Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. 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. Lucy ate without passion. “There is no time for that. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. But they did what they could for her.
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