From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. "Dreamed!" echoed the knight, with a ghastly smile. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. 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. I wouldn't allow you to be honest even if you could be so,—which I doubt.
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