Wood cut him short by stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm. Go to it. 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. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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