You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. 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. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet.
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