A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. 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. I took the usual way home. "I likes to hear vot you says. " IV.
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