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. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. We can’t even protect them from themselves. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. "I imagine I must have a hundred rolls—all the old fellows.
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