“I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. 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. She even hit the jackpot in 1952 when she found a photograph in a London issue of Vogue. " Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. ” He would follow with a long discourse on biology, uninvited. ‘I do not believe you. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. I didn't understand then, but I do now. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed.
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