The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. "Two hundred pounds, if he's lodged in Newgate before to-morrow morning," continued Wild. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. Gracious, there’s the gong.
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