207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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