“How could you take such a risk, Atticus, how could you?”
“When you analyze it, there was little risk. There’s no difference between one man who’s going to convict,”
and another man who’s going to convict, is there? There’s a faint difference between a man who’s going to convict,
and a man who’s a little disturbed in his mind, isn’t there? He was the only uncertainty on the whole list.
What kin was that man to Mr. Walter Cunningham?I asked. Atticus rose, stretched and yawned.
It was not even our bedtime, but we knew he wanted a chance to read his newspaper.
He picked it up, folded it, and tapped my head. “Let’s see now,” he droned to himself. “I’ve got it. Double first cousin.”
“How can that be?” “Two sisters married two brothers. That’s all I’ll tell you—you figure it out.”
I tortured myself and decided that if I married Jem and Dill had a sister whom he married our children would be double first cousins.
“Gee minetti, Jem,” I said, when Atticus had gone, “they’re funny folks. ‘d you hear that, Aunty?”
Aunt Alexandra was hooking a rug and not watching us, but she was listening.
She sat in her chair with her workbasket beside it, her rug spread across her lap.
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