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. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. ” A little blond creature close at hand suddenly gave way to a fit of hysterical laughter, and caught up the end of it with a sob. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. I know well that you are making a game with me. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. I can save you, and will. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. I love the soles of your feet.
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