She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. She might even forgive him. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. 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. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.
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