Some dim instinct said he should step forward, raise his own voice, assert his authority, sort this. He turned and walked away. He wasn't in uniform, he told himself. They wouldn't listen, would be confused, he might do more harm than good. But he wasn't in the habit of lying to himself, and dropped that line of argument at once. He'd lost people before. Some of them dearly loved, more than life itself. But now he'd lost himself. He walked slowly back toward his house in a numb daze. He hadn't slept since the news had come, save in the snatches of complete physical exhaustion, slumped in the chair on Mercy Woodcock's porch, waking disoriented, sticky with sap from the sycamores in her yard and covered with the tiny green caterpillars that swung down from the leaves on invisible strands of silk."
( Diana Gabaldon )
[ The Fiery Cross, A Breath of ]
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