Prudence Remenham. Suffer me to precede you. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. 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. “Why didn’t you come back? Lucy, I needed you to come back, just once. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.
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