Again he rushed. 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. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. In fine, to marry Ruth (if she would consent) as a punishment for what he had done! To whip his soul so long as he lived, but to let his body go free! To provide for her, to work and dream for her, to be tender and thoughtful and loyal, to shelter and guard her, to become accountable to God for her future. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. Why should you who are queens come down from your thrones? If you can afford it, WE can’t. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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