"If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking" – Haruki Murakami
This book represents an urban story written by Romanian novelist Ioan Slavici.
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Luc, a man of about thirty-six
years, was slender built and not strong. His face was bony and fleshless; thick,
contracted brows covered small, green, shimmering eyes, and a thin, long moustache
completed the piercing features of his physiognomy. Luc was also a swine-herd,
but he belonged to those who always worn a milk white, finely woven shirt, which
had thick silver buttons on their coats and in their hand a cramoisy-red whip
with engraved bone handle and adorned with golden dots.
He held his horse in front of
the inn, looked with a piercing gaze first at Anna and then at the old woman,
who were sitting near a large table under the wooden framework, threw another
hazy look around him and asked for the host.
"We are the hosts,"
the old woman said, rising from her seat.
"That I can see for
myself," Luc answered.
"But there must be a man
around here, too.
I asked for the host and it is
he I want to see."
He said this in a tone of voice
in which he desired to intimate that he was in haste and did not intend to
carry on a conversation; therefore the old woman departed at once in order to
find George. Surprised as a child, Anna looked up to the rider who stood before
her, motionless, like a figure of marble.
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