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"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. I drew out what I had saved and boarded the first ship out. And there was another matter. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She looked steadfastly out. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. “Yes. "Well, Sir Rowland," he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his features, "I will not gainsay your words. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. 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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