“I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. ” Courtlaw laid his hand upon Ennison’s shoulder. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her.
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