‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. They were terrible, horrible people. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Come along, you mad jade. ” She had not seen or heard from a single one of them since.
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