Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. 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's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had. If Miss Charvill should take it into her head to dash off on some foolish errand, go with her by all means. Knowledge was sacred in Athens, knowledge and his twin, Art. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish.
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