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. It was time to get up. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. Catch him, she begged silently. When he returned to Hong-Kong, there was a reply to his cable: "Hang on. “She”, you say. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. He grunted, and his grip gave. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow.
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