Before her eyes arose a vision unlike the reality in all its respects.

She saw an older face, a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance.

Between her and her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and strong.

A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance of a sacred fire.
"You do not really love me," she said softly.
Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares.

The monstrous untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiled the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled.
"I do not love you?
I! Unorna--Unorna!" The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction.