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. There was a long silence between them. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Charley Pevenill was our host. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town.
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