He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for Beatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he had so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna.

But a few paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last night and wept and abused herself before him.

There was the carpet on which Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watched together.

Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had read together but two days ago.

In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, unchanged, unaltered save for him.