On a rainy day in Touraine, Vlad and Marlowe go for a walk around the village of Saint-Bauld. Vlad can’t think of anything better to talk about than the non-intuitive pronunciation of certain French place names, which he compares with the same phenomenon in the land of his fathers. These ponderous lucubrations mean little to Marlowe – for whom a bark is a bark is a bark – and he wanders off, unimpressed, to chase a duck. Their dank promenade is accompanied post hoc by a melancholic air from the pen of Gabriel Fauré, as Vlad continues to trip over his own tongue.
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