She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted.

Perhaps it was only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor in his meaning of them.

Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of her coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of pardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness.
"It was good of you to say it," she said at last.
A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their own way.

Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep.

The Wanderer went quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow as best he could.