The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart. You understand me, I’m sure. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. “He’s got good taste, you know.
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