“You're as wet as any of them. If you can't cope in here then you can go and find a job in some cotton-wool private school for rich brats.”
“When you have been teaching for as long as I have you'll realise that it's no good at all being kind to children.”
“Read Nicholas Nickleby, Miss Honey, by Mr Dickens. Read about Mr Wackford Squeers, the admirable headmaster of Dotheboys Hall.”
“He knew how to handle the little brutes, didn't he! He knew how to use the birch, didn't he!”
“He kept their backsides so warm you could have fried eggs and bacon on them! A fine book, that.”
“But I don't suppose this bunch of morons we've got here will ever read it
because by the look of them they are never going to learn to read anything!”
“I've read it,” Matilda said quietly. The Trunchbull flicked her head round
and looked carefully at the small girl with dark hair and deep brown eyes sitting in the second row.
“What did you say?” she asked sharply. “I said I've read it, Miss Trunchbull.” “Read what?” “Nicholas Nickleby, Miss Trunchbull.”
“You are lying to me, madam!” the Trunchbull shouted, glaring at Matilda.
“I doubt there is a single child in the entire school who has read that book,
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