" "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. 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 followed you home on the train. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. But not today. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl.
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