She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. 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. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder.
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