Dimmesdale, on a gloomy autumn day that was although, he thought, to be one of the most beauteous occasion, that had been in the longest while — or perhaps it only did seem that way because of the the scarlet roses that he stopped to smell — was on his way to the church. Oftentimes he would stop to smell all the flowers; the marigolds, the daisies, the tulips, the lilacs, seeing if they would speak to his soul and mind as they sometimes would, but something did seem to particularly draw the minister’s…
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