Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Obviously he is still interested. 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. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. "I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. His face was downcast. . But I can't submit to hear the wellearned reputation of my friend termed an 'infamous notoriety.
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