As we were choosing flowers from the florist for Grandpa's funeral, I slipped away to Grandpa's garden and walked with my memories of columbine and Sweet William.
For some unaccountable reason, as Arthur Dimmesdale felt the child's eyes upon himself, his hand - with that gesture so habitual as to have become involuntary - stole over his heart.
As a priest and policeman talked to her through loudhailers from the street, John and his colleague quietly made their way up the stairs of the six-story building to the roof.
It was a voice never raised in command to a servant or reproof to a child but a voice that was obeyed instantly at Tara, where her husband's blustering and roaring were quietly disregarded.