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. No mercenary consideration influences me. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. While you live in my house you must follow my ideas. I’ll come and see you again later on. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding.
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