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It was the burly farmer, and he was glaring down at him. "None of
that."
"None of what?" He squinted at the big man, who still had farm
boots on. From his muscles. Farmer Mort looked to juggle cows
for a living.
The farmer ignored the quesiton. "Who do you think you are?"
"Who do you think I am?" Reger asked cautiously.
"Don't wise-mouth. I hate that. I hate it as much as I love her.
Stop looking at my woman that way." Farmer Mort glanced,
pulled almost helplessly, back toward the woman at the next table,
Elga the well-muscled Washer.
"Your woman?" Reger looked back at her. "A moment ago you
weren't even with her."
"Well, I love her. I love her more than anything, and you can't
look at her that way."
"I wasn't looking at her." The tradesman fingered the short
club at his waist. Some nights were for fighting, some weren't;
surely this one wasn't, much as Reger loved a good fight. "My
friend, you're only reading your own affection for her into all of
us. Surely you can't think that I would interfere between you and a
woman you've known for-how long did you say you'd known
her?"
"Forever and ever." Farmer Mort shook his head wonderingly.
"I've known her since I was a little hopper, coming in with Dad's
cattle and stopping to get my dress clothes cleaned at her mother's
shop before her. Why, I've even had this very shirt cleaned by her.
Those hands have washed dirt and dung out of this-" He fingered
the material, looking as though he might kiss it
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