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I had attacked the distance several times, but always with a Mistral blowing, or the unchancy cattle of those parts on the move. But once, running from the East, into a high-piled, almost Egyptian, sunset, there came a night which it would have been sin to have wasted. It was warm with the breath of summer in advance; moonlit till the shadow of every rounded pebble and pointed cypress wind-break lay solid on that vast flat-floored waste;

  

This is from “The Bull that Thought” in Debits and Credits.

The narrator is in the Rhone Delta in southern France on a motor tour, and it is a fine night for seeing what speed his car will do. They take with them a distinguished elderly Frenchman as an observer, and when they return triumphant to the inn, he tells them the story of the Bull that Thought,


   

   

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