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. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness.
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