![]() ![]() ![]() The swing of Vidal’s figure was as graceful as the downward curve of the crescent-shaped scythe. But when he stopped to heap up the fallen palay stalks he glanced at his brother as if to fathom the other’s state of mind in that one, side-long glance. So many palay stalks had to be harvested before sundown and there was no time to be lost in idle dallying. The rhythm of Fabian’s strokes was smooth and unbroken. The palay stalks were taking on gold in the late afternoon sun, were losing their trampled, wind-swept look and stirring into little, almost inaudible whispers.
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