. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. 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. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement.
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