“I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. 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. “Hill has asked for you, and they will take his depositions to-night. In addition, the Fadden Dance business, all out of proportion, occupied the whole foreground of her thoughts and threw a color of rebellion over everything. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively.
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