“Atticus—” Aunt Alexandra’s eyes were anxious.You are the last person I thought would turn bitter over this.
I’m not bitter, just tired. I’m going to bed.” “Atticus—” said Jem bleakly. He turned in the doorway.
“What, son?” “How could they do it, how could they?”
I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again
and when they do it—seems that only children weep. Good night.”
But things are always better in the morning. Atticus rose at his usual ungodly hour
and was in the livingroom behind the Mobile Register when we stumbled in.
Jem’s morning face posed the question his sleepy lips struggled to ask.
“It’s not time to worry yet,” Atticus reassured him, as we went to the diningroom.
“We’re not through yet. There’ll be an appeal, you can count on that. Gracious alive, Cal, what’s all this?”
He was staring at his breakfast plate. Calpurnia said, “Tom Robinson’s daddy sent you along this chicken this morning. I fixed it.”
You tell him I’m proud to get it—bet they don’t have chicken for breakfast at the White House. What are these?”
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