" "So I find, Rowland," replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. 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. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. " "Don't hurry yourself," said Jonathan, "I'll wait for you here.
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