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. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. She called them back very soon. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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