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In a barn in the farm's courtyard, the bines are fed into the the huge "Bruff" hop-picker - a locally produced machine dating from 50 years ago.

A horrible feeling sprang up in my heart—an impulse of actual hatred towards my mother—as the hop-picker disappeared.

But that haggard hop-picker—no, I couldn't understand it.

To-day a hop-picker, bringing a whiff of the sick world's infection through our windows.