He knocked at the door. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. Never did I need a rescue so much. Little by little, she stopped hating him. He was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the practitioners of crime. 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.
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