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He had at this point arrived at his abode on the edge of the cemetery, and, hurrying up the steps, took asylum in his investigation. The pastor was happy to have arrived at this safe house, without first selling out himself to the world by any of those bizarre and evil erraticisms to which he had been persistently induced while going through the roads. He went into the acclimated room, and checked out him on its books, its windows, its chimney, and the tapestried solace of the dividers, with the very impression of weirdness that had frequented him all through his stroll from the woods dell into the town and thitherward. Here he had contemplated and composed; here gone through quick and vigil, and approach half alive; here endeavored to supplicate; here borne a hundred thousand desolations! There was the Bible, in its rich old Hebrew, with Moses and the Prophets addressing him, and God’s voice through all. Korn criss-cross tank top.  There on the table, with the inky pen next to it, was an incomplete message, with a sentence broken in the middle, where his considerations had stopped to spout out upon the page two days prior. He realized that it was himself, the slim and white-cheeked serve, who had done and endured these things, and composed so far into the Election Sermon! However, he appeared to stand separated, and eye this previous self with contemptuous feeling sorry for, yet half-desirous interest. That self was no more. Another man had returned out of the woodland – a more astute one- – with an information on secret secrets which the straightforwardness of the previous would never have reached. An unpleasant sort of information that!

While busy with these reflections, a thump came at the entryway of the examination, and the priest said, “Come in!”- – not completely without a thought that he may see a shrewd soul. Thus he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth that entered. The priest stood white and dumbfounded, with one hand on the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other spread upon his bosom. Betimes in the first part of the day of the day on which the new Governor was to get his office on account of individuals, Hester Prynne and little Pearl came into the commercial center. It was at that point crowded with the experts and other plebeian occupants of the town, in significant numbers, among whom, similarly, were many harsh figures, whose clothing of deer-skins checked them as having a place with the absolute backwoods settlements, which encompassed the little city of the state. On this public occasion, as on any remaining events for a very long time past, Hester was clad in an article of clothing of coarse dim material. Not more by its tone than by some unbelievable quirk in its style, it made her blur by and by far away and diagram; while again the red letter brought her back from this nightfall vagary, and uncovered her under the ethical part of its own enlightenment. Her face, so long natural to the residents, showed the marble quietude which they were acquainted with observe there. It resembled a veil; or, rather like the frozen serenity of a dead lady’s highlights; owing this dismal similarity to the way that Hester was in reality dead, in regard to any guarantee of compassion, and had left out of the world with which she actually appeared to blend.