He flew into rages over nothing, seemed unbearably raw and irritable.
His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes.

He thought only of himself.

When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he hated, even if it were she.

When he was in trouble he moaned to her ceaselessly.
"Goodness, boy!" she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said, hated him, "if you don't like it, alter it, and if you can't alter it, put up with it." And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came to detest.

As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin.