She forced herself not to think of John. 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. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. This whole affair is truly my fault. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.
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