She shrugged her shoulders.
"I possess, I think, the faculty of feeling strongly.

I can love well, monsieur, and I can hate well.

It is one or the other with me.

And as cordially as I love my own son Marius, as cordially do I detest this coxcomb Florimond." She expressed no reasons for her hatred of her late husband's elder son.
Hers were not reasons that could easily be put into words.

They were little reasons, trivial grains of offence which through long years had accumulated into a mountain.