If you lost, the loss would not, you fancied, be yours.

If you won, yours, you knew, would be the exultation and the advantages of victory.
Hate blinds people.

You were not aware of that.

Love can read the writing on the remotest star, but hate so blinded you that you could see no further than the narrow, walled in, and already lust-withered garden of your common desires.

Your terrible lack of imagination, the one really fatal defect in your character, was entirely the result of the hate that lived in you.