"Poor Mrs. 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. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. I doubt if you will receive anything for your trouble. " "Take care you don't fall into it yourself," returned Jackson, with a slight sneer. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris.
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