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. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. "Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. I just don’t know where to start. So Ruth found that for a while her eyes were free.
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