She 's real pretty -- she 's got such a soft white hair and big black eyes and a little white face . Those Road children do n't know what they 're talking of . Mother says they 're a very ignorant crowd . '' `` Well , she does n't ever go to church , and she mutters and talks to herself all the time she 's picking up sticks , '' maintained Jimmy Kimball stoutly . The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond of company and conversation . To be sure , when you have talked to nobody but yourself for nearly twenty years , it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous ; and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everything but her pride for a little human companionship . At such times she felt very bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everything from her . She had nothing to love , and that is about as unwholesome a condition as is possible to anyone . It was always hardest in the spring . Once upon a time the Old Lady -- when she had not been the Old Lady , but pretty , wilful , high-spirited Margaret Lloyd -- had loved springs ; now she hated them because they hurt her ; and this particular spring of this particular May chapter hurt her more than any that had gone before . The Old Lady felt as if she could NOT endure the ache of it . Everything hurt her -- the new green tips on the firs , the fairy mists down in the little beech hollow below the house , the fresh smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in her garden . The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for very heartache . She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger ; and the Old Lady had been hungry , more or less , all that week . She was living on store biscuits and water , so that she might be able to pay Crooked Jack for digging her garden . When the pale , lovely dawn-colour came stealing up the sky behind the spruces , the Old Lady buried her face in her pillow and refused to look at it . `` I hate the new day , '' she said rebelliously . `` It will be just like all the other hard , common days . I do n't want to get up and live it . And , oh , to think that long ago I reached out my hands joyfully to every new day , as to a friend who was bringing me good tidings !
I loved the mornings then -- sunny or gray , they were as delightful XXXXX an unread book -- and now I hate them -- hate them -- hate them ! ''
To ago as because behind for in like of upon