We are in love. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. 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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