She saw and felt little of the external as she sat there.

She thought in vague retrospect of how sweet it seemed the first time Sim came to see her; of the many rides to town with him when he was an accepted lover; of the few things he had given her--a coral breastpin and a ring.
She felt no shame at her present miserable appearance; she was past personal pride.

She hardly felt as if the tall, strong girl, attractive with health and hope, could be the same soul as the woman who now sat in utter despair listening to the heavy breathing of the happy cows, grateful for the relief from their burden of milk.
She contrasted her lot with that of two or three women that she knew (not a very high standard), who kept hired help, and who had fine houses of four or five rooms.

Even the neighbors were better off than she, for they didn't have such quarrels.

But she wasn't to blame--Sim didn't---- Then her mind changed to a dull resentment against "things." Everything seemed against her.
She rose at last and carried her second load of milk to the well, strained it, washed out the pails, and, after bathing her tired feet in a tub that stood there, she put on a pair of horrible shoes, without stockings, and crept stealthily into the house.