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. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. You know that, and I know that, though we might be put to it to find a reason why. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn't have another opportunity.
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