You may as
well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. You may
as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to win
your love."
"I would rather not receive your confidence," the Wanderer answered
haughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear your
confessions."
"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you
choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may kill
me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what I
have to say."
She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever
she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate
man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would not
save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed.
As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was
not disagreeable.
"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna, trying
to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her
name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her
and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that
she had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month
ago to-day. You told me the story."
"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never
loved any woman yet.
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