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. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. Little by little, she stopped hating him. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. ’ ‘No, I won’t.
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