But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. 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. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky.
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