Червона літера
The Market–Place
Standingonthatmiserableeminence,shesawagainhernativevillage,inOldEngland,andherpaternalhome:adecayedhouseofgreystone,withapoverty-strickenaspect,butretainingahalfobliteratedshieldofarmsovertheportal,intokenofantiquegentility.Shesawherfather’sface,withitsboldbrow,andreverendwhitebeardthatflowedovertheold-fashionedElizabethanruff;hermother’s,too,withthelookofheedfulandanxiouslovewhichitalwaysworeinherremembrance,andwhich,evensinceherdeath,hadsooftenlaidtheimpedimentofagentleremonstranceinherdaughter’spathway.Shesawherownface,glowingwithgirlishbeauty,andilluminatingalltheinterioroftheduskymirrorinwhichshehadbeenwonttogazeatit.Thereshebeheldanothercountenance,ofamanwellstrickeninyears,apale,thin,scholar-likevisage,witheyesdimandblearedbythelamp-lightthathadservedthemtoporeovermanyponderousbooks.Yetthosesameblearedopticshadastrange,penetratingpower,whenitwastheirowner’spurposetoreadthehumansoul.Thisfigureofthestudyandthecloister,asHesterPrynne’swomanlyfancyfailednottorecall,wasslightlydeformed,withtheleftshoulderatriflehigherthantheright
