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“And that only brings me up to about sixty-five! “A glittering wilderness of time That to the sunset reaches No keel as yet its waves has ploughed Or gritted on its beaches. But two weeks later he returned. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. 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 seen Mrs. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. Stanley’s acquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities.
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