These were abstract speculations for the first month of her stay, as she had little to say to Jem or me,
and we saw her only at mealtimes and at night before we went to bed.
It was summer and we were outdoors. Of course some afternoons when I would run inside for a drink of water,
I would find the livingroom overrun with Maycomb ladies, sipping, whispering, fanning,
and I would be called: “Jean Louise, come speak to these ladies.”
When I appeared in the doorway, Aunty would look as if she regretted her request; I was usually mud-splashed or covered with sand.
“Speak to your Cousin Lily,” she said one afternoon, when she had trapped me in the hall. “Who?” I said.
“Your Cousin Lily Brooke,” said Aunt Alexandra. “She our cousin? I didn’t know that.”
Aunt Alexandra managed to smile in a way that conveyed a gentle apology to Cousin Lily and firm disapproval to me.
When Cousin Lily Brooke left I knew I was in for it.
It was a sad thing that my father had neglected to tell me about the Finch Family, or to install any pride into his children.
She summoned Jem, who sat warily on the sofa beside me.
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