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The days stole by, and Antoine tended the fragile shoot, wondering what sort of blossom it would unfold, white, or scarlet, or golden. One Sunday, a stranger, with a bronzed, weather-beaten face like a sailor's, leaned over the garden-rail, and said to him, "What a fine young date-palm you have there, Sir!" "Mon Dieu!" cried Père Antoine, "and is it a palm?" "Yes, indeed," returned the man.
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