Mrs. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. ‘I am not a murderer. 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 want to be very plain with you. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved. A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his.
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