At Roland-Garros, nostalgia invades you before the lights go out and the ground falls asleep until the next moments of sliding. A few hours away from a final that could allow a giant to polish an iron statue scattered last year, or an aspirant to get his napkin ring at the big table, we sigh in observing these disgorged alleys whose annoying murmur can be heard after two weeks of a suffocating frenzy.
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