" "Horrible!" cried Mrs. 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 could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down.
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