In California, it is well-known that a winemaker might from time to time send someone—a young friend?—to France for a vacation at a guesthouse near one of the grand old vineyards of the Gironde. A scenic place. Romantic. And the young friend might happen, on the last day of this vacation, to wander past the vineyard, and he might happen to have in his pocket a sharp knife. If those things were all true, he might then step off the path and sever a length of vine. Just ten inches. A foot. Not much. Perhaps two such lengths. And then, having found himself in possession of these cuttings, he might
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