And what of it, and what then?
Look at her, and look at me--the beginning and the end." 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.