’ ‘This, monsieur le major, is entirely your own affair,’ said the lady, haughty again. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. ” Obediently, Lucy placed the stone upon the mausoleum. But you will, you will. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. "I understand," she said. Any financial return was inconsiderable against the promise of this psychological treat. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. 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. ‘Do not beg my pardon.
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