The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. You will never be happy with this hanging over you. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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