We went by Mrs. Dubose’s house, standing empty and shuttered, her camellias grown up in weeds and johnson grass.
There were eight more houses to the post office corner. The south side of the square was deserted.
Giant monkey-puzzle bushes bristled on each corner,
and between them an iron hitching rail glistened under the street lights.
A light shone in the county toilet, otherwise that side of the courthouse was dark.
A larger square of stores surrounded the courthouse square; dim lights burned from deep within them.
Atticus’s office was in the courthouse when he began his law practice,
but after several years of it he moved to quieter quarters in the Maycomb Bank building.
When we rounded the corner of the square, we saw the car parked in front of the bank.
“He’s in there,” said Jem. But he wasn’t. His office was reached by a long hallway.
Looking down the hall, we should have seen Atticus Finch, Attorney-at-Law in small sober letters
against the light from behind his door. It was dark.
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