He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. Rules are for established things, like the pieces and positions of a game. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. 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. She was greatly heartened by doing this. . ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. By and by he ventured to peer into this window.
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