A flash of plain fear was going out of his eyes, but returned when Dill and Jem wriggled into the light.
There was a smell of stale whiskey and pigpen about,
and when I glanced around I discovered that these men were strangers.
They were not the people I saw last night. Hot embarrassment shot through me:
I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people I had never seen before.
Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man.
He put the newspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers.
They were trembling a little. “Go home, Jem,” he said. “Take Scout and Dill home.”
We were accustomed to prompt, if not always cheerful acquiescence to Atticus’s instructions,
but from the way he stood Jem was not thinking of budging. “Go home, I said.” Jem shook his head.
As Atticus’s fists went to his hips, so did Jem’s, and as they faced each other I could see little resemblance between them:
Jem’s soft brown hair and eyes, his oval face and snug-fitting ears were our mother’s,
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