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It was no marriage at all. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. “I shall have to go through the building. I am a physician first, which gives the man in me a secondary part. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. There must be something we can do. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. It is she that I must see. Vot am I to do vith these young imps, eh?" "What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. ‘Bête. 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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