Nadav Spiegelman

To Kill a Mockingbird

Harper Lee
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If she was on the porch when we passed, we would be raked by her wrathful gaze, subjected to ruthless interrogation regarding our behavior, and given a melancholy prediction on what we would amount to when we grew up, which was always nothing.
When the three of us came to her house, Atticus would sweep off his hat, wave gallantly to her and say, “Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like a picture this evening.” I never heard Atticus say like a picture of what.
A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer.
Jem and I found our father satisfactory:
Long ago, in a burst of friendliness, Aunty and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named Henry, who left home as soon as was humanly possible, married, and produced Francis. Henry and his wife deposited Francis at his grandparents’ every Christmas, then pursued their own pleasures.
You want to grow up to be a lady, don’t you?” I said not particularly. “Of course you do. Now let’s get to the tree.”
Talking to Francis gave me the sensation of settling slowly to the bottom of the ocean.
But the only time I ever heard Atticus speak sharply to anyone was when I once heard him say, “Sister, I do the best I can with them!” It had something to do with my going around in overalls.
“People in their right minds never take pride in their talents,” said Miss Maudie.