Burn your palette and your easel. 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. And, come what will, I'll balk him of the satisfaction of hanging me. Hey. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. There was—a service. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key.
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