She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. She knew it. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. “They mould one insensibly. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. 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. As you admitted to me—one has to square one’s self with the world.
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