The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. She hunted the markets for bread and treats so they could feast during the day. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side. 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. “You have not feeling enough. ‘Bon.
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