‘So now we come to it. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. ” She said, and ducked back into her room. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. ’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. My heart misgives me. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. 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. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee.
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