There he would stand, his arm around the fat pole, staring and wondering.
The Radley Place jutted into a sharp curve beyond our house.
Walking south, one faced its porch; the sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot.
The house was low, was once white with a deep front porch and green shutters,
but had long ago darkened to the color of the slate-gray yard around it.
Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the eaves of the veranda; oak trees kept the sun away.
The remains of a picket drunkenly guarded the front yarda “swept” yard that was never swept
where johnson grass and rabbit-tobacco grew in abundance.
Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and I had never seen him.
People said he went out at night when the moon was down, and peeped in windows.
When people’s azaleas froze in a cold snap, it was because he had breathed on them.
Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were his work.
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