“You’re. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. 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. “Remember that the man will probably die. He was a stranger. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion.
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