The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. He heard Melusine cry out, but his attention was all for the nick he had made in her neck. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. I would speak with you. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. And this is not France, you understand. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night.
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