“I made a mistake,” Varian said. “A terrible mistake. About Zilberman.” Chagall took Varian’s hands in his own, waited until Varian met his gaze. The look of condemnation was gone; all he saw now were those deep-set, deeply lined eyes, the ones that had struck him, on their first meeting, as being capable of seeing more than mortals’ eyes could see. “The true mistake would have been not to come at all. To stay in New York with the rest of the New Yorkers. Not to have tried.”
