Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. ‘So it is that you could not help it. You are not my husband. 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. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures.
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