She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. 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. "If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. She floundered deep. “A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he entered the room.
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