One Sunday night, lost in fruity metaphors and florid diction, Judge Taylor’s attention was wrenched from the page
by an irritating scratching noise. “Hush,” he said to Ann Taylor, his fat nondescript dog.
Then he realized he was speaking to an empty room; the scratching noise was coming from the rear of the house.
Judge Taylor clumped to the back porch to let Ann out and found the screen door swinging open.
A shadow on the corner of the house caught his eye, and that was all he saw of his visitor.
Mrs. Taylor came home from church to find her husband in his chair, lost in the writings of Bob Taylor, with a shotgun across his lap.
The third thing happened to Helen Robinson, Tom’s widow. If Mr. Ewell was as forgotten as Tom Robinson,
Tom Robinson was as forgotten as Boo Radley. But Tom was not forgotten by his employer, Mr. Link Deas.
Mr. Link Deas made a job for Helen. He didn’t really need her, but he said he felt right bad about the way things turned out.
I never knew who took care of her children while Helen was away.
Calpurnia said it was hard on Helen, because she had to walk nearly a mile out of her way to avoid the Ewells,
who, according to Helen, “chunked at her” the first time she tried to use the public road.
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