It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. "Mercy!" screamed Mrs. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. Kneebone's 346 XIV. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. We can see round them and behind them and through them, and most of us use that knowledge, in the silent way we have, for our great ends. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. 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.
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