" "How so?" inquired Winifred. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. She tried to be casual. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. I cannot work, I cannot teach. It disgusts me that you should touch me. 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. “It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. “I do not know what you mean,” he said, “but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. The night was now profoundly dark. " "No more of this," said Winifred, angrily.
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