his vest was buttoned, his collar and tie were neatly in place, his watch-chain glistened, he was his impassive self again.
“It ain’t right, Atticus,” said Jem. “No son, it’s not right.”
We walked home. Aunt Alexandra was waiting up. She was in her dressing gown, and I could have sworn she had on her corset underneath it.
“I’m sorry, brother,” she murmured. Having never heard her call Atticus “brother” before,
I stole a glance at Jem, but he was not listening. He would look up at Atticus, then down at the floor,
and I wondered if he thought Atticus somehow responsible for Tom Robinson’s conviction.
“Is he all right?” Aunty asked, indicating Jem. “He’ll be so presently,” said Atticus. “It was a little too strong for him.”
Our father sighed. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “If I don’t wake up in the morning, don’t call me.”
“I didn’t think it wise in the first place to let them—” “This is their home, sister,” said Atticus.
“We’ve made it this way for them, they might as well learn to cope with it.”
“But they don’t have to go to the courthouse and wallow in it—”
It’s just as much Maycomb County as missionary teas.
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