He was at the mercy of emotions, obsessed by one paramount idea.

A little praise just then of his loyalty to an ideal, to which he had sacrificed time, means, health, energy, everything, would have soothed him and hurt nobody.

But the acidity of his scorn had bitten beneath the surface of Grim's good humor.
"There'll be no pogrom," Grim said, getting up and lighting a cigarette.

"There'll be nothing resembling one.

But that won't be the fault of you Zionists.