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The
fields around the house were inhabited every day by figures
moving slowly and methodically across the landscapes
weeding their vineyards, treating the cherry trees, hoeing
the sandy earth. Nothing was hurried. Work stopped at noon
for lunch in the shade of a tree, and the only sounds for
two hours were snatches of distant conversation that carried
hundreds of yards on the still air."
-Peter
Mayle, A year in Provence |
