The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

Angela could not be the bomber, not that sweet, pretty thing. Thing? Is that how she regarded that young woman, as a thing? And what had she ever said to her except ‘I hear you’re getting married, Angela’ or ‘How pretty you look, Angela.’ Had anyone asked about her ideas, her hopes, her plans? If I had been treated like that I’d have used dynamite, not fireworks; no, I would have just walked out and kept right on going.