Long sentences are in.

“Stewart Doig, master and—on that morning—sole crew of the fishing boat Clio, was idling toward shore, dwelling on the recent death of his mother, which had brought to mind also the more distant death of his father, and the sermons addressing this subject that he had sat through, sometimes dozing, sometimes thinking about fish, and what he had garnered of death and burial and that surely still far-off day when the graves would crack and the saved would come forth riotous and laughing like a holiday parade (Would they be clothed in flesh, he kept wondering, or would they be just shinbones and clavicles and broken-toothed skulls?), when the body that had been James bumped at the Clio’s hull, sodden and swollen, as if in answer to Doig’s dark questions.”
Jo Lloyd, “My Bonny

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