Rosalie looked at her. Laughter had died in Rosalie’s cheek. Rosalie pressed her fingers tight in misery for Emmy Lou.
Sadie looked at Emmy Lou. Sadie wept.
Hattie looked at Emmy Lou. Hattie straightened her straight little back and ground her little teeth. Hattie was of that blood which has risen up and slain for affection’s sake.
This was an Emmy Lou nobody knew—white-cheeked, brooding, defiant. There are strange potentialities in every Emmy Lou.
The last bell rang.
Emmy Lou must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou would not.
Everyone went—everyone but Emmy Lou and Miss Lizzie—casting backward looks of awe and commiseration.
To be left alone in that nearness solitude entails meant torture, the torture of loathing, of shrinking, of revulsion.
She must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou was not sorry.
She sat dry-eyed. The tears would come later. More than once this year they had come after home and Aunt Cordelia’s arms were reached. And Aunt Cordelia had thought it was because one was growing too fast. And Aunt Cordelia had rocked and patted and sung about “The Frog Who Would A-Wooing Go.”