She was suffering herself, more than she had ever suffered in her life.

He had said that she was not a woman--she whose whole woman's nature worshiped him.

He had said that she was the incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love for him that made her cruel to the other.

Could he know what she had felt, when she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words and seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn?
Could any woman at such a time be less than cruel?
Was not her hate for the man who loved her as great as her love for the man who loved her not?
Even if she possessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those invented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified in using them all?
Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture?
She could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands.
Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she saw that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and was moving rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery.

He was leaving her in anger, without a word.