"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. 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. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. On the other hand the two young men who sat on either side of Anna were already throwing murderous glances at the newcomer. The stoppage had materially lessened the distance between him and his pursuers, who now amounted to more than a hundred persons, many of whom carried lanterns and links. She was finally dead, going to Hell.
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