SHE WAS SMALLER than I had remembered, and thinner, her hair with a little more gray in it though still darkly vibrant — but the deep-blue-cat-eyes were just the same, as was the natural air of command she shared with her brother.
“Leave the horses,” she said briskly, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron. “I’ll have one o’ the lads take care of them. Ye’ll be frozen and starving — take off your things and come into the parlor.” She glanced at me, with a brief look of curiosity and something else I couldn’t interpret — but didn’t met my eyes directly or say more than “Come,” as she led the way to the parlor.
The house smelled familiar but strange, steeped in peat smoke and the scent of cooking; someone had just baked bread, and the yeasty smell floated down the hall from the kitchen. The hall itself was nearly as cold as the outdoors; all the rooms had their doors closed tight to keep in the heat from their fires, and a welcome wave of warmth eddied out when she opened the door to the parlor, turning to pull Ian in first.
Diana Gabaldon, An Echo in the Bone, Chapter 76