‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him. Honestly, I never did. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. 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 that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest.
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