She devoted herself then to Jeremy and worried him in every possible way, and after two days of this he hated her with a deep and bitter hatred, very different from that earlier teasing of Miss Jones. That had sprung from a sudden delicious discovery of power, and had been directed against no one. This was a real personal hatred that children of a less solid and tenacious temperament than Jeremy would have been incapable of feeling. 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.” “Well, then, if you don't speak to your mother like that, you mustn't speak to me like that, either.” “No, Aunt Amy.” “Well, then...” This hatred was quite new to him. He had once, years ago, hated a black-faced doll that had been given to him. He had not known why he hated it, but there it had been. He had thrown it out of the window, and the gardener had found it and brought it into the house again, battered and bruised, but still alive, with its horrid red smile, and this had terrified him... He had begun to burn it, and the nurse had caught him and slapped him. He had begun to cut it with scissors, and when the sawdust flowed he was more terrified than ever. But that doll was quite different from Aunt Amy. He was not terrified of her at all. He hated her. Hated the fringe of her black hair, the heavy eyelashes, the thin down on her upper lip, the way that the gold cross fell up and down on her breast, her thin, blue-veined hands, her black shoes. She was his first enemy, and he waited, as an ambush hides and watches, for his opportunity... II