So she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was listening, "It was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to be forgiven." With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating.

Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day.

It was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set them a virtuous example.
"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating.

He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself, and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.
"There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have.

But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me." "Don't say that.