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. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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