Hathorne (examining the doll). There is a pin in the arms.
Ann. I feel sharp pains, like pins, in my face; oh, 'tis dreadful!
Hathorne (examining the doll). There are pins in the face.
Phœbe (sobbing). No, no! Those are the pins I stuck in for Aunt Corey. Don't let them hang me, Aunt Corey.
Parris. That is sufficient. She has confessed.
Hathorne. Yes, methinks the child hath confessed whether she would or no. Goodwife Corey, Phœbe hath now plainly said that she did stick these pins in this image for you. What have you to say?
Martha (courtesying). Your worship, the matter is beyond my poor speech.
[Hathorne tosses the doll on the table, Phœbe watching anxiously.
Hathorne. Go to your place, child.
Phœbe. I want my doll.