The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years.
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