| 文章发表时间:2010/9/1 |
| <标题>″Never!″ replied Hester ------------------------------------------------------ |
| <内容> "Never!" replied Hester Prynne, looking, not designer bags at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. "It is too deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And brand bags would that I might endure his agony as well as mine!" "Speak, woman!" said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding moncler from the crowd about the scaffold. "Speak; and give your child a father!" "I will not tn nike speak!" answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely recognised. "And my child must seek a heavenly Father; she shall never know an earthly one!" "She will not speak!" murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, leaning nike shox over the balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the result of his appeal. He now drew back, with a long respiration. "Wondrous strength requin nike and generosity of a woman's heart! She will not speak!" Discerning the impracticable state of the poor dehydrated vegetable culprit's mind, the elder clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse on p90x workout schedule sin, in all its branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious letter. So forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour or more during which his periods were rolling over the people's heads, that it assumed new sheepskin boots terrors in their imagination, and seemed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. Hester Prynne, meanwhile, kept her place glyphosate upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference. She had borne that morning all that nature could endure; and as her temperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense suffering by a swoon, her air jordans spirit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the faculties of animal life remained entire. In this state, the voice wholesale handbags of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her ears. The infant, during the latter portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she strove to hush it mechanically, but seemed coach handbags scarcely to sympathise with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour, she was led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped portal. It was whispered by those who peered after her that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gleam along the dark jordan shoes passage-way of the interior. They say you can never go home again. Well, you can. Only you might find yourself staying at a Trave Lodge, driving a rented Ford Contour and staking out your childhood home like some noir private mattress machinery eye just trying to catch a glimpse of the Johnny-come-latelys that are now living in YOUR HOUSE. It's a familiar boots for women story. Kids grow up, parents sell the family home and move to some sunnier climate, some condo somewhere, some smaller abode. We grown up kids box up all the junk from our childhoods—dusty ballet shoes, high school text books, rolled wholesale shoes up posters of Adam Ant—and wonder where home went. I'm not a sentimental person, I told myself. I don't need to see old 3922 26th Street before we sell the place. I even skipped the part where I return home to salvage my mementos from the garage. I let my parents box up the stuff which arrived from San Francisco like the little package you get when released from jail. You know, here's your watch, the outfit you wore in here, some cash. Here's the person you once were. |
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