By the age of one and a half her speech was perfect and she knew as many words as most grown-ups.
The parents, instead of applauding her, called her a noisy chatterbox and told her sharply that small girls should be seen and not heard.
By the time she was three, Matilda had taught herself to read by studying newspapers and magazines that lay around the house.
At the age of four, she could read fast and well and she naturally began hankering after books.
The only book in the whole of this enlightened household was something called Easy Cooking belonging to her mother,
and when she had read this from cover to cover and had learnt all the recipes by heart,
she decided she wanted something more interesting.
“Daddy,” she said, “do you think you could buy me a book?”
“A book?” he said. “What d'you want a flaming book for?” “To read, Daddy.”
“What's wrong with the telly, for heaven's sake? We've got a lovely telly with a twelve-inch screen and now you come asking for a book!”
“You're getting spoiled, my girl!” Nearly every weekday afternoon Matilda was left alone in the house.
Her brother (five years older than her) went to school. Her father went to work and her mother went out playing bingo in a town eight miles away.
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