Was she so very exceptionally bad, however? You who hate your
brother or your sister--you do not think yourself at all bad! But
you are a murderer, and she was only a murderer. You do not feel
wicked? How do you know she did? Besides, you hate, and she did
not hate; she only wanted to take care of herself. Lady Macbeth
did not hate Duncan; she only wanted to give her husband his
crown. You only hate your brother; you would not, you say, do him
any harm; and I believe you would not do him mere bodily harm;
but, were things changed, so that hate-action became absolutely
safe, I should have no confidence what you might not come to do.
No one can tell what wreck a gust of passion upon a sea of hate
may work. There are men a man might well kill, if he were
anything less than ready to die for them. The difference between
the man that hates and the man that kills may be nowhere but in
the courage. These are _grewsome_ thinkings: let us leave
them--but hating with them.
All the afternoon Sepia hovered about Mr. Rcdmain's door, down
upon Mewks every moment he appeared. Her head ached; she could
hardly breathe. Rest she could not. Once when Mewks, coming from
the room, told her his master was asleep, she crept in, and,
softly approaching the head of the bed, looked at him from
behind, then stole out again.
"He seems dying, Mewks," she said.
"Oh, no, miss! I've often seen him as bad.
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