Матильда
The Reader of Books
Andastrangesightitwas,thistinydark-hairedpersonsittingtherewithherfeetnowhereneartouchingthefloor, totallyabsorbedinthewonderfuladventuresofPipandoldMissHavishamandhercobwebbedhouseandbythespellofmagicthatDickensthegreatstory-tellerhadwovenwithhiswords. Theonlymovementfromthereaderwastheliftingofthehandeverynowandthentoturnoverapage, andMrs.Phelpsalwaysfeltsadwhenthetimecameforhertocrossthefloorandsay; "It’stentofive,Matilda."
DuringthefirstweekofMatilda’svisitsMrs.Phelpshadsaidtoher, "Doesyourmotherwalkyoudownhereeverydayandthentakeyouhome?"
"MymothergoestoAylesburyeveryafternoontoplaybingo,"Matildahadsaid. "Shedoesn’tknowIcomehere."
"Butthat’ssurelynotright,"Mrs.Phelpssaid. "Ithinkyou’dbetteraskher."
"I’drathernot,"Matildasaid. "Shedoesn’tencouragereadingbooks. Nordoesmyfather."
"Butwhatdotheyexpectyoutodoeveryafternooninanemptyhouse?"
"Justmoocharoundandwatchthetelly."
"Isee."
"Shedoesn’treallycarewhatIdo,"Matildasaidalittlesadly.
Mrs.Phelpswasconcernedaboutthechild’ssafetyonthewalkthroughthefairlybusyvillageHighStreetandthecrossingoftheroad,butshedecidednottointerfere.
Withinaweek,MatildahadfinishedGreatExpectationswhichinthateditioncontainedfourhundredandelevenpages. "Ilovedit,"shesaidtoMrs.Phelps. "HasMrDickenswrittenanyothers?"
"Agreatnumber,"saidtheastoundedMrs.Phelps.
