you had to be overpowered and stomped on, preferably knocked stone cold.
If you were under eighteen, you didn’t have to go through all this.
“Mr. Jem,” Reverend Sykes demurred, “this ain’t a polite thing for little ladies to hear…”
“Aw, she doesn’t know what we’re talkin’ about,” said Jem. “Scout, this is too old for you, ain’t it?”
“It most certainly is not, I know every word you’re saying.”
Perhaps I was too convincing, because Jem hushed and never discussed the subject again.
“What time is it, Reverend?” he asked. “Gettin’ on toward eight.”
I looked down and saw Atticus strolling around with his hands in his pockets:
he made a tour of the windows, then walked by the railing over to the jury box.
He looked in it, inspected Judge Taylor on his throne, then went back to where he started.
I caught his eye and waved to him. He acknowledged my salute with a nod, and resumed his tour.
Mr. Gilmer was standing at the windows talking to Mr. Underwood.
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