" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne.
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