To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. She tried to scream, \"I'm coming to you, Mama!\" But no sound would come from her mouth. 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.
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