Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. 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. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound.
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