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She was nestled under his bedspread. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. 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. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime.
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