And it had happened years ago. No, only last summer—no, summer before last, when… time was playing tricks on me.
I must remember to ask Jem. So many things had happened to us, Boo Radley was the least of our fears.
Atticus said he didn’t see how anything else could happen, that things had a way of settling down,
and after enough time passed people would forget that Tom Robinson’s existence was ever brought to their attention.
Perhaps Atticus was right, but the events of the summer hung over us like smoke in a closed room.
The adults in Maycomb never discussed the case with Jem and me; it seemed that they discussed it with their children,
and their attitude must have been that neither of us could help having Atticus for a parent,
so their children must be nice to us in spite of him.
The children would never have thought that up for themselves: had our classmates been left to their own devices,
Jem and I would have had several swift, satisfying fist-fights apiece and ended the matter for good.
As it was, we were compelled to hold our heads high and be, respectively, a gentleman and a lady.
In a way, it was like the era of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose, without all her yelling.
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