But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. He seemed to be thinking hard. 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.
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