In September the swallows flew, wheeling about the garth for days, filling the air with the sound of wings and cries, an excitement about them until one chosen day, instead of scattering, flock after flock keeping together, rose high above the Abbey, wheeled and disappeared towards the south. For Brede the cycle of the year went on. ‘I always think of September as a time of warm colours,’ said Dame Mildred. There was clear sunshine and in her flower beds was the rich gold of rudbeckia, deep purple and rose from Michaelmas daisies, flaring dahlias, and in the vegetable garden scarlet runner
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