This was a group of white-shirted, khaki-trousered, suspendered old men who had spent their lives doing nothing
and passed their twilight days doing same on pine benches under the live oaks on the square.
Attentive critics of courthouse business, Atticus said they knew as much law as the Chief Justice, from long years of observation.
Normally, they were the court’s only spectators, and today they seemed resentful of the interruption of their comfortable routine.
When they spoke, their voices sounded casually important. The conversation was about my father.
“…thinks he knows what he’s doing,” one said. “Oh-h now, I wouldn’t say that,” said another.
Atticus Finch’s a deep reader, a mighty deep reader.“He reads all right, that’s all he does.” The club snickered.
“Lemme tell you somethin‘ now, Billy,” a third said, “you know the court appointed him to defend this nigger.”
“Yeah, but Atticus aims to defend him. That’s what I don’t like about it.”
This was news, news that put a different light on things: Atticus had to, whether he wanted to or not.
I thought it odd that he hadn’t said anything to us about it— we could have used it many times in defending him and ourselves.
He had to, that’s why he was doing it, equaled fewer fights and less fussing.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색