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Wordlessly, she followed him up the cliffside customs path. They walked over peppery oregano and the last scents of sweet clover. Below them, the sea lapped at the rocks in torn flags. Its force pushed tepid puffs along the cliffs, carrying the smell of mussels and the earthy aroma of the little interstices where the wind and the bird sow seeds as they fly away.

Colette, Le Blé en herbe

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