"But she is homeless, and she hath been a good servant to thee, Israel. Give her time to find another shelter."
There was a moment of silence after that, and then the Jew said:
"Very well! It shall not be said that Israel Abramovitch knows not to temper justice with mercy."
And then, my face being still down, I heard him saying over my head:
"You may stay here another week. After that I wash my hands of thee."
With these hard words he turned away, and I heard him going heavily down the stairs. His wife stayed a little longer, saying something in a kind voice, which I did not comprehend, and then she followed him.
I do not think I had spoken a word. I continued to stand where the Jew had left me. After a while I heard him closing and locking the door of his own apartment, and knew that he was going off to his synagogue in Brick Lane in his tall silk hat worn on the back of his head like a skull-cap, and with his wife and daughter behind him, carrying his leather-bound prayer-book.
I hardly knew what else was happening. My heart was heaving like a dead body on a billow. All that the priest had said was gone. In its place there was a paralysing despair as if the wheels of life were rolling over me.
MEMORANDUM BY MARTIN CONRAD
My dear, long-suffering, martyred darling!