In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point. There's a letter for the head turnkey, Mr. 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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