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Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. . He heard the woman talking again. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. “I think they do. He’s the handle of life for you. Besides, she had admitted her identity. I—listen. We have that gift. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. 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.
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