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 old man who lives here, idiot. I shall count it a privilege. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark.
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