The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Her anger died and she eyed him. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. “Your arrival is really most opportune. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. “I’m still inside you.
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