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"The moon rose in front of him, and the voices of the evening said him that his day was over. It was the cry of the cuckoo measured, the sound of crickets early, a few groans of bird was the sigh of the reeds and the voice increasingly chiaradel river, but it was mainly a breath, a gasp mystery that seemed to come from the earth itself."
Grazia Deledda, Reeds in the Wind, 1913