Listen, Lenora, I think it's pretty accurate to assume that after this morning's paper, Babe's gonna be incurring some mighty negative publicity around this town.  And Meg's appearance isn't gonna help out one bit.  She had a loose reputation in high school.  She was known all over Copiah County as cheap Christmas trash, and that was the least of it.  There was that whole sordid affair with Doc Porter, leaving him a cripple.  His mother was going to keep me out of the Ladies' Social League because of it.  That's right.  I never told you, but I had to go plead with that mean, old woman and convince her that I was just as appalled and upset with what Meg had done as she was, and that I was only a first cousin anyway and I could hardly be blamed for all the skeletons in the Magrath's closet.  It was humiliating.  I tell you, she even brought up your mother's death.  And that poor cat.  I'm telling you if Mrs. Porter hadn't developed that tumor in her bladder, I wouldn't be in the club today, much less a committee head.  Anyway, you be a sweet potato and wait right here for Meg to call, so's you can convince her not to come back home.  It would make things a whole lot easier on everybody.  Now don't you think it really would?

Good morning!  Good morning! Oh, it's a wonderful morning!  I tell you, I am surprised I feel this good.  I should feel like hell.  By all accounts, I should feel like utter hell! (sings a little aloud to herself)  Well, what's wrong with you two?  My God, you look like doom!  Oh, I know, you're mad at me 'cause I stayed out all night long.  Well; I did!  Oh, Lenny, listen to me; now, everything's all right with Doc.  I mean nothing happened.  well, actually a lot did happen, but it didn't come to anything.  Not because of me, I'm afraid.  I mean, I was out there thinking, "What will I say when he begs me to run away with him?  Will I have pity on his wife and those two half-Yankee children?  I mean, can I sacrifice their happiness for mine?  Yes!  Oh, yes!  Yes, I can!"  But...he didn't ask me.  He didn't even want to ask me.  I could tell by this certain look in his eyes that he didn't even want to ask me.  Why aren't I miserable!  Why aren't I morbid!  I should be humiliated!  Devastated! Maybe these feelings are coming--I don't know.  But for now it was...just such fun.  I'm happy.  I realized I could care about someone.  I could want someone.  And I sang!  I sang all night long!  I sang right up into the trees!  But not for Old Granddaddy.  None of it was to please Old Granddaddy!

Well, possibly it would help you to know that I graduated first in my class from Ole Miss Law School.  I also spent three different summers taking advanced courses in criminal law at Harvard Law School.  I made A's in all the given courses.  I was fascinated!  And even now, I've just completed one year working with Jackson's top criminal law firm, Manchester and Wayne.  I was invaluable to them.  Indispensable.  They offered to double my percentage, if I'd stay on; but I refused.  I wanted to return to Hazlehurst and open my own office.  The reason being, and this is a key point, that I have a personal vendetta to settle with one Zackery F. Botrelle.  Just between the two of us, I not only intend to keep that sorry S.O.B. from ever being re-elected to the state senate by exposing his shady, criminal dealings; but I also intend to decimate his personal credibility by exposing him as a bully, a brute, and a red-neck thug!  I know I must sound a little passionate, to say the least, about all this, perhaps a bit outspoken.  But, for some reason, I feel I can talk to you...those songs you sang.  Excuse me, I feel like a jackass. 

Who knows why she feels like she does about me.  That Tuesday night, she, ah, called me to come pick her up from the hospital.  We were driving home.  It was raining.  She was upset, but, ah, but she still looked, you know, good.  And for some reason, I started telling her how the first time I'd seen her, when she was playing her violin at the pancake supper.  I said she looked like some sort of wild, frightened angel, ripping up that violin with her black eyes blazing.  Then, ah, she starts crying.  She told me to pull the car over.  I did.  Well, I don't know.  Nothing had ever happened, that way, between us before, and I felt funny kissing her, holding on to her hair.  You know, with her husband there paralyzed in the hospital and with her all in distress.  Seemed like maybe I was taking advantage of a situation or something; and so I left.  I just took off.  Walked home in the storm.  Stepped in some damn cow patties, leaving her there in the car--alone--wanting somebody; needing something.  God, what a jerk.  No wonder she hates me.