A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. 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. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. “Bother!” and decided that this was not so, and would not look to right or left again. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre.
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