“Amy,” said Mrs. Bennet.
Amy could scarcely raise her eyes. There was an exquisite maidenly shyness overspreading her whole person. At length she looked the response she could not speak.
“How could you?” asked her aunt.
Poor Amy was utterly unable to reply.
“Coming and going in my house, my dearest niece, and yet hugging such a secret, and holding your tongue. Oh Amy, Amy!”
These were the words of reproach; but the tone, and look, and impression were of entire love and sympathy. Lawrence Newt looked calmly on.
“Aunt Lucia, what could I do?” was all that Amy could say.
“Well, well, I do not reproach you; I blame nobody. I am too glad and happy. It is too wonderful, wonderful!”
There was a fullness and intensity of emphasis in what she said that apparently made Amy suspect that she had not correctly understood her aunt’s intention.
“Oh, you mean about Aunt Martha!” said Amy, with an air of relief and surprise.