I have no children, but I live the day before Sunday with a certain explosion of spirit. I perceive even more accelerated the bells of the convent, at their usual but announcing misadventures. Last night, while I was tinkering the balcony planters with a soup spoon as a hoe, I not only took a geranium cut in front of me that promised beautiful and violent flowers, I also heard a nursery voice howling: "Are we going out?" That proclamation exploded against the penitential atmosphere of the street

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