He got me round the neck, cussin’ me an’ sayin’ dirtI fought’n’hollered, but he had me round the neck.
He hit me agin an’ agin—” Mr. Gilmer waited for Mayella to collect herself:
she had twisted her handkerchief into a sweaty rope; when she opened it to wipe her face it was a mass of creases from her hot hands.
She waited for Mr. Gilmer to ask another question, but when he didn’t, she said, “—he chunked me on the floor an’ choked me’n took advantage of me.”
“Did you scream?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Did you scream and fight back?”
“Reckon I did, hollered for all I was worth, kicked and hollered loud as I could.”
“Then what happened?” “I don’t remember too good, but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a’standing over me
hollerin’ who done it, who done it? Then I sorta fainted an’ the next thing I knew
Mr. Tate was pullin’ me up offa the floor and leadin’ me to the water bucket.”
Apparently Mayella’s recital had given her confidence, but it was not her father’s brash kind:
there was something stealthy about hers, like a steady-eyed cat with a twitchy tail.
“You say you fought him off as hard as you could? Fought him tooth and nail?” asked Mr. Gilmer.
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