Червона літера
The Procession
Orperchancehissensitivetemperamentwasinvigoratedbytheloudandpiercingmusicthatswelledheaven-ward,andupliftedhimonitsascendingwave.Nevertheless,soabstractedwashislook,itmightbequestionedwhetherMr.Dimmesdaleeverheardthemusic.Therewashisbody,movingonward,andwithanunaccustomedforce.Butwherewashismind?Faranddeepinitsownregion,busyingitself,withpreternaturalactivity,tomarshalaprocessionofstatelythoughtsthatweresoontoissuethence;andsohesawnothing,heardnothing,knewnothingofwhatwasaroundhim;butthespiritualelementtookupthefeebleframeandcarrieditalong,unconsciousoftheburden,andconvertingittospiritlikeitself.Menofuncommonintellect,whohavegrownmorbid,possessthisoccasionalpowerofmightyeffort,intowhichtheythrowthelifeofmanydaysandthenarelifelessforasmanymore.
HesterPrynne,gazingsteadfastlyattheclergyman,feltadrearyinfluencecomeoverher,butwhereforeorwhencesheknewnot,unlessthatheseemedsoremotefromherownsphere,andutterlybeyondherreach.Oneglanceofrecognitionshehadimaginedmustneedspassbetweenthem.Shethoughtofthedimforest,withitslittledellofsolitude,andlove,andanguish,andthemossytree-trunk,where,sittinghand-in-hand,theyhadmingledtheirsadandpassionatetalkwiththemelancholymurmurofthebrook.
