“Perhaps this too was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy with which Hester had fought against her sorrows, before Pearl's birth. It was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the child's character. She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.
But there was time enough yet for little Pearl.
«Come, my child!» said Hester, looking about her from the spot where Pearl had stood still in the sunshine. «We will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselves.»”