It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. 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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