The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. Lose not a moment, Hobson.
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