Love is fed by the imagination, by which we become wiser than we know, better than we feel, nobler than we are; by which we can see life as a whole; by which and by which alone, we can understand others in their real as in their ideal relations.

Only what is fine, and finely conceived, can feed love.

But anything will feed hate.

There was not a glass of champagne that you drank, not a rich dish that you ate of in all those years, that did not feed your hate and make it fat.

So to gratify it, you gambled with my life, as you gambled with my money, carelessly, recklessly, indifferent to the consequences.