Червона літера

           Then,perhaps—fortherewasnoforeseeinghowitmightaffecther—Pearlwouldfrown,andclenchherlittlefist,andhardenhersmallfeaturesintoastern,unsympathisinglookofdiscontent.Notseldomshewouldlaughanew,andlouderthanbefore,likeathingincapableandunintelligentofhumansorrow.Or—butthismorerarelyhappened—shewouldbeconvulsedwithrageofgriefandsoboutherloveforhermotherinbrokenwords,andseemintentonprovingthatshehadaheartbybreakingit.YetHesterwashardlysafeinconfidingherselftothatgustytenderness:itpassedassuddenlyasitcame.Broodingoverallthesematters,themotherfeltlikeonewhohasevokedaspirit,but,bysomeirregularityintheprocessofconjuration,hasfailedtowinthemaster-wordthatshouldcontrolthisnewandincomprehensibleintelligence.Heronlyrealcomfortwaswhenthechildlayintheplacidityofsleep.Thenshewassureofher,andtastedhoursofquiet,sad,delicioushappiness;until—perhapswiththatperverseexpressionglimmeringfrombeneathheropeninglids—littlePearlawoke!

           Howsoon—withwhatstrangerapidity,indeeddidPearlarriveatanagethatwascapableofsocialintercoursebeyondthemother’sever-readysmileandnonsense-words!AndthenwhatahappinesswouldithavebeencouldHesterPrynnehaveheardherclear,bird-likevoiceminglingwiththeuproarofotherchildishvoices,andhavedistinguishedandunravelledherowndarling’stones,amidalltheentangledoutcryofagroupofsportivechildren.