” “I suppose so. You have nothing more to fear from Wild. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. 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. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. We're lost. Here's his health likewise.
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