A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. 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 wouldn’t. ” “I don’t understand. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.
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