"Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. 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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