Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. “His back was towards me,” Anna said. “Go to London,” said Ann Veronica. 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. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. She breathed deeply. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. Wood could stand it no longer. “Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully.
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