Sunday Sentence: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

Simply put, the best sentence(s) I've read this past week, presented out of context and without commentary.


At first, I do not think I knew what I was looking at.  I could make no sense of it.  Where Ursula Monkton had been made of gray cloth that flapped and snapped and gusted in the storm-winds, Lettie Hempstock was made of silken sheets the color of ice, filled with tiny flickering candle flames, a hundred hundred candle flames.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman