but for some reason she found herself instinctively walking past that particular shelf.
“Try this,” she said at last. “It's very famous and very good.
If it's too long for you, just let me know and I'll find something shorter and a bit easier.”
Great Expectations,” Matilda read, “by Charles Dickens. I'd love to try it.
I must be mad, Mrs Phelps told herself, but to Matilda she said, “Of course you may try it.
Over the next few afternoons Mrs Phelps could hardly take her eyes from the small girl sitting for hour after hour
in the big armchair at the far end of the room with the book on her lap.
It was necessary to rest it on the lap because it was too heavy for her to hold up, which meant she had to sit leaning forward in order to read.
And a strange sight it was, this tiny dark-haired person sitting there with her feet nowhere near touching the floor,
totally absorbed in the wonderful adventures of Pip and old Miss Havisham and her cobwebbed house
and by the spell of magic that Dickens the great storyteller had woven with his words.
The only movement from the reader was the lifting of the hand every now and then to turn over a page,
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