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One morning I was reading to them some simple poetry. Just when I thought I had inveigled them into active interest one of the girls, Monica Page, let the top of the desk fall; the noise seemed to reverberate in every part of my being and I felt a sudden burning anger. I looked at her for some moments before daring to open my mouth; she returned my gaze, then casually remarked to the class at large: "The bleeding thing won't stay up." It was all rather de­liberate, the noisy interruption and the crude remark, and it her­-alded the third stage of their conduct. From then on the words "bloody" or "bleeding" were hardly ever absent from any remark they made to one another especially in the classroom. They would call out to each other on any silly pretext and refer to the "bleed­ing" this or that, and always in a voice loud enough for my ears. One day during an arithmetic period I played right into their hands. I was so overcome by anger and disgust that I completely lost my temper ...I went upstairs and sat in the library, the only place where I could be alone for a little while. I felt sick at heart, because it seemed that this latest act above all others, was intended to display their utter disrespect for me. They seemed to have no sense of decency, these children; everything they said or did was coloured by an ugly viciousness, as if their minds were forever rooting after filth. ‘Why, oh why,’ I asked myself, ‘did they behave like that? What was wrong with them?’