‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair. 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. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. ’ She tried to shake his hands off her wrists, but Gerald held them fast and tutted at her. It needs cultivating, I think. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. Most of them didn’t, anyhow.
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