The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. “Have you heard things?” The tears stood in her eyes. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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