But where could she take refuge, and how could she go? She had never breathed her dread1 of him to any one but Helena. If she went to Helena, and told her what had passed, that very act might bring down the irreparable mischief2 that he threatened he had the power, and that she knew he had the will, to do. The more fearful he appeared to her excited memory and imagination, the more alarming her responsibility appeared; seeing that a slight mistake on her part, either in action or delay, might let his malevolence3 loose on Helena’s brother.
Rosa’s mind throughout the last six months had been stormily confused. A half-formed, wholly unexpressed suspicion tossed in it, now heaving itself up, and now sinking into the deep; now gaining palpability, and now losing it. Jasper’s self-absorption in his nephew when he was alive, and his unceasing pursuit of the inquiry4 how he came by his death, if he were dead, were themes so rife5 in the place, that no one appeared able to suspect the possibility of foul6 play at his hands. She had asked herself the question, ‘Am I so wicked in my thoughts as to conceive a wickedness that others cannot imagine?’ Then she had considered, Did the suspicion come of her previous recoiling7 from him before the fact? And if so, was not that a proof of its baselessness? Then she had reflected, ‘What motive8 could he have, according to my accusation9?’ She was ashamed to answer in her mind, ‘The motive of gaining ME!’ And covered her face, as if the lightest shadow of the idea of founding murder on such an idle vanity were a crime almost as great.
She ran over in her mind again, all that he had said by the sun-dial in the garden. He had persisted in treating the disappearance10 as murder, consistently with his whole public course since the finding of the watch and shirt-pin. If he were afraid of the crime being traced out, would he not rather encourage the idea of a voluntary disappearance? He had even declared that if the ties between him and his nephew had been less strong, he might have swept ‘even him’ away from her side. Was that like his having really done so? He had spoken of laying his six months’ labours in the cause of a just vengeance11 at her feet. Would he have done that, with that violence of passion, if they were a pretence12? Would he have ranged them with his desolate13 heart and soul, his wasted life, his peace and his despair? The very first sacrifice that he represented himself as making for her, was his fidelity14 to his dear boy after death. Surely these facts were strong against a fancy that scarcely dared to hint itself. And yet he was so terrible a man! In short, the poor girl (for what could she know of the criminal intellect, which its own professed15 students perpetually misread, because they persist in trying to reconcile it with the average intellect of average men, instead of identifying it as a horrible wonder apart) could get by no road to any other conclusion than that he was a terrible man, and must be fled from.
She had been Helena’s stay and comfort during the whole time. She had constantly assured her of her full belief in her brother’s innocence16, and of her sympathy with him in his misery17. But she had never seen him since the disappearance, nor had Helena ever spoken one word of his avowal18 to Mr. Crisparkle in regard of Rosa, though as a part of the interest of the case it was well known far and wide. He was Helena’s unfortunate brother, to her, and nothing more. The assurance she had given her odious19 suitor was strictly20 true, though it would have been better (she considered now) if she could have restrained herself from so giving it. Afraid of him as the bright and delicate little creature was, her spirit swelled21 at the thought of his knowing it from her own lips.
But where was she to go? Anywhere beyond his reach, was no reply to the question. Somewhere must be thought of. She determined22 to go to her guardian23, and to go immediately. The feeling she had imparted to Helena on the night of their first confidence, was so strong upon her — the feeling of not being safe from him, and of the solid walls of the old convent being powerless to keep out his ghostly following of her — that no reasoning of her own could calm her terrors. The fascination24 of repulsion had been upon her so long, and now culminated25 so darkly, that she felt as if he had power to bind26 her by a spell. Glancing out at window, even now, as she rose to dress, the sight of the sun-dial on which he had leaned when he declared himself, turned her cold, and made her shrink from it, as though he had invested it with some awful quality from his own nature.
She wrote a hurried note to Miss Twinkleton, saying that she had sudden reason for wishing to see her guardian promptly27, and had gone to him; also, entreating28 the good lady not to be uneasy, for all was well with her. She hurried a few quite useless articles into a very little bag, left the note in a conspicuous29 place, and went out, softly closing the gate after her.
It was the first time she had ever been even in Cloisterham High Street alone. But knowing all its ways and windings30 very well, she hurried straight to the corner from which the omnibus departed. It was, at that very moment, going off.
‘Stop and take me, if you please, Joe. I am obliged to go to London.’
In less than another minute she was on her road to the railway, under Joe’s protection. Joe waited on her when she got there, put her safely into the railway carriage, and handed in the very little bag after her, as though it were some enormous trunk, hundredweights heavy, which she must on no account endeavour to lift.
‘Can you go round when you get back, and tell Miss Twinkleton that you saw me safely off, Joe
‘It shall be done, Miss.’
‘With my love, please, Joe.’
‘Yes, Miss — and I wouldn’t mind having it myself!’ But Joe did not articulate the last clause; only thought it.
Now that she was whirling away for London in real earnest, Rosa was at leisure to resume the thoughts which her personal hurry had checked. The indignant thought that his declaration of love soiled her; that she could only be cleansed31 from the stain of its impurity32 by appealing to the honest and true; supported her for a time against her fears, and confirmed her in her hasty resolution. But as the evening grew darker and darker, and the great city impended33 nearer and nearer, the doubts usual in such cases began to arise. Whether this was not a wild proceeding34, after all; how Mr. Grewgious might regard it; whether she should find him at the journey’s end; how she would act if he were absent; what might become of her, alone, in a place so strange and crowded; how if she had but waited and taken counsel first; whether, if she could now go back, she would not do it thankfully; a multitude of such uneasy speculations36 disturbed her, more and more as they accumulated. At length the train came into London over the housetops; and down below lay the gritty streets with their yet un-needed lamps a-glow, on a hot, light, summer night.
‘Hiram Grewgious, Esquire, Staple37 Inn, London.’ This was all Rosa knew of her destination; but it was enough to send her rattling38 away again in a cab, through deserts of gritty streets, where many people crowded at the corner of courts and byways to get some air, and where many other people walked with a miserably39 monotonous40 noise of shuffling41 of feet on hot paving-stones, and where all the people and all their surroundings were so gritty and so shabby!
There was music playing here and there, but it did not enliven the case. No barrel-organ mended the matter, and no big drum beat dull care away. Like the chapel42 bells that were also going here and there, they only seemed to evoke43 echoes from brick surfaces, and dust from everything. As to the flat wind-instruments, they seemed to have cracked their hearts and souls in pining for the country.
Her jingling44 conveyance45 stopped at last at a fast-closed gateway46, which appeared to belong to somebody who had gone to bed very early, and was much afraid of housebreakers; Rosa, discharging her conveyance, timidly knocked at this gateway, and was let in, very little bag and all, by a watchman.
‘Does Mr. Grewgious live here?’
‘Mr. Grewgious lives there, Miss,’ said the watchman, pointing further in.
So Rosa went further in, and, when the clocks were striking ten, stood on P. J. T.‘s doorsteps, wondering what P. J. T. had done with his street-door.
Guided by the painted name of Mr. Grewgious, she went up-stairs and softly tapped and tapped several times. But no one answering, and Mr. Grewgious’s door-handle yielding to her touch, she went in, and saw her guardian sitting on a window-seat at an open window, with a shaded lamp placed far from him on a table in a corner.
Rosa drew nearer to him in the twilight47 of the room. He saw her, and he said, in an undertone: ‘Good Heaven!’
Rosa fell upon his neck, with tears, and then he said, returning her embrace:
‘My child, my child! I thought you were your mother! — But what, what, what,’ he added, soothingly48, ‘has happened? My dear, what has brought you here? Who has brought you here?’
‘No one. I came alone.’
‘Lord bless me!’ ejaculated Mr. Grewgious. ‘Came alone! Why didn’t you write to me to come and fetch you?’
‘I had no time. I took a sudden resolution. Poor, poor Eddy49!’
‘Ah, poor fellow, poor fellow!’
‘His uncle has made love to me. I cannot bear it,’ said Rosa, at once with a burst of tears, and a stamp of her little foot; ‘I shudder50 with horror of him, and I have come to you to protect me and all of us from him, if you will?’
‘I will,’ cried Mr. Grewgious, with a sudden rush of amazing energy. ‘Damn him!
“Confound his politics!
Frustrate51 his knavish52 tricks!
On Thee his hopes to fix?
Damn him again!”’
After this most extraordinary outburst, Mr. Grewgious, quite beside himself, plunged53 about the room, to all appearance undecided whether he was in a fit of loyal enthusiasm, or combative54 denunciation.
He stopped and said, wiping his face: ‘I beg your pardon, my dear, but you will be glad to know I feel better. Tell me no more just now, or I might do it again. You must be refreshed and cheered. What did you take last? Was it breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, or supper? And what will you take next? Shall it be breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, or supper?’
The respectful tenderness with which, on one knee before her, he helped her to remove her hat, and disentangle her pretty hair from it, was quite a chivalrous55 sight. Yet who, knowing him only on the surface, would have expected chivalry56 — and of the true sort, too; not the spurious — from Mr. Grewgious?
‘Your rest too must be provided for,’ he went on; ‘and you shall have the prettiest chamber57 in Furnival’s. Your toilet must be provided for, and you shall have everything that an unlimited58 head chambermaid — by which expression I mean a head chambermaid not limited as to outlay59 — can procure60. Is that a bag?’ he looked hard at it; sooth to say, it required hard looking at to be seen at all in a dimly lighted room: ‘and is it your property, my dear?’
‘Yes, sir. I brought it with me.’
‘It is not an extensive bag,’ said Mr. Grewgious, candidly61, ‘though admirably calculated to contain a day’s provision for a canary-bird. Perhaps you brought a canary-bird?’
Rosa smiled and shook her head.
‘If you had, he should have been made welcome,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ‘and I think he would have been pleased to be hung upon a nail outside and pit himself against our Staple sparrows; whose execution must be admitted to be not quite equal to their intention. Which is the case with so many of us! You didn’t say what meal, my dear. Have a nice jumble62 of all meals.’
Rosa thanked him, but said she could only take a cup of tea. Mr. Grewgious, after several times running out, and in again, to mention such supplementary63 items as marmalade, eggs, watercresses, salted fish, and frizzled ham, ran across to Furnival’s without his hat, to give his various directions. And soon afterwards they were realised in practice, and the board was spread.
‘Lord bless my soul,’ cried Mr. Grewgious, putting the lamp upon it, and taking his seat opposite Rosa; ‘what a new sensation for a poor old Angular bachelor, to be sure!’
Mr. Grewgious experiences a new sensation
Rosa’s expressive64 little eyebrows65 asked him what he meant?
‘The sensation of having a sweet young presence in the place, that whitewashes66 it, paints it, papers it, decorates it with gilding67, and makes it Glorious!’ said Mr. Grewgious. ‘Ah me! Ah me!’
As there was something mournful in his sigh, Rosa, in touching68 him with her tea-cup, ventured to touch him with her small hand too.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mr. Grewgious. ‘Ahem! Let’s talk!’
‘Do you always live here, sir?’ asked Rosa.
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘And always alone?’
‘Always alone; except that I have daily company in a gentleman by the name of Bazzard, my clerk.’
‘HE doesn’t live here?’
‘No, he goes his way, after office hours. In fact, he is off duty here, altogether, just at present; and a firm down-stairs, with which I have business relations, lend me a substitute. But it would be extremely difficult to replace Mr. Bazzard.’
‘He must be very fond of you,’ said Rosa.
‘He bears up against it with commendable69 fortitude70 if he is,’ returned Mr. Grewgious, after considering the matter. ‘But I doubt if he is. Not particularly so. You see, he is discontented, poor fellow.’
‘Why isn’t he contented71?’ was the natural inquiry.
‘Misplaced,’ said Mr. Grewgious, with great mystery.
Rosa’s eyebrows resumed their inquisitive72 and perplexed73 expression.
‘So misplaced,’ Mr. Grewgious went on, ‘that I feel constantly apologetic towards him. And he feels (though he doesn’t mention it) that I have reason to be.’
Mr. Grewgious had by this time grown so very mysterious, that Rosa did not know how to go on. While she was thinking about it Mr. Grewgious suddenly jerked out of himself for the second time:
‘Let’s talk. We were speaking of Mr. Bazzard. It’s a secret, and moreover it is Mr. Bazzard’s secret; but the sweet presence at my table makes me so unusually expansive, that I feel I must impart it in inviolable confidence. What do you think Mr. Bazzard has done?’
‘O dear!’ cried Rosa, drawing her chair a little nearer, and her mind reverting74 to Jasper, ‘nothing dreadful, I hope?’
‘He has written a play,’ said Mr. Grewgious, in a solemn whisper. ‘A tragedy.’
Rosa seemed much relieved.
‘And nobody,’ pursued Mr. Grewgious in the same tone, ‘will hear, on any account whatever, of bringing it out.’
Rosa looked reflective, and nodded her head slowly; as who should say, ‘Such things are, and why are they!’
‘Now, you know,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ‘I couldn’t write a play.’
‘Not a bad one, sir?’ said Rosa, innocently, with her eyebrows again in action.
‘No. If I was under sentence of decapitation, and was about to be instantly decapitated, and an express arrived with a pardon for the condemned75 convict Grewgious if he wrote a play, I should be under the necessity of resuming the block, and begging the executioner to proceed to extremities76 — meaning,’ said Mr. Grewgious, passing his hand under his chin, ‘the singular number, and this extremity77.’
Rosa appeared to consider what she would do if the awkward supposititious case were hers.
‘Consequently,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ‘Mr. Bazzard would have a sense of my inferiority to himself under any circumstances; but when I am his master, you know, the case is greatly aggravated78.’
Mr. Grewgious shook his head seriously, as if he felt the offence to be a little too much, though of his own committing.
‘How came you to be his master, sir?’ asked Rosa.
‘A question that naturally follows,’ said Mr. Grewgious. ‘Let’s talk. Mr. Bazzard’s father, being a Norfolk farmer, would have furiously laid about him with a flail79, a pitch-fork, and every agricultural implement80 available for assaulting purposes, on the slightest hint of his son’s having written a play. So the son, bringing to me the father’s rent (which I receive), imparted his secret, and pointed81 out that he was determined to pursue his genius, and that it would put him in peril82 of starvation, and that he was not formed for it.’
‘For pursuing his genius, sir?’
‘No, my dear,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ‘for starvation. It was impossible to deny the position, that Mr. Bazzard was not formed to be starved, and Mr. Bazzard then pointed out that it was desirable that I should stand between him and a fate so perfectly83 unsuited to his formation. In that way Mr. Bazzard became my clerk, and he feels it very much.’
‘I am glad he is grateful,’ said Rosa.
‘I didn’t quite mean that, my dear. I mean, that he feels the degradation84. There are some other geniuses that Mr. Bazzard has become acquainted with, who have also written tragedies, which likewise nobody will on any account whatever hear of bringing out, and these choice spirits dedicate their plays to one another in a highly panegyrical85 manner. Mr. Bazzard has been the subject of one of these dedications86. Now, you know, I never had a play dedicated87 to ME!’
Rosa looked at him as if she would have liked him to be the recipient88 of a thousand dedications.
‘Which again, naturally, rubs against the grain of Mr. Bazzard,’ said Mr. Grewgious. ‘He is very short with me sometimes, and then I feel that he is meditating89, “This blockhead is my master! A fellow who couldn’t write a tragedy on pain of death, and who will never have one dedicated to him with the most complimentary90 congratulations on the high position he has taken in the eyes of posterity91!” Very trying, very trying. However, in giving him directions, I reflect beforehand: “Perhaps he may not like this,” or “He might take it ill if I asked that;” and so we get on very well. Indeed, better than I could have expected.’
‘Is the tragedy named, sir?’ asked Rosa.
‘Strictly between ourselves,’ answered Mr. Grewgious, ‘it has a dreadfully appropriate name. It is called The Thorn of Anxiety. But Mr. Bazzard hopes — and I hope — that it will come out at last.’
It was not hard to divine that Mr. Grewgious had related the Bazzard history thus fully35, at least quite as much for the recreation of his ward’s mind from the subject that had driven her there, as for the gratification of his own tendency to be social and communicative.
‘And now, my dear,’ he said at this point, ‘if you are not too tired to tell me more of what passed to-day — but only if you feel quite able — I should be glad to hear it. I may digest it the better, if I sleep on it to-night.’
Rosa, composed now, gave him a faithful account of the interview. Mr. Grewgious often smoothed his head while it was in progress, and begged to be told a second time those parts which bore on Helena and Neville. When Rosa had finished, he sat grave, silent, and meditative92 for a while.
‘Clearly narrated,’ was his only remark at last, ‘and, I hope, clearly put away here,’ smoothing his head again. ‘See, my dear,’ taking her to the open window, ‘where they live! The dark windows over yonder.’
‘I may go to Helena to-morrow?’ asked Rosa.
‘I should like to sleep on that question to-night,’ he answered doubtfully. ‘But let me take you to your own rest, for you must need it.’
With that Mr. Grewgious helped her to get her hat on again, and hung upon his arm the very little bag that was of no earthly use, and led her by the hand (with a certain stately awkwardness, as if he were going to walk a minuet) across Holborn, and into Furnival’s Inn. At the hotel door, he confided93 her to the Unlimited head chambermaid, and said that while she went up to see her room, he would remain below, in case she should wish it exchanged for another, or should find that there was anything she wanted.
Rosa’s room was airy, clean, comfortable, almost gay. The Unlimited had laid in everything omitted from the very little bag (that is to say, everything she could possibly need), and Rosa tripped down the great many stairs again, to thank her guardian for his thoughtful and affectionate care of her.
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mr. Grewgious, infinitely94 gratified; ‘it is I who thank you for your charming confidence and for your charming company. Your breakfast will be provided for you in a neat, compact, and graceful95 little sitting-room96 (appropriate to your figure), and I will come to you at ten o’clock in the morning. I hope you don’t feel very strange indeed, in this strange place.’
‘O no, I feel so safe!’
‘Yes, you may be sure that the stairs are fire-proof,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ‘and that any outbreak of the devouring97 element would be perceived and suppressed by the watchmen.’
‘I did not mean that,’ Rosa replied. ‘I mean, I feel so safe from him.’
‘There is a stout98 gate of iron bars to keep him out,’ said Mr. Grewgious, smiling; ‘and Furnival’s is fire-proof, and specially99 watched and lighted, and I live over the way!’ In the stoutness100 of his knight-errantry, he seemed to think the last-named protection all sufficient. In the same spirit he said to the gate-porter as he went out, ‘If some one staying in the hotel should wish to send across the road to me in the night, a crown will be ready for the messenger.’ In the same spirit, he walked up and down outside the iron gate for the best part of an hour, with some solicitude101; occasionally looking in between the bars, as if he had laid a dove in a high roost in a cage of lions, and had it on his mind that she might tumble out.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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6
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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7
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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8
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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9
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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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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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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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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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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38
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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whitewashes
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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panegyrical
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| adj.颂词的 | |
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86
dedications
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| 奉献( dedication的名词复数 )； 献身精神； 教堂的)献堂礼； （书等作品上的）题词 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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88
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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90
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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91
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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92
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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93
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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94
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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96
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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97
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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99
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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100
stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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101
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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