‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. " He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. Twenty guineas, mind. 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. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. He swung it open and then used his body to pin her against her seat.
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