"
In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon
his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair young
face. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked from
one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that there
was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had him
think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw that they
avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress in her
pallor and contracted lips. And yet he argued that if it were all true
she would silence the speaker, and that the only reason for her patience
must be sought in her willingness to humour the diseased brain in its
wanderings. In either case he pitied Israel Kafka profoundly, and his
compassion increased from one moment to another.
"I loved her. There is a history in those three words which neither the
eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak.
I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words and
phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she is
very merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You know what love
is. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take twice that, and
three times over, and a hundred thousand times, and cram it, burning,
flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you would know a tenth
of what I have known.
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