"Thig a seo!" he called, putting out his right hand to me. "Thig a seo, a Shorcha, nighean Eanruig, neart mo chridhe." Come to me, he said. Come to me, Claire, daughter of Henry, strength of my heart. Scarely feeling my feet or those I stumbled over, I made my way to him, and clasped his hand, his grip cold but strong on my fingers
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