On these red embers Hatteraick from time to time threw a handful of twigs.

From my graspless hand / Drop friendship's precious pearls.

Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd, / Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman ſcorn'd.

For Faulkner, these years marry professional triumphs and personal disappointments: the Nobel Prize for Literature and an increasingly unlifting depression. For Joan, these years were a tempest of youth and a burgeoning literary career.