presenting an unoffensive vista when seen from the north.
From the other side, however, Greek revival columns clashed with a big nineteenth-century clock tower housing a rusty unreliable instrument,
a view indicating a people determined to preserve every physical scrap of the past.
To reach the courtroom, on the second floor, one passed sundry sunless county cubbyholes:
the tax assessor, the tax collector, the county clerk, the county solicitor, the circuit clerk,
the judge of probate lived in cool dim hutches that smelled of decaying record books mingled with old damp cement and stale urine.
It was necessary to turn on the lights in the daytime; there was always a film of dust on the rough floorboards.
The inhabitants of these offices were creatures of their environment:
little gray-faced men, they seemed untouched by wind or sun.
We knew there was a crowd, but we had not bargained for the multitudes in the first-floor hallway.
I got separated from Jem and Dill, but made my way toward the wall by the stairwell, knowing Jem would come for me eventually.
I found myself in the middle of the Idlers’ Club and made myself as unobtrusive as possible.
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