She paled with fright as queer, as unprecedented, as those hostile glances.

It seemed to her that she had done or was about to do something criminal.

She could not speak.
An awful silence, then her aunt--she no longer seemed her loving aunt--asked in an ominous voice: "Is someone coming to see you, Susan ?" "Sam Wright"-- stammered Susan--"I saw him this morning--he was at their gate--and he said--I think he's coming." A dead silence--Warham silent because he was eating, but the two others not for that reason.
Susan felt horribly guilty, and for no reason.

"I'd have spoken of it before," she said, "but there didn't seem to be any chance." She had the instinct of fine shy nature to veil the soul; she found it hard to speak of anything as sacred as this love of hers and whatever related to it.
"I can't allow this, Susie," said her aunt, with lips tightly drawn against the teeth.

"You are too young." "Oh, come now, mother," cried Warham, good-humoredly.