One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. 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 was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Only think how compromising. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ” She replied. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. She made an abrupt personal appeal. “Rather darker than most of them.
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