It was plain that Aunty thought me dull in the extreme, because I once heard her tell Atticus that I was sluggish.
There was a story behind all this, but I had no desire to extract it from her then.
Today was Sunday, and Aunt Alexandra was positively irritable on the Lord’s Day. I guess it was her Sunday corset.
She was not fat, but solid, and she chose protective garments that drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist,
flared out her rear, and managed to suggest that Aunt Alexandra’s was once an hour-glass figure.
From any angle, it was formidable. The remainder of the afternoon went by in the gentle gloom that descends when relatives appear,
but was dispelled when we heard a car turn in the driveway.
It was Atticus, home from Montgomery. Jem, forgetting his dignity, ran with me to meet him.
Jem seized his briefcase and bag, I jumped into his arms, felt his vague dry kiss and said, “ ‘d you bring me a book? ’d you know Aunty’s here?”
Atticus answered both questions in the affirmative.
How’d you like for her to come live with us?I said I would like it very much, which was a lie,
but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can’t do anything about them.
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