Martha Prynne is a stout woman in her late fifties, built low and broad like a fortified cupboard, with the steady balance of someone accustomed to slick floors and heavy washbaskets. Silver threads run through her dark hair, which she keeps in a loose practical bun that is always coming undone by midday. Her face is lined by fatigue rather than fragility, with deep creases beside her mouth from years of muttering at bad manners and worse laundry. Her hands are permanently reddened, cracked, and pruned from hot soapy water, yet they move with startling precision when sorting a bloodstained cuff or palming a message. She walks with a rolling, deliberate tread, never hurried, though somehow always arriving before trouble does. The first impression she leaves is of steam, starch, and ordinary exhaustion. The second is that she has already counted every exit in the room. The contradictory detail is her smile, which is unexpectedly warm and almost grandmotherly when she lies to protect someone.