On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. ‘Rather would I die than fall in with such a plan. . I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. There is no poison that would affect her. 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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