She
told herself that that was part of her illness. She did not hate
Aunt Anne. For some weeks, when she had risen slowly from the
nightmare that the first period of her illness had been, she hated
Aunt Anne, hated her fiercely, absorbingly, desperately. Then
suddenly the hatred had left her, and had she only known it she was
from that moment never to hate any one again. A quite new love for
Martin was suddenly born in her, a love that was, as yet, like the
first faint stirring of the child in the mother's womb. This new
love was quite different from the old; that had been acquisitive,
possessive, urgent, restless, and often terribly painful; this was
tranquil, sure, utterly certain, and passive. The immediate fruit of
it was that she regarded all human creatures with a lively interest,
an interest too absorbing to allow of hatred or even active dislike.
Her love for Martin was now like a strong current in her soul
washing away all sense of irritation and anger. She regarded people
from a new angle. What were they all about? What were they thinking?
Had they too had some experience as marvellous as her meeting with
and parting from Martin? Probably; and they too were shy of speaking
of it.
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