if a man like Atticus Finch wants to butt his head against a stone wall it’s his head.
“I’da got her told,” growled Dill, gnawing a chicken leg, “but she didn’t look much like tellin’ this morning.
Said she was up half the night wonderin’ where I was, said she’da had the sheriff after me but he was at the hearing.”
“Dill, you’ve got to stop goin’ off without tellin’ her,” said Jem. “It just aggravates her.”
Dill sighed patiently. “I told her till I was blue in the face where I was goin’— she’s just seein’ too many snakes in the closet.
Bet that woman drinks a pint for breakfast every morning—know she drinks two glasses full. Seen her.”
“Don’t talk like that, Dill,” said Aunt Alexandra. “It’s not becoming to a child. It’s —cynical.”
“I ain’t cynical, Miss Alexandra. Tellin’ the truth’s not cynical, is it?”
“The way you tell it, it is.” Jem’s eyes flashed at her, but he said to Dill, “Let’s go. You can take that runner with you.”
When we went to the front porch, Miss Stephanie Crawford was busy telling it to Miss Maudie Atkinson and Mr. Avery.
They looked around at us and went on talking. Jem made a feral noise in his throat. I wished for a weapon.
“I hate grown folks lookin’ at you,” said Dill. “Makes you feel like you’ve done something.”
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