She wished to herself that the milkman's horse might run away while he was at some door.

The rancor which possessed her father, the kicking against the pricks, was possessing her.

She felt a futile rage, like that of some little animal trodden underfoot.

A boy whom she knew ran past whooping, with a tin-pail, after the milkman.

Evidently his mother wanted some extra milk.