Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury Page A

talked to her. I talked to her. And men like Beatty are afraid of her. I can't understand it. Why should they be so afraid of someone like her? But I kept putting her alongside the firemen in the house last night, and I suddenly realized I didn't like them at all, and I didn't like myself at all any more. And I thought maybe it would be best if the firemen themselves were burnt."
                "Guy!"
                The front door voice called softly: "Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here."
                Softly.
                They turned to stare at the door and the books toppled everywhere, everywhere in heaps.
                "Beatty!" said Mildred.
                "It can't be him."
                "He's come back!" she whispered.
                The front door voice called again softly. "Someone here..."
                "We won't answer." Montag lay back against the wall and then slowly sank to a crouching position and began to nudge the books, bewilderedly, with his thumb, his forefinger. He was shivering and he wanted above all to shove the books up through the ventilator again, but he knew he could not face Beatty again. He crouched and then he sat and the voice of the front door spoke again, more insistently. Montag picked a single small volume from the floor. "Where do we begin? " He opened the book half-way and peered at it. "We begin by beginning, I guess."
                "He'll come in," said Mildred, "and burn us and the books!"
                The front door voice faded at last. There was a silence. Montag felt the presence of someone beyond the door, waiting, listening. Then the footsteps going away down the walk and over the lawn.
                "Let's see what this is," said Montag.
                He spoke the words haltingly and with a terrible selfconsciousness. He read a dozen pages here and there and came at last to this: "'It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death rather than submit to break eggs at the smaller end."'
                Mildred sat across the hall from him. "What does it mean? It doesn't mean anything! The Captain was right!"
                "Here now," said Montag. "We'll start over again, at the beginning."

PART TWO:
    THE SIEVE AND THE SAND

    They read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlour was so empty and grey-looking without its walls lit with orange and yellow confetti and sky-rockets and women in gold-mesh dresses and men in black velvet pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlour was dead and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud.
                "'We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over, so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.'"
                Montag sat listening to the rain.
                "Is that what it was in the girl next door? I've tried so hard to figure."
                "She's dead. Let's talk about someone alive, for goodness' sake."
                Montag did not look back at his wife as he went trembling along the hall to the kitchen, where he stood a long. time watching the rain hit the windows before he came back down the hall in the grey light, waiting for the tremble to subside.
                He opened another book.
                "'That favourite subject, Myself."'
                He squinted at the wall. "'The favourite subject, Myself."'
                "I understand that one," said