Матильда

           It’sbyJohnSteinbeck,anAmericanwriter.Whydon’tyoutryit?You’llloveit."

           "Filth,"Mr.Wormwoodsaid."Ifit’sbyanAmericanit’scertaintobefilth.That’salltheywriteabout."

           "Nodaddy,it’sbeautiful,honestlyitis.It’sabout...""Idon’twanttoknowwhatit’sabout,"Mr.Wormwoodbarked."I’mfedupwithyourreadinganyway.Goandfindyourselfsomethingusefultodo."Withfrighteningsuddennesshenowbeganrippingthepagesoutofthebookinhandfulsandthrowingtheminthewaste-paperbasket.

           Matildafrozeinhorror.Thefatherkeptgoing.Thereseemedlittledoubtthatthemanfeltsomekindofjealousy.Howdareshe,heseemedtobesayingwitheachripofapage,howdaresheenjoyreadingbookswhenhecouldn’t?Howdareshe?

           "That’salibrarybook!"Matildacried."Itdoesn’tbelongtome!IhavetoreturnittoMrs.Phelps!"

           "Thenyou’llhavetobuyanotherone,won’tyou?"thefathersaid,stilltearingoutpages."You’llhavetosaveyourpocket-moneyuntilthere’senoughinthekittytobuyanewoneforyourpreciousMrs.Phelps,won’tyou?"Withthathedroppedthenowemptycoversofthebookintothebasketandmarchedoutoftheroom,leavingthetellyblaring.

           MostchildreninMatilda’splacewouldhaveburstintofloodsoftears.Shedidn’tdothis.Shesatthereverystillandwhiteandthoughtful.Sheseemedtoknowthatneithercryingnorsulkingevergotanyoneanywhere.Theonlysensiblethingtodowhenyouareattackedis,asNapoleononcesaid,tocounter-attack.