“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. ‘You see, I had another reason for visiting your grandfather. 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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