You certainly have not shown much desire for my society, have you?” “You have been wrapped up in your politics,” she murmured. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. 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. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better. Wood, I forget nothing. .
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