The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. “You have a boyfriend! That’s fine by me, it’s your business, but you’d better stop sneaking around because Sheila’s got eyes in the back of her head!” He heard Sheila utter a loud percussive blast of a snore from the master bedroom. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. " "Advanced them rather," replied Gay, in the same tone. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Only she hadn’t.
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