_I_ didn't want to go to you.
It wasn't my fault that I was thrown upon your hands.

And--and"-- her voice begins to tremble--"it isn't my fault either that you _hate_ me." "That I--hate you!" The professor's voice is cold and shocked.
"Yes.

It is true.

You need not deny it.

You _know_ you hate me." They are now in an angle of the hall where few people come and go, and are, for the moment, virtually alone.
"Who told you that I hated you ?" asks the professor in a peremptory sort of way.
"No," says she, shaking her head, "I shall not tell you that, but I have heard it all the same." "One hears a great many things if one is foolish enough to listen," Curzon's face is a little pale now.