"There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan. "Drink your peg; don't bother about me. . You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. 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. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London.
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