” He spoke loudly. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. 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. When he was up and about, the idea of flight would return. "O, Lord!" ejaculated Wood. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. She took a deep breath. I want to tell every one. “Annabel;” he moaned. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike.
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