I looked at Missus Everett and saw the purple welt bleeding on her chin and realized I could hate this woman, but what would I be hating? I saw a soul so sad and furious she didn’t know herself. And I was no more to her than a spider she wanted to crush underfoot. I’d have to work hard, make numerous changes in my brain, to create hate for such a pitiful person. What would I have to mold myself into to conjure such hate? Fanny had been right. I wouldn’t be myself if I did it.
