The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Leave the rest to me. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. “But why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy.
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