Pillow As He Shook His Head. 'no Song I've Ever Heard, Or Know,' He Said Softly. 'but I Know I'm Singing It For You.