rather as a rat might edge away from a terrier that is watching it from across the room.
His plump flabby face had turned grey with fearful apprehension. His stockings hung about his ankles.
“This clot,” boomed the Headmistress, pointing the riding-crop at him like a rapier,
this blackhead, this foul carbuncle, this poisonous pustule that you see before you
is none other than a disgusting criminal, a denizen of the underworld, a member of the Mafia!”
“Who, me?” Bruce Bogtrotter said, looking genuinely puzzled. “A thief!” the Trunchbull screamed.
“A crook! A pirate! A brigand! A rustler!” “Steady on,” the boy said. “I mean, dash it all, Headmistress.”
“Do you deny it, you miserable little gumboil? Do you plead not guilty?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” the boy said, more puzzled than ever.
“I'll tell you what I'm talking about, you suppurating little blister!” the Trunchbull shouted.
“Yesterday morning, during break, you sneaked like a serpent into the kitchen and stole a slice of my private chocolate cake from my tea-tray!”
“That tray had just been prepared for me personally by the cook! It was my morning snack!”
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