“I wonder how much of the day I spend just callin’ after you. Well,” she said, getting up from the kitchen chair,
“it’s enough time to make a pan of cracklin‘ bread, I reckon. You run along now and let me get supper on the table.”
Calpurnia bent down and kissed me. I ran along, wondering what had come over her.
She had wanted to make up with me, that was it. She had always been too hard on me,
she had at last seen the error of her fractious ways, she was sorry and too stubborn to say so.
I was weary from the day’s crimes. After supper, Atticus sat down with the paper and called, “Scout, ready to read?”
The Lord sent me more than I could bear, and I went to the front porch. Atticus followed me.
“Something wrong, Scout?” I told Atticus I didn’t feel very well
and didn’t think I’d go to school any more if it was all right with him.
Atticus sat down in the swing and crossed his legs.
His fingers wandered to his watchpocket; he said that was the only way he could think.
He waited in amiable silence, and I sought to reinforce my position:
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