“It might be because he knows in his heart that very few people in Maycomb really believed his and Mayella’s yarns. He thought he’d be a hero, but all he got for his pain was… was, okay, we’ll convict this Negro but get back to your dump.”

“It finally happened, he thought as he burrowed under his shirt and took hold of his heavy cross. All his life he’d wondered why he’d never fallen in love, and now he knew: He’d been waiting for this moment, this woman, this time. The female is mine, he thought. - Manny”

“He skidded to a dead halt and stared hard at Austin. The boy’s chin carried so many nicks from his first shave that it was a wonder he hadn’t bled to death. He was a year older than Houston had been when he’d last stood on a battlefield. Sweet Lord, Houston had never had the opportunity to shave his whole face; he’d never flirted with girls, wooed women, or danced through the night. He’d never loved. Not until Amelia. And he’d given her up because he’d thought it was best for her. Because he had nothing to offer her but a one-roomed log cabin, a few horses, a dream so small that it wouldn’t cover the palm of her hand. And his heart. His wounded heart.”

“I began to get really keen, for every man at the bottom of his heart believes that he is a born detective.”

“We’ll be back,” he said. I had to admire how well he controlled the abject terror in his heart. “I’ll be waiting,” Grandmother replied.”

“He couldn’t help but wonder what people might say at his funeral, or at his father’s, should it come to pass. He thought that heaven might be no further afield than the hearts of those people who remember us with love. This was what he would strive for. To be remembered well. In the hearts of others is where we should strive to make our afterlives, he thought.”