“You!” said Ann Veronica. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Her eyes were wide open with amazement. 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. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. "Is there anything wrong with it?" "Wrong? Why, you have been imposed upon somewhere. Sepulchre's. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. "I beg pardon, Sir," replied Jack, with the accent and manner of the janizary; "I was betrayed into the exclamation by my surprise that anything in which Sir Rowland Trenchard was interested could have reference to so humble a person as Mrs. Manning.
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