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           Nowfarbeitfrommetosaywho,butsomeof‘eminthistownthoughttheyweredoingtherightthingawhileback,butalltheydidwasstir‘emup.That’salltheydid.Might’velookedliketherightthingtodoatthetime,I’msureIdon’tknow,I’mnotreadinthatfield,butsulky...dissatisfied...ItellyouifmySophy’dkeptitupanotherdayI’dhavelethergo.It’sneverenteredthatwoolofhersthattheonlyreasonIkeepherisbecausethisdepression’sonandsheneedsherdollarandaquartereveryweekshecangetit."

           "Hisfooddoesn’tstickgoingdown,doesit?"

           MissMaudiesaidit.Twotightlineshadappearedatthecornersofhermouth.Shehadbeensittingsilentlybesideme,hercoffeecupbalancedononeknee.Ihadlostthethreadofconversationlongago,whentheyquittalkingaboutTomRobinson’swife,andhadcontentedmyselfwiththinkingofFinch’sLandingandtheriver.AuntAlexandrahadgotitbackwards:thebusinesspartofthemeetingwasblood-curdling,thesocialhourwasdreary.

           "Maudie,I’msureIdon’tknowwhatyoumean,"saidMrs.Merriweather.

           "I’msureyoudo,"MissMaudiesaidshortly.

           Shesaidnomore.WhenMissMaudiewasangryherbrevitywasicy.Somethinghadmadeherdeeplyangry,andhergrayeyeswereascoldashervoice.Mrs.Merriweatherreddened,glancedatme,andlookedaway.IcouldnotseeMrs.Farrow.

           AuntAlexandragotupfromthetableandswiftlypassedmorerefreshments,neatlyengagingMrs.MerriweatherandMrs.Gatesinbriskconversation.