They’re perfectly willing to let him wreck his health doing what they’re afraid to do, they’re—”
“Be quiet, they’ll hear you,” said Miss Maudie.
“Have you ever thought of it this way, Alexandra? Whether Maycomb knows it or not, we’re paying the highest tribute we can pay a man.
We trust him to do right. It’s that simple.” “Who?” Aunt Alexandra never knew she was echoing her twelve-year-old nephew.
The handful of people in this town who say that fair play is not marked White Only;
the handful of people who say a fair trial is for everybody, not just us;
the handful of people with enough humility to think, when they look at a Negro, there but for the Lord’s kindness am I.”
Miss Maudie’s old crispness was returning: “The handful of people in this town with background, that’s who they are.”
Had I been attentive, I would have had another scrap to add to Jem’s definition of background, but I found myself shaking and couldn’t stop.
I had seen Enfield Prison Farm, and Atticus had pointed out the exercise yard to me.
It was the size of a football field. “Stop that shaking,” commanded Miss Maudie, and I stopped.
“Get up, Alexandra, we’ve left ‘em long enough.”
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