He sent me home. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Prudence shook her head. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard.
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