There was something horribly ghastly in that every-day occurrence to the watching child.

She realized the interminable moving on of things in spite of all individual sufferings, as she would have realized the revolution of a wheel of torture.

She felt that it was simply hideous that the milk should be left at the door that morning, just as if everything was as it had been.

When the milkman jumped into his wagon, whistling, it seemed to her as if he were doing an awful thing.

The milk-wagon stopped at the opposite house, then moved on out of sight down the street.