She paused a moment, as if overwhelmed by the contemplation of it; then, in the same tone, she continued: “You, Amy, can not even conceive how dreadful it is. You know what it is, but not how bad it is.”
She was silent again, and her soul appeared to wrap itself in denser gloom. The air of the room seemed to Amy stifling. The next moment she felt as if she were pierced with sharp spears of ice. She sprang up:
“I shall smother!” said she; and opened the window.
“Aunt Martha, I begin to feel that this is really wicked! If you only knew Lawrence Newt—”
The older woman raised one thin finger, without lifting the hand from her lap. Implacable darkness seemed to Amy to be settling upon her too.
“At least, aunt, let me have you moved to some less horrid place.”
“Foulness and filth are too sweet and fair for me,” said the dark woman; “and I have been too long idle already.”
She lifted the work and began to sew. Amy’s heart ached as she looked at her, with sympathy for her suffering and a sense of inability to help her.
There came a violent knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” asked Aunt Martha, calmly.