I breathed again. It wasn’t me, it was only Calpurnia they were talking about.
Revived, I entered the livingroom. Atticus had retreated behind his newspaper and Aunt Alexandra was worrying her embroidery.
Punk, punk, punk, her needle broke the taut circle. She stopped, and pulled the cloth tighter: punk-punk-punk.
She was furious. Jem got up and padded across the rug. He motioned me to follow.
He led me to his room and closed the door. His face was grave.
“They’ve been fussing, Scout.” Jem and I fussed a great deal these days,
but I had never heard of or seen anyone quarrel with Atticus. It was not a comfortable sight.
“Scout, try not to antagonize Aunty, hear?” Atticus’s remarks were still rankling,
which made me miss the request in Jem’s question. My feathers rose again.
“You tryin‘ to tell me what to do?” “Naw, it’s—he’s got a lot on his mind now, without us worrying him.”
“Like what?” Atticus didn’t appear to have anything especially on his mind.
“It’s this Tom Robinson case that’s worryin‘ him to death—” I said Atticus didn’t worry about anything.
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