There are many things that make a man irritable when he arrives home from work in the evening,
and a sensible wife will usually notice the storm-signals and will leave him alone until he simmers down.
When Mr Wormwood arrived back from the garage that evening his face was as dark as a thundercloud,
and somebody was clearly for the high-jump pretty soon.
His wife recognised the signs immediately and made herself scarce. He then strode into the living-room.
Matilda happened to be curled up in an arm-chair in the corner, totally absorbed in a book. Mr Wormwood switched on the television.
The screen lit up. The programme blared. Mr Wormwood glared at Matilda. She hadn't moved.
She had somehow trained herself by now to block her ears to the ghastly sound of the dreaded box.
She kept right on reading, and for some reason this infuriated the father.
Perhaps his anger was intensified because he saw her getting pleasure from something that was beyond his reach.
“Don't you ever stop reading?” he snapped at her. “Oh, hello daddy,” she said pleasantly. “Did you have a good day?”
“What is this trash?” he said, snatching the book from her hands.
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