‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. He was not a sailor. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. 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. Drummond patted him on the shoulder.
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