There had been a time when they would have given anything for his head on a platter, and old hatreds died hard.

The graffiti markings are a chilling reminder that old hatreds die hard in the Balkans.

There was no fear in her eyes: only hatred, and the knowledge that she could never, ever die.

The hatred that had motivated him for so long had inexplicably withered and died.

The hatred he had carried since Val Alorn had died in that flame.

Old hatreds, as you say, die hard, but so do new ones.

Old hatreds die hard, but everyone knew they were at the beginning of a new age, that might lead man and AI anywhere.

The hatred didn't die: the hope of peace did.

Despite their changed and favorable conditions, their hatred for the master class had not died.

But some hatreds never died.