" "Where are you going?" asked his mother. That is easy. 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'll keep it for your sake. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. ’ ‘That is what you thought of me. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled.
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