Mrs Pratchett Analysis

As I walk down the street with my friends, I think the mouse is squirming in my trouser pocket. But, for the sake of secrecy, I can’t reach down and hold the lump from moving because a woman hobbling along the street has just seen it too, and she gives me a disgusted look and quickens her pace. We get nearer to the sweet-shop and the critter in my pocket is thrashing like mad, and I notice that the man in rags whom I usually give my spare change to, does not seem keen to ask me for anything that may come out of my pocket.
Thwaites, and the rest of the boys are trying their ‘hardest’ to suppress mischievous grins as we walk down the street towards the shop window. The suppression has turned into a rather contorted look and few sniggers here
A hag of a woman with splotches of dried egg yolk, tea, bread crumbs and all sorts of mysterious stains all over her blouse. Her hands are filthy, all black and gnarled with dirt and grime under her nails and on her skin, and her teeth, those moldy obsidian coloured teeth were what scared most little children and adults into brushing their own. The children at school say that Mrs.Pratchett puts her bare, germ-infested tentacles into her jar of Chocolate fudge and pulls out a morsel of fudge to gnaw and gnash between her nasty
I quickly stuff the mouse mid-way into the fudge and shut the lid fast. I hastily put my hand into my pocket, desperately trying for a new look other than this mask of panic on my face. As Mrs.Pratchett advances on me like a predator on prey, I see a small crowd steadily trickling in behind her and I see Thwaites in the mix, face frozen with fear. The others, shivering from fright and rooted to the spot. She doesn’t say a word. No ‘What do you think you’re doing, Sonny?!’. Nothing. Her mouth is pressed tight, lips thin, eyes wild. I quickly glance at the jar and see a sliver of a tail, but I’m sure that no one else