Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. 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 was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands. . ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. ” She replied. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. .
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