“No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly. 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. She tried not to blush. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. He might miss at this distance.
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