“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Spit of your mother. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise.
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