It was no marriage at all. He paced faster, stomping around. 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. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. That was an admission all right. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty.
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