Jean Francois Millet Angelus

Jean Francois Millet AngelusJean Francois Millet Harvesters RestingJean Francois Millet Garden
out self-importantly and tapped a small bell with great apparent effort.
Ting-ting-ling.
The figures lined up and wobbled back into the clock.
‘They’ve been there ever since I was a girl. Mr Simnel’s great-great-grandad made them,’ said Miss Flitworth. ‘l always wondered what they did between chimes, you know. I thought they had a little house in there, or something.’
I DON’T THINK SO. THEY’RE JUST A THING. THEY’RE NOT ALIVE.
‘Hmm. ‘It was wrong of me to delay you, just for a lot of corn.’
NO. THE HARVEST IS IMPORTANT.
Bill Door unfolded his palm. The timer appeared.
‘I still can’t work out how you do that.’
IT IS NOT DIFFICULT.Well, they’ve been there for hundreds of years. Maybe life is something you sort of acquire?’YES.They waited in silence, except for the occasional thud as the minute hand climbed the night.‘It’s been quite nice having you around the place, Bill Door.’He didn’t reply. ‘Helping me with the harvest and everything.’IT WAS . . . INTERESTING.
The hiss of the sand grew until it filled