Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends’ caps (its only present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil.
There are no more uses of "foliage" in the book.
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It’s difficult to spot the birds in the foliage.
I like to rest my eyes by periodically looking up from the computer and gazing out the window at the foliage.