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 ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. You and I. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington.
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