“And as for the cake, it was my own private stock! That was not boy's cake!”
“You don't think for one minute I'm going to eat the filth I give to you? That cake was made from real butter and real cream!”
“And he, that robber-bandit, that safe-cracker, that highwayman standing over there with his socks around his ankles stole it and ate it!”
“I never did,” the boy exclaimed, turning from grey to white. “Don't lie to me, Bogtrotter!” barked the Trunchbull.
“The cook saw you! What's more, she saw you eating it!” The Trunchbull paused to wipe a fleck of froth from her lips.
When she spoke again her voice was suddenly softer, quieter, more friendly, and she leaned towards the boy, smiling.
“You like my special chocolate cake, don't you, Bogtrotter? It's rich and delicious, isn't it, Bogtrotter?”
“Very good,” the boy mumbled. The words were out before he could stop himself. “You're right,” the Trunchbull said.
“It is very good. Therefore I think you should congratulate the cook.”
“When a gentleman has had a particularly good meal, Bogtrotter, he always sends his compliments to the chef.”
“You didn't know that, did you, Bogtrotter? But those who inhabit the criminal underworld are not noted for their good manners.”
The boy remained silent. “Cook!” the Trunchbull shouted, turning her head towards the door.
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