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Version française
Storm
The storm was really giving it everything it had. This was its big chance. It
had spent years hanging around the provinces, putting in some useful work as a
squall, building up experience, making contacts, occasionally leaping out on
unsuspecting shepherds or blasting quite small oak trees. Now an opening in the
weather had given it an opportunity to strut its hour, and it was building up
its role in the hope of being spotted by one of the big climates.
It was a good storm. There was quite effective projection and passion there, and
critics agreed that if it would only learn to control its thunder it would be,
in years to come, a storm to watch.
The woods roared their applause and were full of mists and flying leaves.
On nights such as these the gods, as has already been pointed out, play games
other than chess with the fates of mortals and the thrones of kings. It is
important to remember that they always cheat, right up to the end . . .
And a coach came hurtling along the rough forest track, jerking violently as the
wheels bounced off tree roots. The driver lashed at the team, the desperate
crack of his whip providing a rather neat counterpoint to the crash of the
tempest overhead.
Behind - only a little way behind, and getting closer -were three hooded riders.
On nights such as this, evil deeds are done. And good deeds, of course. But
mostly evil, on the whole
© Terry Pratchett
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