Everywhere there were signs that there would be enough food for the winter: golden patches deepening in the green velvet counterpane; the full grain in the ear; the arched necks of horses dipping willingly as the first fields fell to the reapers; the sputter of tractors; and the patina of maturity touching the cabbage leaves in thousands of little back yards. God helping, it would be the biggest harvest in all of Britain's history, and people were grateful. Not that they would eat more—they would eat less. But every extra ton of ripening grain...
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