How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts and rash embrac’d despair,
And shuddering1 fear, and green-ey’d jealousy2.
O love, be moderate; allay3 thy ecstasy4.
MER. OF VENICE.
I had finished it; the last line had been read, and I sat in a maze5 of astonishment6 and awe7. What my thoughts were, what my judgment8 upon this astounding9 act of self-destruction for conscience sake, it will not interest you to know. In a matter so complicated with questions of right and wrong, each man must feel for himself, and out of his own nature adjudge praise, or express censure10; I, Constance Sterling11, shall do neither; I can only wonder and be still.
One point, however, in this lengthy12 confession13 I will allude14 to, as it involves a fact. Mr. Barrows says that he goes to his death, the same death from which he fled when he yielded to the threats of Guy Pollard and gave up the will. He expected, therefore, to find the vat15 dry, and looked forward to hours, if not days, of long-drawn16 suffering in a spot devoid17 of warmth, light, water, and food. His injunction to Ada in that last letter of his — not to make any move to find him for ten days — favors this idea, and proves what his expectations were.
But, by the mercy of God, the vat had been half filled with water in the interim18 which had elapsed between his first and last visit to the mill, and the prison thus becoming a cistern19, he must have come to his end in a few moments after his fatal plunge20. It was the one relief which a contemplation of this tragedy brought to my overwrought mind.
But with the next day came a reaction; and with a heart full of rejoicing, I prepared to communicate to Dwight Pollard the fact of his release from the dominion21 of Rhoda Colwell. For whether this record of the past showed him to be a man worthy22 of full honor or not, it certainly sufficed to exonerate23 him from all suspicion of being the direct cause of David Barrow’s death, and I knew her well enough, or thought I did, to feel certain that no revenge, unless the greatest, would ever satisfy her, and that in losing her hold upon his life and love, she would make no attempt that would merely darken his name before the world. It was therefore with a fearless heart I penned the following lines.
MISS COLWELL:
Your suspicions were unfounded. I have Mr. Barrows’ own words to the effect that he meditated24 death by imprisonment25 in the vat. I go to acquaint Dwight Pollard with the fact that any accusation26 on your part must fail before the minute and circumstantial confession which Mr. Barrows has left behind him.
Signing this letter, I despatched it at once to its destination; then taking the important manuscript in my hand, I set out for the Pollard mansion27.
It was a day full of sunshine and promise. As I sped through the streets and approached that end of the town which hitherto it had taken all my courage to face, I was astonished at the lightness of my own heart and the beneficent aspect which every object about me seemed to have acquired. Even the place I had come to visit looked less dreary28 than usual, and I found myself in the grounds and half way up the stoop, before I realized the least falling of that shadow which seemed inseparable from this particular spot. And even now it only came with the thought of Guy, whose possible presence at the door would be any thing but desirable. But my errand being one of peace I was enabled to contemplate29 even this contingency30 with equanimity31, and was about to ring the bell with a trembling but determined32 hand, when the door suddenly opened and Dwight Pollard stood before me.
The look of surprise and delight which he gave me brought the color to my cheeks.
“Ah, what a pleasure!” he murmured. Then with a quick look in my face, added earnestly, “You bring good news.”
“The best,” I answered cheerily, and following him in, I took my stand once more in that dismal33 parlor34 where weeks ago I had received my first intimation of the feeling which his every look and gesture now conveyed.
“Mr. Pollard,” I now managed to say with a certain dignity, “you see me here because Providence35 has lately put into my hands a document which completely exonerates36 you from the charges which Rhoda Colwell has threatened to make against you. Read it, and when you understand the tragedy we so much deplore37, we will see how much or how little can be done with the lives it has so deeply affected38.” And placing the thickly written sheets in his hands I withdrew to the first window I saw and mechanically threw aside the curtains that hid it.
The sight that met my gaze made me for an instant forget the importance of what I had just done. The window I had chosen was the one which looked into the conservatory39, and the picture which Mr. Barrows describes as having seen from this spot was then and there before my eyes. The tropical growth, the gorgeous blossoms, even the beautiful woman and the sturdy man. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were lovers, then, still. The mother’s death and that of the devoted40 clergyman had not served to reveal the secret which secured the happiness of this bright, attractive, if somewhat worldly, pair. I own I was glad of this, little as I felt myself in sympathy with the radiant but superficial Agnes. Youth, love, and joy are so precious that it lightens the heart to behold41 their sunshine even on the faces of those whose characters we do not envy.
Nevertheless, the thoughts suggested by this unexpected scene did not long serve to distract me from the more serious matter in hand. Dropping the curtains, I cast one look, toward Mr. Pollard. He was sitting with his face bent42 over the manuscript, a deep corrugation marked his brow, and a settled look of pain his mouth. I turned away again; I could not bear that look; all my strength was needed for the effort which it might possibly be my duty to make. I sat down in a remote corner and diligently44 set my soul to patience.
It was well, for my suspense45 was long, so long that hope and courage began to fail and an inward trembling to take the place of the joyous46 emotions with which I had placed this confession in his hands. Nevertheless, it came to an end at last, and, with an agitation47 easy to conceive, I heard him roll the manuscript up, rise, and approach to where I sat. I did not look up, I could not; but I felt his gaze burning through my half-closed lids, and terrified lest I should reveal my weakness and my hopes, I set my lips together, and stilled the beatings of my heart, till I must have struck his sense with the chill and immobility of a totally insensible woman. The despair which the sight caused him, showed itself in his tone when he spoke48.
“You share my own opinion of myself,” said he. “You consider me the destroyer of Mr. Barrows.”
I looked up. What grief, what shame, what love I beheld49 in the face above me. Slowly I shook my head.
“Mr. Barrows does not accuse you,” said I. Then, determined to be truthful50 to the core at all risks and at all hazards, I added earnestly, “But you were to blame; greatly to blame; I shall never hide that fact from you or from myself. I should be unworthy of your esteem51 if I did.”
“Yes,” he earnestly assented52, “and I would be less than a man if I did not agree with you.” Then, in a lower tone and with greater earnestness yet, continued, “It is not pleasant for a man to speak ill of his own flesh and blood; but after having read words as condemnatory53 as these, it may be pardoned me, perhaps, if I speak as much of the truth as is necessary to present myself in a fair light to the woman upon whose good opinion rests all my future happiness. Constance, I love you —”
But at this word I had hurriedly risen.
“Oh!” I somewhat incoherently exclaimed; “not here! not under your own roof!”
But at his look I sank back.
“Yes,” he imperatively54 cried, “here and now. I cannot wait another day, another hour. My love for you is too great, too absorbing, for any paltry55 considerations to interpose themselves upon my attention now. I must tell you what you are to me, and ask you, as you are a just and honest woman, to listen while I lay bare to you my life — the life I long to consecrate56 to your happiness, Constance.”
I looked up.
“Thank you,” he murmured; but whether in return for my look or the smile which his look involuntarily called up, I cannot say, for he went on instantly in continuation of his former train of thought, “Constance, you have read this confession from Mr. Barrows which you have just placed in my hands?”
“Yes,” I nodded gravely.
“You can, then, understand what a dilemma57 we were in some three months ago. My sister had attracted the notice of an English aristocrat58. He loved her and wished to marry her. We admired him — or rather we admired his position (I would be bitterly true at this hour) and wished to see the union effected. But there was a secret in our family, which if known, would make such a marriage impossible. A crime perpetrated before my birth had attached disgrace to our name and race, and Mr. Harrington is a man to fly disgrace quicker than he would death. Miss Sterling, it would be useless for me to try to make myself out better than I am. When I heard that my father, whom I am just beginning to revere59 but of whom in those days I had rather a careless opinion, was determined to acknowledge his convict son through the daughter which had been sent over here, I revolted. Not that I begrudged60 this young girl the money he wished to leave her — though from a somewhat morbid61 idea of reparation which my father possessed62, he desired to give her an amount that would materially affect our fortunes — but that I loved my sister, and above all loved the proud and isolated63 position we had obtained in society, and could not endure the results which the revelation of such a stain in, our family must produce. Not my mother, whose whole life since her marriage had been one haughty64 protest against this secret shame, nor Guy, with all his cynicism and pride, felt stronger on this point than I. To my warped65 judgment any action within the bounds of reason seemed justifiable66 that would prevent my dying father from bringing this disgrace upon his children; and being accustomed to defer67 to my mother’s judgments68 and desires — she was not only a powerful woman, Constance, but possessed of a strange fascination69 for those she loved and sought to govern — I lent myself sufficiently70 to her schemes to stand neutral in the struggle between my father’s wishes and her determination, though that father would often turn upon me with a gaze of entreaty71 that went to my heart. That he had taken advantage of his last journey to Boston to have a new will drawn, and that his only desire now was for an opportunity to get this same safely transferred into the hands of his lawyer, I never suspected any more than did my mother or brother. We thought that as far as the past was concerned we were secure, and that if we could prevent an interview between him and Mr. Nicholls, the future would likewise be safe from a discovery of our secret It was therefore a terrible shock to my mother and afterwards to me when we learned that he had already accomplished72 the act we so much dreaded73 and that the clergyman we had called in at my father’s urgent request, had been entrusted75 with the paper that was to proclaim our shame to the world. But the disappointment, great as it was, had little time to exert its force on me, for with my brother’s recital76 of what had taken place at my father’s death-bed there came a new dread74 which I find it difficult to name but which you will understand when I say that it led me to give Mr. Barrows the warning of which he has spoken. My brother — I cannot speak of him with calmness — is a man to be feared, Miss Sterling. Not that I would not be a match for him in all matters of open enmity; but in ways of secrecy77 and deep dealing78, he is master, and all the more to be dreaded that he makes it impossible for one to understand him or measure the depths of turpitude79 to which he would descend80. When, therefore I heard him say he should have that will back before it could pass into the hands of Mr. Nicholls, I trembled; and as the night passed and morning came without showing any diminution81 in the set determination of his expression, I decided82 upon visiting Mr. Barrows, in the hope of influencing him to return the will of his own accord. But I soon saw that in spite of the weakness I detected in him there was small prospect83 of his doing this; and turning my steps home again, I confronted my mother and my brother and asked them what they meant to do; they told me, that is, they told me partly; and I, with that worse dread in my soul, was fain to be satisfied with the merely base and dishonorable scheme they meditated. To take Mr. Barrows at a disadvantage, to argue with him, threaten him, and perhaps awe him by place and surroundings to surrender to them the object of their desires, did not seem to me so dreadful, when I thought of what they might have done or might yet attempt to do if I stood in their way too much. So, merely stipulating84 that they would allow me to accompany them to the mill, I let matters take their course, and true to my own secret desire to retain their confidence and so save him, and if possible them, from any act that would entail85 consequences of a really serious nature, I gave them my assistance to the extent of receiving Mr. Barrows at the door and conducting him through the mill to the room which my brother had designated to me as the one in which they proposed to hold their conference.
“But the task was uncongenial, and at the first words which Guy chose to employ against Mr. Barrows, I set down my lantern on the floor and escaped to the outer air again. Money, station, fame before the world, seemed to me but light matters at that moment, and if I had followed my first impulse I should have rushed back to the assistance of Mr. Barrows. But considerations terrible and strange prevented me from following this impulse. In the first place I was not myself free from a desire to see the contents of the will and judge for myself to what extent my father had revealed our disgrace to the world; and secondly86, the habit of years is not broken in an instant, and this mother who gave her countenance87 to an act I so heartily88 disapproved89, had for all her reserve and a nature seriously differing from my own, ever been the dominator of my actions and the controlling force of my life. I could not brave her, not yet, not while any hope remained of righting matters, without a demonstration90 that would lead to open hostilities91. So with a weakness I now wonder at, I let the minutes go by till the sound of coming steps warned me that my brother was at hand. What he told me was brief and to the point He had obtained the clergyman’s consent to read the will and was on his way to get it. “But, Mr. Barrows?” I inquired. “Is in the cellar there with mother.” “The cellar!” I repeated. But he was already in the yard, on his way to the town. I was disturbed. The calmness of his tone had not deceived me. I felt that something was wrong; what I could not tell. Taking the lantern he had left behind him, I made my way to the cellar. It seemed empty. But when I had reached the other end I found myself confronted by a ghostly figure in which I was forced to recognize my mother, though the sight of her in the masquerade costume she had adopted; gave me a shock serious as the interests involved. But this surprise, great as it was, was soon lost in that of finding her alone; and when to my hurried inquiry92 as to where Mr. Barrows was, she pointed93 to the vat, you can imagine the tide of emotions that swept over me. But no, that is impossible. They were not what you would have felt, they were not what I would feel now. Mingled94 with my shame and the indignant protest of my manhood against so unworthy an exercise of power, was that still dominating instinct of dread which any interference with my mother’s plans or wishes had always inspired; and so when I learned that the worst was over and that Mr. Barrows would be released on Guy’s return, I subdued95 my natural desire to rescue him and went away, little realizing that in thus allying myself with his persecutors, I had laid the foundations of a remorse96 that would embitter97 my whole after existence. The return of my brother with the will caused me fresh emotions. As soon as I saw him I knew there was a struggle before me; and in handing him back the lantern, I took occasion to ask if he had opened the document. He looked at me a moment before replying and his lip took a sinister98 curl. ‘I have,’ he said. ‘And what does it contain?’ ‘What we wish,’ he answered, with a strange emphasis. I was too much astonished to speak. I could not believe this to be true, and when, Mr. Barrows having been released, we had all returned home, I asked to see the will and judge for myself. But Guy refused to show it. ‘We are going to return it,’ he said, and said no more. Nor would my mother give me any further information. Either I had betrayed myself in the look I gave Guy on his return to the mill, or else some underlying99 regard for my feelings had constrained100 her to spare me actual participance in a fraud. At all events, I did not know the truth till the real will had been destroyed and the substituted one placed in Mr. Nicholls’ hands, and then it was told to me in a way to confound my sense of right and make me think it would be better to let matters proceed to this false issue, than by a public acknowledgment of the facts, bring down upon me and mine the very disgrace from which I had been so desirous of escaping. I was caught in the toils101 you see, and though it would have been a man’s part to have broken through every constraint102 and proclaimed myself once and for all on the side of right, I had nothing whereby to show what the last wishes of my father had been, and could only say what would ruin us without benefiting the direct object of those wishes. I therefore kept their counsel and my own; stilling my conscience when it spoke too loud, by an inward promise to be not only a friend to my older brother’s child, but to part with the bulk of my fortune to her. That she would need my friendship I felt, as the letter I wrote to her shows, but that such evil would come upon her as did, or that my delay to see her would make it impossible for me ever to behold her in this world, I had yet too much filial regard to imagine. I was consequently overwhelmed by the news of her death, and though I never knew the whole truth till now, I was conscious of a distrust so great that from that day to the worser ones which followed, I never looked at those nearest to me without a feeling of deep separation such as is only made by some dark and secret crime. I was alone, or so I felt, and was gradually becoming morbid from a continual brooding on this subject, when the great blow fell which changed whatever vague distress103 I felt into an active remorse and positive fear. Mr. Barrows was found dead, drowned in the very vat into which my brother had forced him a month or so before. What did it mean? It was impossible for me to guess the truth, but I could not but recognize the fact that we were more or less responsible for his death; that the frenzy104 which had doubtless led to this tragedy was the outcome of the strain which had been put upon his nerves, and though personally I had had nothing to do with placing him in the vat, I was certainly responsible for allowing him to remain there a moment after I knew where he was. It was, therefore, with the deepest horror and confusion that I rushed home with this news, only to find that it had outstripped105 me, and that my mother, foreseeing the dangers which this death might bring upon us, had succumbed106 to the shock, and lay, as you know, in a most alarming condition herself. The perilous107 position into which we were thrown by these two fatal occurrences necessitated108 a certain confidence between my brother and myself. To watch our mother, and stifle109 any unguarded expressions into which she might be betrayed, to watch you, and when we saw it was too late to prevent your sharing our secret, to make our hold upon you such that you would feel it to your own advantage to keep it with us, was perhaps only pardonable in persons situated110 as we were. But, Constance, while with Guy the feeling that made this last task easy was one of selfish passion only, mine from the first possessed a depth and fervency111 which made the very thought of wooing you seem a desecration112 and a wrong. For already had your fine qualities produced their effect, and in the light of your high and lofty nature, my own past looked deformed113 and dark. And when the worst came, and Rhoda Colwell’s threats put a seemingly immovable barrier between us, this love which had sprung up in a very nightmare of trouble, only seemed to take deeper and more lasting114 root, and I vowed115 that whether doomed116 to lifelong regret or not, I would live worthy of you, and be in misery117 what I could so easily be in joy, the man you could honor, if not love. That this hour would ever come I dared not dream, but now that it has, can you, will you give me so much as you have, and not give me more? I know I have no right to ask any thing from you; that the secrets of our family are a burden which any woman might well shrink from sharing, but if you do not turn from me, will you turn from them? Love is such a help to the burdened, and I love you so fondly, so reverently118.”
He was on his knees; his forehead was pressed against my arm. The emotion which shook his whole body communicated itself to me. I felt that whatever his past weaknesses had been, he possessed a character capable of the noblest development, and, yielding to the longing119 with which my whole being was animated120, I was about to lay my hand upon his head, when he lifted his face and, gazing earnestly at me, said:
“One moment; there is yet a cloud which ought to be blown away from between us — Rhoda Colwell. I loved her; I sought her love; but once gained, my eyes opened. I saw her imperfections; I felt the evil in her nature. I knew if I married her, I should ruin my life. I left her. I seemed to have no choice, for my love died with my esteem, and she was not a woman to marry without love. Could I have done differently, Constance?”
I answered as my whole heart inclined me to. I could not refuse this love coming into my desolate121 life. It seemed to be mine. Whatever trials, fear, or disquietude it might bring, the joy of it was great enough to make these very trials desirable, if only to prove to him and me that the links which bound us were forged from truest metal, without any base alloy122 to mar43 their purity and undermine their strength.
And so that spot of gloom, which had been the scene of so much that was dark and direful, became the witness of a happiness which seemed to lift it out of the veil of reserve in which it had been shrouded123 for so long, and make of the afternoon sun, which at that moment streamed in through the western windows, a signal of peace, whose brightness as yet has never suffered change or eclipse.
The End
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1
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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2
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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4
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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6
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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7
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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8
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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10
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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exonerates
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| n.免罪，免除( exonerate的名词复数 )v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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44
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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spoke
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| 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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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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52
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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56
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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58
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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101
toils
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| 网 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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103
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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104
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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105
outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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107
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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110
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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111
fervency
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| n.热情的；强烈的；热烈 | |
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112
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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113
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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114
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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115
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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117
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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118
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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119
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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120
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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122
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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