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 succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. His literary instincts began to stir. After that consolations fled. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. She danced with two others.
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