The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. He knew what he knew. Without a word, the general reached out and took them, but his glance searched the girl’s face.
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