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Grigore watched the vendor until he finished hauling the crates into the cellar, then he headed towards the mill, grinding in his mind plans for the coming holidays. In front of him, swathed in the light of an April afternoon, red flags were fluttering here and there, and among them the militiaman glimpsed excitedly the white wings of the ghost which protected him from between the walls of the mill and which gave him faith in life. Now it was fastened to the immaculate sky, above the sandpaper road, and it seemed to Grigore that it was swaying to the rhythm of the ringdoves’ song...

Celalalt Simion
Lampa cu căciula
Radacina de bucsau
The Childhoods of Daniel Abagiu
Villa Margareta
parteneri parteneri parteneri parteneri

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