"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. “I murder people, John. 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. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid.
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