” “That is so,” Anna admitted. " "Not I," replied Jack; "I'm too comfortable where I am. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. I couldn’t help the thought. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. She got pregnant. 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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