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Updated: May 15, 2025
Often she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her presence enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like two birds. One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night. Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having obtained leave.
They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom. And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little nook, where every Sunday they took their meal.
Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec: "It's just like home, just like Plounivon." "Yes, it's just like home."
They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom. And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little nook, where every Sunday they took their meal.
They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without understanding why. She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open air a girl typical of the Parisian suburbs. Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she said to them: "Do you always come here?" Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered: "Yes, we come here for our rest."
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