The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. I have been stupid and foolish. You two have a good time.
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