I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. He had looked at it before without comprehension. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. 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. Spurlock.
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