He did not laugh at her, he did not tease her, he no longer put out his tongue at her. He was older than that now—he was simply reserved and silent, watching her with his large eyes, his square body set, and resolved as though he knew that his moment would come.
Her experience with him was baffling. She punished him, petted him, she ignored him, she stormed at him; it seemed that she would do anything could she only win from him an acknowledgment of her power, her capability. But she could not. He only said: “Yes, Aunt Amy.” “No, Aunt Amy.”
She burst out: “You're a sullen, wicked little boy, Jeremy. Do you know what happens to little boys who sulk?”
“No, Aunt Amy.”
“They grow into cross, bad-tempered men whom nobody likes and nobody trusts. Do you want to be like that when you're a man?”
“I don't care.”
“You know what happened to 'Don't Care.' I shall have to punish you if you're rude to me.”
“What have I done that's rude?”
“You mustn't speak to me like that. Is that the way you speak to your mother?”
“No, Aunt Amy.”