The Little Friend

by Donna Tartt

But this clarity was deceptive, lending treacherous verisimilitude to what was largely a fabular whole, for in other places the story was worn nearly transparent, radiant but oddly featureless, as the lives of saints sometimes are.

Her thoughts spooled up and unwound in complex ormolu tracery which floated in delicate patterns around her head.

But the loyalty He demanded was absolute, for His engines of retribution were swifter than His engines of mercy.

at their brisk expertise in the protocol of sorrow.