The sun was reflected on the sides of the swinging pail, and the flash of light seemed to hurt her, and she felt the same unreasoning wrath against the boy.

Why was not Willy Royce's mother desperately sick, like her mother, instead of simply sending for extra milk?
The health and the daily swing of the world in its arc of space seemed to her like a direct insult.
At last it occurred to her that she ought to dress herself.

She left the window, brushed her hair, braided it, and tied it with a blue ribbon, and put on her little blue gingham gown which she commonly wore mornings.

Then she sat by the window again.

It was not very long after that that she saw the doctor coming, driving fast.