He was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as hard and jewel-like, the quintessence of all that was inimical.
She thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and of his eyes that had such a dark, constant will of assertion, and she touched her own forehead, to feel if she were mad, she was so transfigured in white flame of essential hate.
It was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for this or for that; she did not want to do anything to him, to have any connection with him.

Her relation was ultimate and utterly beyond words, the hate was so pure and gemlike.

It was as if he were a beam of essential enmity, a beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied her altogether, revoked her whole world.

She saw him as a clear stroke of uttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like being whose existence defined her own non-existence.

When she heard he was ill again, her hatred only intensified itself a few degrees, if that were possible.