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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