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 aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. "From a black mole under the child's right ear, shaped like a coffin, which is a bad sign; and a deep line just above the middle of the left thumb, meeting round about in the form of a noose, which is a worse," replied Mrs. ‘Alors, I see it. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. Detached, it was not impossible that she would be forced to leave the dining room because of invading tears. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities.
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