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           "Don’tyoumutteratme,boy!Youholdupyourheadandsayyesma’am.Don’tguessyoufeellikeholdingitup,though,withyourfatherwhatheis."

           Jem’schinwouldcomeup,andhewouldgazeatMrs.Dubosewithafacedevoidofresentment.Throughtheweekshehadcultivatedanexpressionofpoliteanddetachedinterest,whichhewouldpresenttoherinanswertohermostblood-curdlinginventions.

           Atlastthedaycame.WhenMrs.Dubosesaid,"That’lldo,"oneafternoon,sheadded,"Andthat’sall.Good-daytoyou."

           Itwasover.Weboundeddownthesidewalkonaspreeofsheerrelief,leapingandhowling.

           Thatspringwasagoodone:thedaysgrewlongerandgaveusmoreplayingtime.Jem’smindwasoccupiedmostlywiththevitalstatisticsofeverycollegefootballplayerinthenation.EverynightAtticuswouldreadusthesportspagesofthenewspapers.AlabamamightgototheRoseBowlagainthisyear,judgingfromitsprospects,notoneofwhosenameswecouldpronounce.AtticuswasinthemiddleofWindySeaton’scolumnoneeveningwhenthetelephonerang.

           Heansweredit,thenwenttothehatrackinthehall."I’mgoingdowntoMrs.Dubose’sforawhile,"hesaid."Iwon’tbelong."

           ButAtticusstayedawayuntillongpastmybedtime.Whenhereturnedhewascarryingacandybox.Atticussatdowninthelivingroomandputtheboxonthefloorbesidehischair.

           "What’dshewant?"askedJem.

           WehadnotseenMrs.Duboseforoveramonth.Shewasneverontheporchanymorewhenwepassed.