Hers were gloriously improbable tales, stuffed with happy coincidences, eternal devotion, and the unwavering recognition of inner beauty.

He honestly expected her to believe that she could make a bad offering and her ancestors wouldn't mind.

She looked at the last thing she had written and she felt calm. Then she crossed the words out vehemently, scribbling until even the shape of the sentence was destroyed.

I dont have a style. I just try to write what the story demands.