The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified. Mr. Imlay had already formed another connexion; as it is said, with a young actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions therefore to Mary were formal and constrained4, and she probably had but little of his society. This alteration5 could not escape her penetrating6 glance. He ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary7 embarrassments8 which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little consequence to Mary what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though she strove not to see, that his affections were lost to her for ever.
It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification9 than Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for her. She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this time, expressed “a repugnance10, that almost amounted to horror,” in search of happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether escaped her; but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience11 which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she saw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of forming to herself, of the overflowing12 kindness of a meeting, after an interval13 of so much anguish and apprehension14! A thousand images of this sort were present to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on such occasions, for reserve and reproach to endeavour to curb15 in the emotions of an affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished were speedily blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarrassed. Discussions (“explanations” they were called) followed; cruel explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart already overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions16 indeed to explicitness17; but they sufficiently18 told, that the case admitted not of remedy.
Mary was incapable19 of sustaining her equanimity20 in this pressing emergency. “Love, dear, delusive21 love!” as she expressed herself to a friend some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had forced her to resign; and now her rational prospects23 were blasted, just as she had learned to be contented24 with rational enjoyments”. Thus situated26, life became an intolerable burthen. While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk of purposes of reparation and independence. But, now that they were in the same house, she could not withhold27 herself from endeavours to revive their mutual28 cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours continually added fuel to the fire that destroyed her. She formed a desperate purpose to die.
This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a moment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and that his feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing to his activity and representations, that her life was, at this time, saved. She determined29 to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose, she took a resolution, worthy30 both of the strength and affectionateness of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable difficulty, respecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to require the presence of some very judicious31 agent, to conduct the business to its desired termination. Mary determined to make the voyage, and take the business into her own hands. Such a voyage seemed the most desireable thing to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits, in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her feelings, to be employed in promoting the interest of a man, from whom she had experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently32 desired to be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have mentioned, occurred in the close of May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon this new expedition.
The narrative33 of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of travels that so irresistibly34 seizes on the heart, never, in any other instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and ruggedness35 of character, that diversify36 her Vindication37 of the Rights of Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book. She speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy38, and dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius which commands all our admiration39. Affliction had tempered her heart to a softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit seems precisely40 to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment41.
Thus softened42 and improved, thus fraught43 with imagination and sensibility, with all, and more than all, “that youthful poets fancy, when they love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to the arms of her former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity44, to her apprehension, of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised to meet her upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to pass some time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her during her tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to him very urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon which they were hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as “extraordinary and unnecessary,” and desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself. Feeling herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly determined to sail for London by the very first opportunity, that she might thus bring to a termination the suspence that preyed45 upon her soul.
It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of October, that she attained46 the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured47 her a lodging48. But the neglect she experienced from him after she entered it, flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations. She made further enquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of the real state of the case. Under the immediate49 shock which the painful certainty gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the ready-furnished house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the particular nature of their conference I am unable to relate. It is sufficient to say that the wretchedness of the night which succeeded this fatal discovery, impressed her with the feeling, that she would sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal misery50.
The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a sort of desperate serenity51. She resolved to plunge52 herself in the Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to Battersea-bridge, but she found it too public. It was night when she arrived at Putney, and by that time had begun to rain with great violence. The rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and down the bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly53 drenched54 and heavy with the wet, which she did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She then leaped from the top of the bridge, but still seemed to find a difficulty in sinking, which she endeavoured to counteract55 by pressing her clothes closely round her. After some time she became insensible; but she always spoke56 of the pain she underwent as such, that, though she could afterwards have determined upon almost any other species of voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to resolve upon encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether this is to be ascribed to the mere57 nature of suffocation58, or was not rather owing to the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.
After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered by the exertions59 of those by whom the body was found. She had sought, with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and yet she lived to have every prospect22 of a long possession of enjoyment25 and happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that we find reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose, that they would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably60 happy. It arises indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the constitution of the human mind will not suffer to remain long undiminished. This is a serious reflection, Probably no man would destroy himself from an impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral certainty that there were years of enjoyment still in reserve for him. It is perhaps a futile61 attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the awakening62 of certain feelings: and the feeling by which he is actuated, is too strong to leave us much chance of impressing him with other feelings, that should have force enough to counterbalance it. But, if the prospect of future tranquillity63 and pleasure cannot be expected to have much weight with a man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is so much the more to be wished, that men would impress their minds, in their sober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered habitual64, seems to promise to act as a successful antidote65 in a paroxysm of desperation.
The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further intercourse66 between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present was merely a casual, sensual connection; and, of course, fostered in her mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him. With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly calculated to increase the agitation67 of her mind. In one respect however it produced an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been looked for. It roused within her the characteristic energy of mind, which she seemed partially68 to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of bringing the affair to a point, and not suffering months and years to roll on in uncertainty69 and suspence. This idea inspired her with an extraordinary resolution. The language she employed, was, in effect, as follows: “If we are ever to live together again, it must be now. We meet now, or we part for ever. You say, You cannot abruptly70 break off the connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character, to wait the uncertain issue of that connexion. I am determined to come to a decision. I consent then, for the present, to live with you, and the woman to whom you have associated yourself. I think it important that you should learn habitually71 to feel for your child the affection of a father. But, if you reject this proposal, here we end. You are now free. We will correspond no more. We will have no intercourse of any kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead.”
The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house he was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted72 his concession73.
In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary had, previously74 to this, fixed75 herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place, where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen this situation; “existing,” as she expressed it, “in a living tomb, and her life but an exercise of fortitude76, continually on the stretch.”
Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she could not restrain herself from making another effort, and desiring to see him once more. “During his absence, affection had led her to make numberless excuses for his conduct,” and she probably wished to believe that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely77 of a casual nature. To this application, she observes, that “he returned no other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he would not see her.”
This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not the ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the only one at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was, that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s voice in the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make her appearance. Mary however was not to be controlled. She thought, as she afterwards told me, that it was not consistent with conscious rectitude, that she should shrink, as if abashed78, from the presence of one by whom she deemed herself injured. Her child was with her. She entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired79 with Mary into another apartment, and promised to dine with her at her lodging, I believe, the next day.
In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated to sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from her, in a way which she censured80 as unfeeling; this species of sternness constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at this moment to catch at every phantom81 of happiness; and the gentleness of his carriage, was to her as a sun-beam, awakening the hope of returning day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions; and, even after the period of delirium82 expired, she still dwelt, with an aching eye, upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a reconciliation83.
At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a short time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the world that she did so — not in the least — but she was unwilling84 to cut the Gordian knot, or tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality”.
The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country, where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I believe, while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely85 to expel from her mind, all remaining doubt as to the issue of the affair.
Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty to her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted predilection86, was discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a spring of inexhaustible bitterness. Her present residence among the scenes of nature, was favourable to this purpose. She was at the house of an old and intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton, whose partiality for her was strong and sincere. Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir William East, baronet; and, from the joint87 effect of the kindness of her friend, and the hospitable88 and distinguishing attentions of this respectable family, she derived89 considerable benefit. She had been amused and interested in her journey to Norway; but with this difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with trembling anxiety to conjectures90 respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct, whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw aside every thought that recurred91 to him, while she felt herself called upon to make one more effort for life and happiness.
Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he alighted from his horse, and walked with her for some time; and the rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any oppressive emotion.
Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and was displeased92 when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of him. She was characterised by a strong sense of indignation; but her emotions of this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided93 into a dignified94 sereneness and equanimity.
The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed, that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind, suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness and debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the mental torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of October, prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she wrote her Letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration95 she prepared them for the press, and they were published in the close of that year. In January 1796, she finished the sketch96 of a comedy, which turns, in the serious scenes, upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered to both the winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the period of her decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and imperfect a state, that I judged it most respectful to her memory to commit it to the flames. To understand this extraordinary degree of activity, we must recollect97 however the entire solitude98, in which most of her hours were at that time consumed.
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1 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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2 uncertainties | |
无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 ); 不确定; 变化不定; 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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3 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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4 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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5 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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6 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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7 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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8 embarrassments | |
n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 );难堪;局促不安;令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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9 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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10 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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11 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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12 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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13 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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14 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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15 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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16 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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17 explicitness | |
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18 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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19 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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20 equanimity | |
n.沉着,镇定 | |
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21 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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22 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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23 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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24 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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25 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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26 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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27 withhold | |
v.拒绝,不给;使停止,阻挡 | |
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28 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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29 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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30 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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31 judicious | |
adj.明智的,明断的,能作出明智决定的 | |
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32 ardently | |
adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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33 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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34 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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35 ruggedness | |
险峻,粗野; 耐久性; 坚固性 | |
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36 diversify | |
v.(使)不同,(使)变得多样化 | |
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37 vindication | |
n.洗冤,证实 | |
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38 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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39 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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40 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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41 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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42 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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43 fraught | |
adj.充满…的,伴有(危险等)的;忧虑的 | |
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44 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
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45 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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46 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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47 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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48 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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49 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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50 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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51 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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52 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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53 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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54 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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55 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
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56 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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57 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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58 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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59 exertions | |
n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
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60 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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61 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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62 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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63 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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64 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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65 antidote | |
n.解毒药,解毒剂 | |
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66 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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67 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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68 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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69 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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70 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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71 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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72 retracted | |
v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 );拒绝执行或遵守;缩回;拉回 | |
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73 concession | |
n.让步,妥协;特许(权) | |
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74 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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75 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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76 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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77 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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78 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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80 censured | |
v.指责,非难,谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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81 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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82 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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83 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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84 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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85 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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86 predilection | |
n.偏好 | |
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87 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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88 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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89 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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90 conjectures | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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91 recurred | |
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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92 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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93 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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94 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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95 expiration | |
n.终结,期满,呼气,呼出物 | |
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96 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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97 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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98 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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