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Updated: May 15, 2025
Perhaps I had visited Limoise the preceding summer, but at that time I was very like a cocoon before it has crawled from its silken wrapping. The day that I now refer to is the one in which I was able to reflect for the first time, in which I first knew the sweetness of reverie. I have forgotten our departure, the carriage ride and our arrival.
They had the power to recall a thousand things to me, thanks to that peculiarity of my mind that associates the most dissimilar and incongruous images if only once, for a single favorable moment, they have been accidentally joined. And yet the return home from Limoise Thursday evenings would have had a great charm but for the remorse I almost always felt because of neglected duties.
And indeed I did have something of the fragrance of Limoise about me. When I came from there I was always impregnated with the odor of wild thyme and the other aromatic plants peculiar to that part of the country. Speaking of Limoise I will be vain enough to speak here of an act of mine that I consider as brave as it was obedient, for it fell in with a promise that I had given.
There was suddenly brought back to my mind my first impression of a strong wind in the woods of Limoise, in the province of Saintonge, twenty-eight years ago, in a month of March of my childhood. I refer too often, I fancy, to my childhood; I am foolishly fond of it.
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