To Kill a Mockingbird (To Kill a Mockingbird, #1)

by Harper Lee

I willed myself to stay awake, but the rain was so soft and the room was so warm and his voice was so deep and his knee was so snug that I slept. Seconds later, it seemed, his shoe was gently nudging my ribs. He lifted me to my feet and walked me to my room. “Heard every word you said,” I muttered. “. . . wasn’t sleep at all, ’s about a ship an’ Three-Fingered Fred ’n’ Stoner’s Boy. . . .” He unhooked my overalls, leaned me against him, and pulled them off. He held me up with one hand and reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yeah, an’ they all thought it was Stoner’s Boy messin’ up their clubhouse an’ throwin’ ink all over it an’ . . .” He guided me to the bed and sat me down. He lifted my legs and put me under the cover. “An’ they chased him ’n’ never could catch him ’cause they didn’t know what he looked like, an’ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any of those things . . . Atticus, he was real nice. . . .” His hands were under my chin, pulling up the cover, tucking it around me. “Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.”