“Only a week longer, I think,” she said, “just to make sure…” Jem rose.
“But—” Atticus put out his hand and Jem was silent.
On the way home, Jem said he had to do it just for a month and the month was up and it wasn’t fair.
“Just one more week, son,” said Atticus. “No,” said Jem. “Yes,” said Atticus.
The following week found us back at Mrs. Dubose’s. The alarm clock had ceased sounding,
but Mrs. Dubose would release us with, “That’ll do,” so late in the afternoon Atticus would be home reading the paper when we returned.
Although her fits had passed off, she was in every other way her old self:
when Sir Walter Scott became involved in lengthy descriptions of moats and castles,
Mrs. Dubose would become bored and pick on us: “Jeremy Finch, I told you you’d live to regret tearing up my camellias. You regret it now, don’t you?”
Jem would say he certainly did. “Thought you could kill my Snow-on-the-Mountain, did you?
Well, Jessie says the top’s growing back out. Next time you’ll know how to do it right, won’t you?
You’ll pull it up by the roots, won’t you?” Jem would say he certainly would.
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