. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. You tell me he didn't like the stuff. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. 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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