“Oh. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. 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. “I’m being honest with you. ‘I have only borrowed it. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. " "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. "Well, good night, Mr. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired.
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