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_It’s not such a bad life,_ thought the tree. _Sun. Fresh air. Time to think. Bees, too, in the spring._ There was something lascivious about the way the tree said ‘bees’ that quite put Granny, who had several hives, off the idea of honey. It was like being reminded that eggs were unborn chickens.
— Terry Pratchett, Equal Rites ‎· full of melancholy details
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