He runs the risk, at the same time, of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though young, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of grave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but as her chosen mate.
After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace.

He inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing.

He sat looking at Israel Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in the morning and put an end to the situation.

Unorna waited in vain for some response, and at last spoke again.
"Yes," she said, "I was mad.

You cannot understand it.