Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. Idiote. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked. Don’t look so frightened. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. ’ ‘Charvill, then,’ Gerald concluded, unperturbed. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty.
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