#SundaySentence

"When as the first beams of the sun break through, the river still lies sleeping, wrapped in dreams of mist, we no more see it than it sees itself."

from 'Jean Santeuil', by Marcel Proust

#SundaySentence #Nature

"On those rare nights, they would leave remembering not the fine old house, or the man with the worried look who owned it, or the strange flock of teenagers, but the woman with the dark brown hair which got looser as the night went on, and her pale hands plucking unlikely stories out of the air like green plums that ripened with the telling at her hearth."

from 'The Forester's Daughter', by Claire Keegan

#SundaySentence #Bookstodon #Stories