"Let's get back to work," said Montag quietly. Mildred kicked at a book. "Books aren't people. You read and I look around but there isn't anybody!"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist.
Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went
Montag placed the green bullet in his ear. The old man inserted a similar object in his own ear and moved his lips.
"You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove? I knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, Mr. Montag, you're nasty!"
"Why," said Montag slowly, "we've stopped in front of my house."