” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. 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. Montague Hill. You did not see me, I know.
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