Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. 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. . In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Mild, you know, and boon. Here's his health likewise. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head.
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