Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. "So get up, and leave off whimpering. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was. 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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