"God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead.
There! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty.
Curse the mongrel--" She halted before the ugly word she was about to use; but her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by the heat of anger.
"Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourself to become jealous of Queen Mary ?" I asked.
"Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intend to try.

I hate her, and I love to hate her." "Why should you hate her ?" I asked.

"If John remains true to you, there is certainly no cause for you to hate any one.

If he should be untrue to you, you should hate him." "Hate him ?" she exclaimed.

"That, indeed, is pretty reasoning.