He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. Hope reared. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. 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. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. Oh, it is unbearable. I'm glad he's come to see me. But oh, how weary I am! I know.
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