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Week 3

Across
the county solicitor, the circuit clerk, the judge of probate lived in cool dim hutches that smelled
…absence of any corroborative evidence, this man was indicted on a capital charge and is now on trial for his life…
He waited in amiable silence, and I sought to reinforce my position:
To reach the courtroom, on the second floor, one passed sundry sunless county cubbyholes
Mr. Ewell backed up into the witness chair, settled himself, and regarded Atticus with haughty suspicion, an expression common to Maycomb County witnesses when confronted by opposing counsel
Down
the younger children had perpetual colds and suffered from chronic ground-itch;
Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up complacently to see Judge Taylor staring at him as if he were some fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witness stand, to see Mr. Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watching him, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing.
” His voice had lost its aridity, its detachment, and he was talking to the jury as if they were folks on the post office corner.
The streetlights were on, and we glimpsed Calpurnia’s indignant profile as we passed beneath them.
The jury, thinking themselves under close scrutiny, paid attention; so did the witnesses, thinking likewise
Local opinion held Mr. Underwood to be an intense, profane little man, whose father in a fey fit of humor christened Braxton Bragg, a name Mr. Underwood had done his best to live down.
“Given,” said Atticus. “Tom Robinson’s a colored man, Jem. No jury in this part of the world’s going to say, ‘We think you’re guilty, but not very,’ on a charge like that. It was either a straight acquittal or nothing.”
The varmints had a lean time of it, for the Ewells gave the dump a thorough gleaning every day, and the fruits of their industry