I Bodt rained but little, even in winter; and when it did rain, it was a holiday. All the women would then set out tubs and pails, basins and casks, and would stand in the door-ways with their camlet dresses tucked between their knees, watching the rain as it poured in torrents down the steep paths and fell into the cisterns. The rain bathed the pebble paths, it bathed the walls of the houses, and everything seemed to breathe more freely…

(Luigi Pirandello, Il Viaggio)


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