You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it. 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. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. I am Jonathan Wild.
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