She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. ‘That fellow of yours is a deal better, by the by. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. 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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