hate him
is quite
as
difficult.
An artist
is so
flexible--only
the rigid
can be
hated. She
hated the
things he
did, and
him when
he was
doing
them; but
afterward
again
could hate
him no
more than
she could
love him,
and that
was--not
at all.
Resolution
and a
sense of
the
practical
began to
come back
with
daylight.
When
things
were
hopeless,
it was far
better to
recognize
it and
harden
one's
heart.
Winton,
whose
night had
