Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. 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. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple.
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