And then she fell into a musing about Capes. 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. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. There is the key. F.
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