They must all have seen through the whole thing from the very start — the old man and Ilona and Josef and the other servants. They must all long since have suspected her love, her passion, viewed it with alarm, no doubt with foreboding. I alone had had no inkling of it, I, the foolish slave of my pity, who had played the role of the good, kind, blundering comrade, who had joked like a clown and never noticed that my blindness, my incomprehensible lack of perception, had been excruciating torture to her ardent soul. Just as in a cheap farce the sorry hero is the centre of an intrigue, the
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