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. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. Stopping before each door, they took up the plates of the locks, examined the ponderous bolts, and were struck with the utmost astonishment at what they beheld. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. ’ She bit her lip, but her eyes betrayed her. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him.
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