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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. Vorsack looked pale and pink. It's of no use. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could. She hugged Lucy, who had finished eating. “Is it your maid?” he asked.
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