Then he paused. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. ” She pressed her ear to the door. 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. Wood. From then on he was Ruth's dog. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm.
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