Червона літера

           Theearliestriser,comingforthinthedimtwilight,wouldperceiveavaguely-definedfigurealoftontheplaceofshame;andhalf-crazedbetwixtalarmandcuriosity,wouldgoknockingfromdoortodoor,summoningallthepeopletobeholdtheghost—asheneedsmustthinkit—ofsomedefuncttransgressor.Aduskytumultwouldflapitswingsfromonehousetoanother.Then—themorninglightstillwaxingstronger—oldpatriarchswouldriseupingreathaste,eachinhisflannelgown,andmatronlydames,withoutpausingtoputofftheirnight-gear.Thewholetribeofdecorouspersonages,whohadneverheretoforebeenseenwithasinglehairoftheirheadsawry,wouldstartintopublicviewwiththedisorderofanightmareintheiraspects.OldGovernorBellinghamwouldcomegrimlyforth,withhisKingJames’rufffastenedaskew,andMistressHibbins,withsometwigsoftheforestclingingtoherskirts,andlookingsourerthanever,ashavinghardlygotawinkofsleepafterhernightride;andgoodFatherWilsontoo,afterspendinghalfthenightatadeath-bed,andlikingilltobedisturbed,thusearly,outofhisdreamsabouttheglorifiedsaints.Hither,likewise,wouldcometheeldersanddeaconsofMr.Dimmesdale’schurch,andtheyoungvirginswhosoidolizedtheirminister,andhadmadeashrineforhimintheirwhitebosoms,whichnow,by-the-bye,intheirhurryandconfusion,theywouldscantlyhavegiventhemselvestimetocoverwiththeirkerchiefs.