Her anger was terrible.

She had suffered enough secret shame already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course.

It had cost her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointment at the result had been proportionately bitter.

In that alone she had endured almost as much pain as she could bear.

But to find suddenly that her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew had been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable.