The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting.

It seemed impossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier had been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder protestations of her love.
"If you are sufficiently rested," he said with a touch of sarcasm which he could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any longer here." She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was.
"So you think that even now I have been deceiving you?
That is what you think.

I see it in your face." Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was advancing calmly into the conservatory.
"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones.

"I am here--I am waiting--come!" The Wanderer ran forward.

He caught sight in the distance of a pair of fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the soft lamps.