She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. 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. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. " "She cannot stay here," the manager declared. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. To her, marriage would be a buckler against the two evils which pursued her. “To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament. “But your sister?” he asked.
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