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the old apple trees gives dwarf fruits to put on the hats, but a black muscatel vine, mysteriously nourished, rushed, vigorously, covered and fudged a henhouse, then re-grasping the arm of a cherry tree, drowned it of tendrils of tendrils, of grapes of a blue of plum which are already strung. An intriguing abundance here, next to the peeled indigence of the rocky rocks that burst the ground, or the bramble itself does not find anything to suspend its spiky iron leaves.
- Colette