“He wasn’t Tom to them, he was an escaping prisoner.”
Atticus leaned against the refrigerator, pushed up his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “We had such a good chance,” he said.
“I told him what I thought, but I couldn’t in truth say that we had more than a good chance.
I guess Tom was tired of white men’s chances and preferred to take his own. Ready, Cal?” “Yessir, Mr. Finch.” “Then let’s go.”
Aunt Alexandra sat down in Calpurnia’s chair and put her hands to her face. She sat quite still; she was so quiet I wondered if she would faint.
I heard Miss Maudie breathing as if she had just climbed the steps, and in the diningroom the ladies chattered happily.
I thought Aunt Alexandra was crying, but when she took her hands away from her face, she was not. She looked weary. She spoke, and her voice was flat.
I can’t say I approve of everything he does, Maudie, but he’s my brother, and I just want to know when this will ever end.
Her voice rose: “It tears him to pieces. He doesn’t show it much, but it tears him to pieces.
I’ve seen him when— what else do they want from him, Maudie, what else?”
“What does who want, Alexandra?” Miss Maudie asked.
I mean this town. They’re perfectly willing to let him do what they’re too afraid to do themselves—it might lose ‘em a nickel.
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