She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. “Like a stab. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. 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. Prudence shook her head. “You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. ” With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. .
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