“Quite right,” she said. Manning,” she said, “I HAVE a confession to make. "If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share—say a fourth—provided you lend a helping hand. He's the only native I trust in these parts. I thought that you were he. 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. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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