’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing. 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. I wish to rise in the world, mademoiselle, and you are going to help me. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both.
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