She knew that the struggle was over and that she had gained the mastery, though the price of victory might be a broken heart.
"You thought I was jesting," she said in a low voice, looking before her into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would reach him.

"But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness in what I meant, though it is all my fault.

But that is true--you never loved me as I would be loved." "Unorna----" "No, I am not unkind.

Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn into hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, intermittent, unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud's shadow on the mountain side--" "It pleased you once," said Israel Kafka in broken tones.

"It is not less love because you are weary of it, and of me." "Weary, you say?
No, not weary--and very truly not of you.