Mrs. Phelps' footsteps pounded against the driveway as she walked down the street and back to her home, with Mrs. Bowles at her side. "Who does he think he is? Mildred had better get a hold on that husband of hers or else I don't think I will ever go back to her house. I mean first he turns off the parlor walls and then he starts reading a book. The book was a whole bunch of nonsense, anyways. A whole bunch of nonsense," Mrs. Phelps' voice boomed with anger and frustration as she turned to Mrs. Bowles, expecting her to simply agree.
"Well, Mrs. Phelps, I do see what you're talking about. I mean, I suppose I do agree with you, yet it was quite a lovely poem he read. It was nothing like everything you hear from those parlor walls. It seemed more thought out and just simply elegant," a slight smile formed on Mrs. Bowles' lips as she drifted off into her own world of thoughts and memories.
"What are you talking about, Mrs. Bowles? All that I heard from that man's mouth was a whole load of rubbish! Anyways, what he did was completely illegal! I think we should go report it to the firemen," Mrs. Phelps glanced over at Mrs. Bowles' astonished face and sighed, "Oh, Mrs. Bowles, you're probably just stunned about all this, that's why you're thinking up all these crazy things. You'd better start thinking straight because I'm afraid if you begin to read books as well, I'd have to turn you into the firemen, just like I'm doing right now with Mr. Montag." Mrs. Bowles paused and turned her head slowly to Mrs. Phelps, who stopped as well.
"The firemen?" Mrs. Bowles mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, "But then they'll go and burn the books," she began to feel a strange sensation she had never felt before.
"Well of course! Isn't that their job?" Mrs. Phelps chuckled and began to walk forward, leaving Mrs. Bowles behind her, right where she had stopped, "Go ahead and stay there, for all I care! But I'm on my way to the firehouse. Whatever absurd story Mrs. Montag made up about that book is obviously not true. Goodbye!" She stormed down the street and into the direction of the firehouse as Mrs. Bowles' confused eyes followed her. For some reason, Mrs. Bowles didn't want her to go to the firehouse, didn't want Montag to go to prison, and most importantly, didn't want the books to be burned.
For once in her life, she had a feeling of desperation, of longing to get her hands on a book, just like Montag's. She had never felt so passionate and caring of anything in her life and she felt impelled to doing something, anything about it. Without even thinking, Mrs. Bowles feet began to rewind their steps back to Montag's house, slowly at first, but gaining speed with each step until she was running to the one thing in her life that she truly wanted. Even if it was just one more poem, eloquently spoken from Montag's mouth, her hunger for knowledge that had been sheltered for years would finally be satisfied.
And that satisfaction was the one thing on her mind as she ran. Or at least until the firetrucks came roaring down the street, headed for the same destination as her, shattering her hopes and crushing any sense of pure happiness that she had ever felt.
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