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’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. 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. . I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. I've some other things inside, Sir, which you might wish to buy,—some pistols. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily.
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