"The Warehouse was coffin dark."

"You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler."

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.

The taxi’s radio was tuned to a classical FM broadcast.

It was little more than three miles from the Wall into the Old Kingdom, but that was enough.

Ingridan was an ancient city.

Telling his story felt like the next closest thing to giving her a kiss.

She came to him toward morning.

Ma had six sons.

It was nine o'clock at night and Tremaine was trying to find a way to kill herself that would bring in a verdict of natural causes when someone banged on the door.

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

First the colors.

I heard the mailman approach my office door, half an hour earlier than usual.