She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. 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. Please to release me. '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter.
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