There were delicious smells about: chicken, bacon frying crisp as the twilight air.
Jem and I detected squirrel cooking, but it took an old countryman like Atticus to identify possum and rabbit,
aromas that vanished when we rode back past the Ewell residence.
All the little man on the witness stand had that made him any better than his nearest neighbors was,
that if scrubbed with lye soap in very hot water, his skin was white.
“Mr. Robert Ewell?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “That’s m’name, cap’n,” said the witness. Mr. Gilmer’s back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him.
Perhaps I’d better explain something now. I’ve heard that lawyers’ children,
on seeing their parents in court in the heat of argument, get the wrong idea:
they think opposing counsel to be the personal enemies of their parents, they suffer agonies,
and are surprised to see them often go out arm-in-arm with their tormenters during the first recess.
This was not true of Jem and me. We acquired no traumas from watching our father win or lose.
I’m sorry that I can’t provide any drama in this respect; if I did, it would not be true.
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