“Don’t you mutter at me, boy! You hold up your head and say yes ma’am.
Don’t guess you feel like holding it up, though, with your father what he is.”
Jem’s chin would come up, and he would gaze at Mrs. Dubose with a face devoid of resentment.
Through the weeks he had cultivated an expression of polite and detached interest,
which he would present to her in answer to her most blood-curdling inventions.
At last the day came. When Mrs. Dubose said, “That’ll do,” one afternoon, she added, “And that’s all.
Good-day to you.” It was over. We bounded down the sidewalk on a spree of sheer relief, leaping and howling.
That spring was a good one: the days grew longer and gave us more playing time.
Jem’s mind was occupied mostly with the vital statistics of every college football player in the nation.
Every night Atticus would read us the sports pages of the newspapers.
Alabama might go to the Rose Bowl again this year, judging from its prospects, not one of whose names we could pronounce.
Atticus was in the middle of Windy Seaton’s column one evening when the telephone rang.
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