“And it seemed a fouler offence committed by Roger Chillingworth, than any which had since been done him, that, in the time when her heart knew no better, he had persuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side.
«Yes, I hate him!» repeated Hester, more bitterly than before. «He betrayed me! He has done me worse wrong than I did him!» Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart!
Else it may be their miserable fortune, as it was Roger Chillingworth's, when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality.”