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The afternoon had passed now into twilight. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. 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. "The feeling is dead within my breast. \" Shari said. Rank ingratitude, I call it. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. But he did not follow on with the thought. " "Shall I tell you a real story?" "Something you have seen?" "Yes.
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