Charity opened her mouth to speak, but promptly closed it. There were so many directions to go with this boy. Reading was for stupid people? There were better things to do—for a boy like him, who needed it the most? And he hadn't denied being a thief, either, which left Charity one step closer to painting a good mental picture of who this boy was and what his life was like. (Except probably more fluffy because she imagined that he at least had a room to sleep in and someone to tuck him in at night. Why weren't they reading him bedtime stories?)
"Contrary to what you believe, smart people read. My Uncle Evander reads lots, and he's smart." And she, a girl who now owned thirty-four books, was very smart as well. "Stupid people can't read. If they could, they'd pick up a book and they wouldn't be very stupid anymore," she finished, proud of her sound logic.
"Contrary to what you believe, smart people read. My Uncle Evander reads lots, and he's smart." And she, a girl who now owned thirty-four books, was very smart as well. "Stupid people can't read. If they could, they'd pick up a book and they wouldn't be very stupid anymore," she finished, proud of her sound logic.
