2015م - 1444هـ
Go Set a Watchman



SINCE ATLANTA, SHE had

looked out the dining-car

window with a delight almost

physical. Over her breakfast

coffee, she watched the last

of Georgia’s hills recede and

the red earth appear, and with

it tin-roofed houses set in the

middle of swept yards, and in

the yards the inevitable

verbena grew, surrounded by

whitewashed tires. She

grinned when she saw her

first TV antenna atop an

unpainted Negro house; as

they multiplied, her joy rose.

Jean Louise Finch always

made this journey by air, but

she decided to go by train

from New York to Maycomb

Junction on her fifth annual

trip home. For one thing, she

had the life scared out of her

the last time she was on a

plane: the pilot elected to fly

through a tornado. For

another thing, flying home

meant her father rising at

three in the morning, driving

a hundred miles to meet her

in Mobile, and doing a full

day’s work afterwards: he

was seventy-two now and this

was no longer fair.