"The idea seemed grateful: she thought of her room with the high ceiling, the foreign touch to the cheeks of afternoon pillows, the delicious crime of crossing one's stockinged ankles over the rucked-back quilt and the slow recession of fact down a long tunnel till the windows stretched and faded."
Wowzer. Now that's a sentence. Especially the "delicious crime" and "recession of fact" parts. I've handwritten it onto a piece of paper, and it will now join the other, edges curling, slips of sentences on the bulletin board.