Half the time he grieved for her, half the time he hated her.

She was his conscience; and he felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him.

He could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him.

He could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which was three-quarters.

So he chafed himself into rawness over her.
When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been written to her.
"May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time.