. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman. “Do you know him?” Lucy replied, “No, I haven’t met him. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. This did not affect Spurlock. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. 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. .
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