"What are you doing?" Emily exclaimed. And then she saw.
"Why, don't do that! That's a library book!"
But Martha was in a rage. "I don't care if it is! I'll burn up every copy I ever get my hands on!" She wouldn't let Emily rescue it. The tears were running down her face. "Such lies!" she raved. "How can you stand it? Dirty, filthy, rotten, vile lies! That's what's the matter! Books like that! I could kill that man!"
There was something sobering in the mere sight of a book being torn to bits. It was a strong book, powerfully written, and it resisted its destruction. The pages had to be jerked out, almost one by one. Martha kept tearing and poking, and urging the flames on.
"Martha," Emily remonstrated, "you mustn't do that! Don't make it flame up more!" She had never seen Martha in such a rage. She stood helplessly watching her folly.
"Didn't you read it?" Martha cried to her. There was scarcely anything left of the book now, but the covers.
"Yes, I read part of it," Emily began, protesting.
"You believed it, I suppose?"
"Well, I—I didn't care for it all, much."
"You didn't care for it! My God! I'm never going to read a book written by a man again as long as I live! It isn't that they're fools only; it isn't possible for them to learn anything, even, dirty fumbling idiots!"