He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. He looked at her guiltily. I am bothered. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. G'night, kids. 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. I guess we could go for a ride. She could tell that he was leering at her.
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