‘I don’t hate it,’ Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately. ‘I don’t hate it,’ he said. I don’t hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark: I don’t. I don’t! I don’t hate it! I don’t hate it!
‘I don’t hate it,’ Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately. ‘I don’t hate it,’ he said. I don’t hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark: I don’t. I don’t! I don’t hate it! I don’t hate it!