The House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne
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The classic book The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Hawthorne wrote The House of the Seven Gables in the year after writing The Scarlet Letter and Hawthorne would later comment that he believed The House of the Seven Gables to be better than The Scarlet Letter.
Sit back, relax and enjoy The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
gentleman?” he asked. “I want old Hepzibah, or Phoebe, or any of them!” answered Ned, sobbing. “They won’t open the door; and I can’t get my elephant!” “Go to school, you little scamp!” said the man. “There’s another cent-shop round the corner. ‘T is very strange, Dixey,” added he to his companion, “what’s become of all these Pyncheon’s! Smith, the livery-stable keeper, tells me Judge Pyncheon put his horse up yesterday, to stand till after dinner, and has not taken him away yet. And one of
sympathize as little. That is less matter. But I have not scope enough to make you happy.” “You are my only possibility of happiness!” answered Holgrave. “I have no faith in it, except as you bestow it on me!” “And then—I am afraid!” continued Phoebe, shrinking towards Holgrave, even while she told him so frankly the doubts with which he affected her. “You will lead me out of my own quiet path. You will make me strive to follow you where it is pathless. I cannot do so. It is not my nature. I
horse, while his owner drove a trade in turnips, carrots, summer-squashes, string-beans, green peas, and new potatoes, with half the housewives of the neighborhood. The baker’s cart, with the harsh music of its bells, had a pleasant effect on Clifford, because, as few things else did, it jingled the very dissonance of yore. One afternoon a scissor-grinder chanced to set his wheel a-going under the Pyncheon Elm, and just in front of the arched window. Children came running with their mothers’
strove hard to keep it down,—ascended bigger and higher, in a tide of fitful progress, until even her brow was all suffused with it. “It is enough, Phoebe,” said Clifford, with a melancholy smile. “When I first saw you, you were the prettiest little maiden in the world; and now you have deepened into beauty. Girlhood has passed into womanhood; the bud is a bloom! Go, now—I feel lonelier than I did.” Phoebe took leave of the desolate couple, and passed through the shop, twinkling her eyelids
street philosopher. “It is unaccountable how little while it takes some folks to grow just as natural to a man as his own breath; and, begging your pardon, Miss Phoebe (though there can be no offence in an old man’s saying it), that’s just what you’ve grown to me! My years have been a great many, and your life is but just beginning; and yet, you are somehow as familiar to me as if I had found you at my mother’s door, and you had blossomed, like a running vine, all along my pathway since. Come