The moment they sprang there, the girl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of them.
This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she gave a contemptuous toss--but with a sense, I thought, of having made too sure that I was so wounded--and left me.
But when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face in, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my sleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried.
As I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so bitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name, that needed counteraction.
My sister's bringing up had made me sensitive.

In the little world in which children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice.

It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter.

Within myself, I had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with injustice.

I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my sister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me.