All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. 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. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. He stood before her. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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