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. She could not say a word, much less move. She peered into the darkness. ‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature.
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