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. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. “I’ve got bad faults. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence.
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