Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. The terror faded from her eyes. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He has no imagination, no real generosity. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr.
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