She dropped Wilfred on to the floor. Then she yelled at nobody in particular, “Who's doing this?”
“Who's writing it?” The chalk continued to write. Everyone in the place heard the gasp that came from the Trunchbull's throat.
“No!” she cried, “It can't be! It can't be Magnus!”
Miss Honey, at the side of the room glanced swiftly at Matilda.
The child was sitting very straight at her desk, the head held high, the mouth compressed, the eyes glittering like two stars.
For some reason everyone now looked at the Trunchbull.
The woman's face had turned white as snow and her mouth was opening and shutting like a halibut out of water and giving out a series of strangled gasps.
The chalk stopped writing. It hovered for a few moments, then suddenly it dropped to the floor with a tinkle and broke in two.
Wilfred, who had managed to resume his seat in the front row, screamed, “Miss Trunchbull has fallen down! Miss Trunchbull is on the floor!”
This was the most sensational bit of news of all and the entire class jumped up out of their seats to have a really good look.
And there she was, the huge figure of the Headmistress, stretched full-length on her back across the floor, out for the count.
Miss Honey ran forward and knelt beside the prostrate giant.
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