She picked them somehow by instinct; she did not know what she was doing; her face rivalled their red bunches; and she picked with a kind of fury.

That being the only way she had of venting her indignation, she threw it into her basket along with the strawberries.

She hadn't worked so hard the whole afternoon.
She edged away from the rest towards a wild corner, where amid rocks and bushes the strawberry vines spread rich and rank and the berries were larger and finer than any she had seen.

She was determined to have a fine basketful for Winifred.
But she was unused to such stooping and steady work, and as she cooled down she grew very tired.

She was in a rough grown place and she mounted on a rock and stood up to rest herself and look.
Pretty -- pretty, it was.