Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold.
She dreaded each moment lest he should call her Beatrice again, and say
that her fair hair was black and that he loved those deep dark eyes of
hers.
There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the first
pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands that held
her had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon her cheek,
the first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a softened
echo, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, his
touch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature's great alchemy the
diamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the same elements
pours life and death from the same vial with the same hand, so now the
love which would have been life to Unorna was made worse than death
because it was not for her.
Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had
done its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for
Beatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he had
so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a few
paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last night
and wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on which
Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watched
together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had read
together but two days ago.
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