“When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you. I’m sorry to disappoint you. 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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