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"
Three
.
Four
.
"
"
Here
.
"
Montag
pulled
at
the
woman
.
The
woman
replied
quietly
,
"
I
want
to
stay
here
.
"
"
Five
.
Six
.
"
"
You
can
stop
counting
,
"
she
said
.
She
opened
the
fingers
of
one
hand
slightly
and
in
the
palm
of
the
hand
was
a
single
slender
object
.
An
ordinary
kitchen
match
.
The
sight
of
it
rushed
the
men
out
and
down
away
from
the
house
.
Captain
Beatty
,
keeping
his
dignity
,
backed
slowly
through
the
front
door
,
his
pink
face
burnt
and
shiny
from
a
thousand
fires
and
night
excitements
.
God
,
thought
Montag
,
how
true
!
Always
at
night
the
alarm
comes
.
Never
by
day
!
Is
it
because
the
fire
is
prettier
by
night
?
More
spectacle
,
a
better
show
?
The
pink
face
of
Beatty
now
showed
the
faintest
panic
in
the
door
.
The
woman
's
hand
twitched
on
the
single
matchstick
.
The
fumes
of
kerosene
bloomed
up
about
her
.
Montag
felt
the
hidden
book
pound
like
a
heart
against
his
chest
.
"
Go
on
,
"
said
the
woman
,
and
Montag
felt
himself
back
away
and
away
out
of
the
door
,
after
Beatty
,
down
the
steps
,
across
the
lawn
,
where
the
path
of
kerosene
lay
like
the
track
of
some
evil
snail
.
On
the
front
porch
where
she
had
come
to
weigh
them
quietly
with
her
eyes
,
her
quietness
a
condemnation
,
the
woman
stood
motionless
.
