"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. " "'Sblood!" cried Jackson, rising, "I can't sit still and hear Mr. 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. " Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity.
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