And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. 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. The intensity of the eyes and the defiant tone bewildered the doctor, who found his well-constructed jeremiad without a platform. She was silent. Sorry to be so nosy. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them.
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