The violence of the collision nearly threw him backwards, and caused him to swerve as he sprang. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. 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. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. She ignored it until it repeated itself. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.
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