I suppose most Victorians had sex that we’d consider pretty normal. Some had affairs and others–a small minority–practiced continence.
I’d have expected a more dashing and distinguished look for an old lieutenant, but he’s nothing better than a down-and-out rail worker,” Haviland laughed.
An old soldier has dreams for his son.
What an addict says to his son.
Fahy kissed her, a little impatiently. “Don’t worry, miss.”
I want a prologue and an epilogue. I want growth and maturity, death and rebirth. In writing a series, especially an epic family saga, I’ve lived so many lives in the last ten years. When the series is over (though ideas float around about a new direction in writing) I will be satisfied that I’ve lived life well. Before writing a series I couldn’t honestly say that.
William almost escapes Thankful’s notice.
He still admired dress parade—it always made Sundays special—and then so humiliating when his father failed at them.
“He’s intoxicated, the thief, and should be left to wander the desert,” Baker, the preacher’s son said when William arrived at Fort Grant that night.
“I’m not drunk—now let me see Thankful.”
After a big night William considers a change . . . “So, give us the news, Bill. Was she some socialite back east you left behind with a broken heart?” Haviland asked always edging too close—close enough to see the dried spittle at the corners of his yellow smile and the dandruff in the coarse…
“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”