1 "I hate black things," said Mary.
2 Perhaps he knew I hated whispering.
3 I used to hate it because he was not fond of me.
4 And my father would not have hated to look at me.
5 I always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little.
6 She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next.
7 "He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary half speaking to herself.
8 But then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see Dickon.
9 Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him.
10 She was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it.
11 He says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners.
12 Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her.
13 When I lie by myself and remember I begin to have pains everywhere and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so.
14 She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see.
15 She hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her.