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. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. There is worse to come. “Take her limbs again. ” Anna nodded and turned again to Courtlaw. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy.
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