‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. 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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