” “My God!” said Manning, in a stage-aside. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. 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!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction.
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