My heart fails me. Her tone was icy. She loved for him to regale her with the stories of his past, the days of ancient Greece. 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. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. I think not. " "I hear," said Sir Rowland, moodily.
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