Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. 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. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. "But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head.
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