I know well that you are making a game with me. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. I could never make you understand. ‘You’re speaking the truth. 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.
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