One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted splinter in my foot, permitting no one to come near me. When Uncle Jack caught me, he kept me laughing about a preacher who hated going to church so much that every day he stood at his gate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah and delivering five-minute sermons to any passers-by who desired spiritual comfort. I interrupted to make uncle Jack let me know when he would pull it out, but he held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and said he yanked it while I was laughing, that was what was called relativity.
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"Honey, you can't go around calling people-"
"You ain't fair," I said, "you ain't fair."
Uncle Jack's eyebrows went up. "Not fair? How not?"
"You're real nice, Uncle Jack, an' I reckon I love you even after what you did, but you don't understand children much."
Uncle Jack put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. "And why do I not understand children, Miss Jean Louise? Such conduct as yours required little understanding. It was obstreperous, disorderly and abusive-"
"You gonna give me a chance to tell you? I don't mean to sass you, I'm just tryin' to tell you."
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