“Don’t you contradict me!” Mrs. Dubose bawled. “And you—” she pointed an arthritic finger at me—
“what are you doing in those overalls? You should be in a dress and camisole, young lady!
You’ll grow up waiting on tables if somebody doesn’t change your ways—a Finch waiting on tables at the O.K. Café—hah!”
I was terrified. The O.K. Café was a dim organization on the north side of the square.
I grabbed Jem’s hand but he shook me loose. “Come on, Scout,” he whispered.
Don’t pay any attention to her, just hold your head high and be a gentleman.”
But Mrs. Dubose held us:Not only a Finch waiting on tables but one in the courthouse lawing for niggers!”
Jem stiffened. Mrs. Dubose’s shot had gone home and she knew it:
“Yes indeed, what has this world come to when a Finch goes against his raising?
I’ll tell you!” She put her hand to her mouth. When she drew it away, it trailed a long silver thread of saliva.
“Your father’s no better than the niggers and trash he works for!”
Jem was scarlet. I pulled at his sleeve, and we were followed up the sidewalk by a philippic on our family’s moral degeneration,
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