Червона літера
Conclusion
Inallthoseyearsithadneveroncebeenopened;buteithersheunlockeditorthedecayingwoodandironyieldedtoherhand,orsheglidedshadow-likethroughtheseimpediments—and,atallevents,wentin.
Onthethresholdshepaused—turnedpartlyround—forperchancetheideaofenteringaloneandallsochanged,thehomeofsointenseaformerlife,wasmoredrearyanddesolatethanevenshecouldbear.Butherhesitationwasonlyforaninstant,thoughlongenoughtodisplayascarletletteronherbreast.
AndHesterPrynnehadreturned,andtakenupherlong-forsakenshame!ButwherewaslittlePearl?Ifstillaliveshemustnowhavebeenintheflushandbloomofearlywomanhood.Noneknew—noreverlearnedwiththefulnessofperfectcertainty—whethertheelf-childhadgonethusuntimelytoamaidengrave;orwhetherherwild,richnaturehadbeensoftenedandsubduedandmadecapableofawoman’sgentlehappiness.ButthroughtheremainderofHester’slifetherewereindicationsthattherecluseofthescarletletterwastheobjectofloveandinterestwithsomeinhabitantofanotherland.Letterscame,witharmorialsealsuponthem,thoughofbearingsunknowntoEnglishheraldry.InthecottagetherewerearticlesofcomfortandluxurysuchasHesternevercaredtouse,butwhichonlywealthcouldhavepurchasedandaffectionhaveimaginedforher.Thereweretriflestoo,littleornaments,beautifultokensofacontinualremembrance,thatmusthavebeenwroughtbydelicatefingersattheimpulseofafondheart.
