She was horrible. Her face was the color of a dirty pillowcase, and the corners of her mouth glistened with wet,
which inched like a glacier down the deep grooves enclosing her chin.
Old-age liver spots dotted her cheeks, and her pale eyes had black pinpoint pupils.
Her hands were knobby, and the cuticles were grown up over her fingernails.
Her bottom plate was not in, and her upper lip protruded;
from time to time she would draw her nether lip to her upper plate and carry her chin with it.
This made the wet move faster. I didn’t look any more than I had to.
Jem reopened Ivanhoe and began reading. I tried to keep up with him, but he read too fast.
When Jem came to a word he didn’t know, he skipped it, but Mrs. Dubose would catch him and make him spell it out.
Jem read for perhaps twenty minutes, during which time I looked at the soot-stained mantelpiece,
out the window, anywhere to keep from looking at her.
As he read along, I noticed that Mrs. Dubose’s corrections grew fewer and farther between, that Jem had even left one sentence dangling in mid-air.
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