When the car entered the valley of the River Oise, I began looking for scenes that Vincent van Gogh had painted. Outside the tidy stone and timber houses of Auvers-sur-Oise, a few daffodils had optimistically sprung out of the dirt, looking surprised at the world with their wide-open yellow faces. Rotund white clouds, sailing on the stiff breeze, flew over the outstretched branches of leafless ...
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