Mercy sighed wearily. “I am not well,” she answered. “The slightest noises startle me. I feel tired if I only walk across the room.”
Lady Janet patted her kindly1 on the shoulder. “We must try what a change will do for you. Which shall it be? the Continent or the sea-side?”
“Your ladyship is too kind to me.”
“It is impossible to be too kind to you.”
Mercy started. The color flowed charmingly over her pale face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, impulsively2. “Say that again!”
“Say it again?” repeated Lady Janet, with a look of surprise.
“Yes! Don’t think me presuming; only think me vain. I can’t hear you say too often that you have learned to like me. Is it really a pleasure to you to have me in the house? Have I always behaved well since I have been with you?”
(The one excuse for the act of personation — if excuse there could be — lay in the affirmative answer to those questions. It would be something, surely, to say of the false Grace that the true Grace could not have been worthier3 of her welcome, if the true Grace had been received at Mablethorpe House!)
Lady Janet was partly touched, partly amused, by the extraordinary earnestness of the appeal that had been made to her.
“Have you behaved well?” she repeated. “My dear, you talk as if you were a child!” She laid her hand caressingly5 on Mercy’s arm, and continued, in a graver tone: “It is hardly too much to say, Grace, that I bless the day when you first came to me. I do believe I could be hardly fonder of you if you were my own daughter.”
Mercy suddenly turned her head aside, so as to hide her face. Lady Janet, still touching6 her arm, felt it tremble. “What is the matter with you?” she asked, in her abrupt7, downright manner.
“I am only very grateful to your ladyship — that is all.” The words were spoken faintly, in broken tones. The face was still averted9 from Lady Janet’s view. “What have I said to provoke this?” wondered the old lady. “Is she in the melting mood to-day? If she is, now is the time to say a word for Horace!” Keeping that excellent object in view, Lady Janet approached the delicate topic with all needful caution at starting.
“We have got on so well together,” she resumed, “that it will not be easy for either of us to feel reconciled to a change in our lives. At my age, it will fall hardest on me. What shall I do, Grace, when the day comes for parting with my adopted daughter?”
Mercy started, and showed her face again. The traces of tears were in her eyes. “Why should I leave you?” she asked, in a tone of alarm.
“Surely you know!” exclaimed Lady Janet.
“Indeed I don’t. Tell me why.”
“Ask Horace to tell you.”
The last allusion10 was too plain to be misunderstood. Mercy’s head drooped11. She began to tremble again. Lady Janet looked at her in blank amazement12.
“Is there anything wrong between Horace and you?” she asked.
“No.”
“You know your own heart, my dear child? You have surely not encouraged Horace without loving him?”
“Oh no!”
“And yet —”
For the first time in their experience of each other Mercy ventured to interrupt her benefactress. “Dear Lady Janet,” she interposed, gently, “I am in no hurry to be married. There will be plenty of time in the future to talk of that. You had something you wished to say to me. What is it?”
It was no easy matter to disconcert Lady Janet Roy. But that last question fairly reduced her to silence. After all that had passed, there sat her young companion, innocent of the faintest suspicion of the subject that was to be discussed between them! “What are the young women of the present time made of?” thought the old lady, utterly13 at a loss to know what to say next. Mercy waited, on her side, with an impenetrable patience which only aggravated14 the difficulties of the position. The silence was fast threatening to bring the interview to a sudden and untimely end, when the door from the library opened, and a man-servant, bearing a little silver salver, entered the room.
Lady Janet’s rising sense of annoyance15 instantly seized on the servant as a victim. “What do you want?” she asked, sharply. “I never rang for you.”
“A letter, my lady. The messenger waits for an answer.”
The man presented his salver with the letter on it, and withdrew.
Lady Janet recognized the handwriting on the address with a look of surprise. “Excuse me, my dear,” she said, pausing, with her old-fashioned courtesy, before she opened the envelope. Mercy made the necessary acknowledgment, and moved away to the other end of the room, little thinking that the arrival of the letter marked a crisis in her life. Lady Janet put on her spectacles. “Odd that he should have come back already!” she said to herself, as she threw the empty envelope on the table.
The letter contained these lines, the writer of them being no other than the man who had preached in the chapel16 of the Refuge:
“DEAR AUNT— I am back again in London before my time. My friend the rector has shortened his holiday, and has resumed his duties in the country. I am afraid you will blame me when you hear of the reasons which have hastened his return. The sooner I make my confession17, the easier I shall feel. Besides, I have a special object in wishing to see you as soon as possible. May I follow my letter to Mablethorpe House? And may I present a lady to you — a perfect stranger — in whom I am interested? Pray say Yes, by the bearer, and oblige your affectionate nephew,
“JULIAN GRAY.”
Lady Janet referred again suspiciously to the sentence in the letter which alluded18 to the “lady.”
Julian Gray was her only surviving nephew, the son of a favorite sister whom she had lost. He would have held no very exalted19 position in the estimation of his aunt — who regarded his views in politics and religion with the strongest aversion — but for his marked resemblance to his mother. This pleaded for him with the old lady, aided as it was by the pride that she secretly felt in the early celebrity20 which the young clergyman had achieved as a writer and a preacher. Thanks to these mitigating21 circumstances, and to Julian’s inexhaustible good-humor, the aunt and the nephew generally met on friendly terms. Apart from what she called “his detestable opinions,” Lady Janet was sufficiently23 interested in Julian to feel some curiosity about the mysterious “lady” mentioned in the letter. Had he determined24 to settle in life? Was his choice already made? And if so, would it prove to be a choice acceptable to the family? Lady Janet’s bright face showed signs of doubt as she asked herself that last question. Julian’s liberal views were capable of leading him to dangerous extremes. His aunt shook her head ominously25 as she rose from the sofa and advanced to the library door.
“Grace,” she said, pausing and turning round, “I have a note to write to my nephew. I shall be back directly.”
Mercy approached her, from the opposite extremity26 of the room, with an exclamation27 of surprise.
“Your nephew?” she repeated. “Your ladyship never told me you had a nephew.”
Lady Janet laughed. “I must have had it on the tip of my tongue to tell you, over and over again,” she said. “But we have had so many things to talk about — and, to own the truth, my nephew is not one of my favorite subjects of conversation. I don’t mean that I dislike him; I detest22 his principles, my dear, that’s all. However, you shall form your own opinion of him; he is coming to see me to-day. Wait here till I return; I have something more to say about Horace.”
Mercy opened the library door for her, closed it again, and walked slowly to and fro alone in the room, thinking.
Was her mind running on Lady Janet’s nephew? No. Lady Janet’s brief allusion to her relative had not led her into alluding28 to him by his name. Mercy was still as ignorant as ever that the preacher at the Refuge and the nephew of her benefactress were one and the same man. Her memory was busy now with the tribute which Lady Janet had paid to her at the outset of the interview between them: “It is hardly too much to say, Grace, that I bless the day when you first came to me.” For the moment there was balm for her wounded spirit in the remembrance of those words. Grace Roseberry herself could surely have earned no sweeter praise than the praise that she had won. The next instant she was seized with a sudden horror of her own successful fraud. The sense of her degradation29 had never been so bitterly present to her as at that moment. If she could only confess the truth — if she could innocently enjoy her harmless life at Mablethorpe House — what a grateful, happy woman she might be! Was it possible (if she made the confession) to trust to her own good conduct to plead her excuse? No! Her calmer sense warned her that it was hopeless. The place she had won — honestly won — in Lady Janet’s estimation had been obtained by a trick. Nothing could alter, nothing could excuse, that. She took out her handkerchief and dashed away the useless tears that had gathered in her eyes, and tried to turn her thoughts some other way. What was it Lady Janet had said on going into the library? She had said she was coming back to speak about Horace. Mercy guessed what the object was; she knew but too well what Horace wanted of her. How was she to meet the emergency? In the name of Heaven, what was to be done? Could she let the man who loved her — the man whom she loved — drift blindfold30 into marriage with such a woman as she had been? No! it was her duty to warn him. How? Could she break his heart, could she lay his life waste by speaking the cruel words which might part them forever? “I can’t tell him! I won’t tell him!” she burst out, passionately31. “The disgrace of it would kill me!” Her varying mood changed as the words escaped her. A reckless defiance32 of her own better nature — that saddest of all the forms in which a woman’s misery33 can express itself — filled her heart with its poisoning bitterness. She sat down again on the sofa with eyes that glittered and cheeks suffused34 with an angry red. “I am no worse than another woman!” she thought. “Another woman might have married him for his money.” The next moment the miserable35 insufficiency of her own excuse for deceiving him showed its hollowness, self-exposed. She covered her face with her hands, and found refuge — where she had often found refuge before — in the helpless resignation of despair. “Oh, that I had died before I entered this house! Oh, that I could die and have done with it at this moment!” So the struggle had ended with her hundreds of times already. So it ended now.
The door leading into the billiard-room opened softly. Horace Holmcroft had waited to hear the result of Lady Janet’s interference in his favor until he could wait no longer.
He looked in cautiously, ready to withdraw again unnoticed if the two were still talking together. The absence of Lady Janet suggested that the interview had come to an end. Was his betrothed36 wife waiting alone to speak to him on his return to the room? He advanced a few steps. She never moved; she sat heedless, absorbed in her thoughts. Were they thoughts of him? He advanced a little nearer, and called to her.
“Grace!”
She sprang to her feet, with a faint cry. “I wish you wouldn’t startle me,” she said, irritably37, sinking back on the sofa. “Any sudden alarm sets my heart beating as if it would choke me.”
Horace pleaded for pardon with a lover’s humility38. In her present state of nervous irritation39 she was not to be appeased40. She looked away from him in silence. Entirely41 ignorant of the paroxysm of mental suffering through which she had just passed, he seated himself by her side, and asked her gently if she had seen Lady Janet. She made an affirmative answer with an unreasonable42 impatience43 of tone and manner which would have warned an older and more experienced man to give her time before he spoke8 again. Horace was young, and weary of the suspense44 that he had endured in the other room. He unwisely pressed her with another question.
“Has Lady Janet said anything to you —”
She turned on him angrily before he could finish the sentence. “You have tried to make her hurry me into marrying you,” she burst out. “I see it in your face!”
Plain as the warning was this time, Horace still failed to interpret it in the right way. “Don’t be angry!” he said, good-humoredly. “Is it so very inexcusable to ask Lady Janet to intercede45 for me? I have tried to persuade you in vain. My mother and my sisters have pleaded for me, and you turn a deaf ear —”
She could endure it no longer. She stamped her foot on the door with hysterical46 vehemence47. “I am weary of hearing of your mother and your sisters!” she broke in violently. “You talk of nothing else.”
It was just possible to make one more mistake in dealing48 with her — and Horace made it. He took offense49, on his side, and rose from the sofa. His mother and sisters were high authorities in his estimation; they variously represented his ideal of perfection in women. He withdrew to the opposite extremity of the room, and administered the severest reproof50 that he could think of on the spur of the moment.
“It would be well, Grace, if you followed the example set you by my mother and my sisters,” he said. “They are not in the habit of speaking cruelly to those who love them.”
To all appearance the rebuke51 failed to produce the slightest effect. She seemed to be as indifferent to it as if it had not reached her ears. There was a spirit in her — a miserable spirit, born of her own bitter experience — which rose in revolt against Horace’s habitual52 glorification53 of the ladies of his family. “It sickens me,” she thought to herself, “to hear of the virtues54 of women who have never been tempted55! Where is the merit of living reputably, when your life is one course of prosperity and enjoyment56? Has his mother known starvation? Have his sisters been left forsaken57 in the street?” It hardened her heart — it almost reconciled her to deceiving him — when he set his relatives up as patterns for her. Would he never understand that women detested58 having other women exhibited as examples to them? She looked round at him with a sense of impatient wonder. He was sitting at the luncheon-table, with his back turned on her, and his head resting on his hand. If he had attempted to rejoin her, she would have repelled59 him; if he had spoken, she would have met him with a sharp reply. He sat apart from her, without uttering a word. In a man’s hands silence is the most terrible of all protests to the woman who loves him. Violence she can endure. Words she is always ready to meet by words on her side. Silence conquers her. After a moment’s hesitation60, Mercy left the sofa and advanced submissively toward the table. She had offended him — and she alone was in fault. How should he know it, poor fellow, when he innocently mortified61 her? Step by step she drew closer and closer. He never looked round; he never moved. She laid her hand timidly on his shoulder. “Forgive me, Horace,” she whispered in his ear. “I am suffering this morning; I am not myself. I didn’t mean what I said. Pray forgive me.” There was no resisting the caressing4 tenderness of voice and manner which accompanied those words. He looked up; he took her hand. She bent62 over him, and touched his forehead with her lips. “Am I forgiven?” she asked.
“Oh, my darling,” he said, “if you only knew how I loved you!”
“I do know it,” she answered, gently, twining his hair round her finger, and arranging it over his forehead where his hand had ruffled63 it.
They were completely absorbed in each other, or they must, at that moment, have heard the library door open at the other end of the room.
Lady Janet had written the necessary reply to her nephew, and had returned, faithful to her engagement, to plead the cause of Horace. The first object that met her view was her client pleading, with conspicuous64 success, for himself! “I am not wanted, evidently,” thought the old lady. She noiselessly closed the door again and left the lovers by themselves.
Horace returned, with unwise persistency65, to the question of the deferred66 marriage. At the first words that he spoke she drew back directly — sadly, not angrily.
“Don’t press me to-day,” she said; “I am not well to-day.”
He rose and looked at her anxiously. “May I speak about it to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.” She returned to the sofa, and changed the subject. “What a time Lady Janet is away!” she said. “What can be keeping her so long?”
Horace did his best to appear interested in the question of Lady Janet’s prolonged absence. “What made her leave you?” he asked, standing67 at the back of the sofa and leaning over her.
“She went into the library to write a note to her nephew. By-the-by, who is her nephew?”
“Is it possible you don’t know?”
“Indeed, I don’t.”
“You have heard of him, no doubt,” said Horace. “Lady Janet’s nephew is a celebrated68 man.” He paused, and stooping nearer to her, lifted a love-lock that lay over her shoulder and pressed it to his lips. “Lady Janet’s nephew,” he resumed, “is Julian Gray.”
She started off her seat, and looked round at him in blank, bewildered terror, as if she doubted the evidence of her own senses.
Horace was completely taken by surprise. “My dear Grace!” he exclaimed; “what have I said or done to startle you this time?”
She held up her hand for silence. “Lady Janet’s nephew is Julian Gray,” she repeated; “and I only know it now!”
Horace’s perplexity increased. “My darling, now you do know it, what is there to alarm you?” he asked.
(There was enough to alarm the boldest woman living — in such a position, and with such a temperament69 as hers. To her mind the personation of Grace Roseberry had suddenly assumed a new aspect: the aspect of a fatality70. It had led her blindfold to the house in which she and the preacher at the Refuge were to meet. He was coming — the man who had reached her inmost heart, who had influenced her whole life! Was the day of reckoning coming with him?)
“Don’t notice me,” she said, faintly. “I have been ill all the morning. You saw it yourself when you came in here; even the sound of your voice alarmed me. I shall be better directly. I am afraid I startled you?”
“My dear Grace, it almost looked as if you were terrified at the sound of Julian’s name! He is a public celebrity, I know; and I have seen ladies start and stare at him when he entered a room. But you looked perfectly71 panic-stricken.”
She rallied her courage by a desperate effort; she laughed — a harsh, uneasy laugh — and stopped him by putting her hand over his mouth. “Absurd!” she said, lightly. “As if Mr. Julian Gray had anything to do with my looks! I am better already. See for yourself!” She looked round at him again with a ghastly gayety; and returned, with a desperate assumption of indifference72, to the subject of Lady Janet’s nephew. “Of course I have heard of him,” she said. “Do you know that he is expected here to-day? Don’t stand there behind me — it’s so hard to talk to you. Come and sit down.”
He obeyed — but she had not quite satisfied him yet. His face had not lost its expression of anxiety and surprise. She persisted in playing her part, determined to set at rest in him any possible suspicion that she had reasons of her own for being afraid of Julian Gray. “Tell me about this famous man of yours,” she said, putting her arm familiarly through his arm. “What is he like?”
The caressing action and the easy tone had their effect on Horace. His face began to clear; he answered her lightly on his side.
“Prepare yourself to meet the most unclerical of clergymen,” he said. “Julian is a lost sheep among the parsons, and a thorn in the side of his bishop73. Preaches, if they ask him, in Dissenters’ chapels74. Declines to set up any pretensions75 to priestly authority and priestly power. Goes about doing good on a plan of his own. Is quite resigned never to rise to the high places in his profession. Says it’s rising high enough for him to be the Archdeacon of the afflicted76, the Dean of the hungry, and the Bishop of the poor. With all his oddities, as good a fellow as ever lived. Immensely popular with the women. They all go to him for advice. I wish you would go, too.”
Mercy changed color. “What do you mean?” she asked, sharply.
“Julian is famous for his powers of persuasion,” said Horace, smiling. “If he spoke to you, Grace, he would prevail on you to fix the day. Suppose I ask Julian to plead for me?”
He made the proposal in jest. Mercy’s unquiet mind accepted it as addressed to her in earnest. “He will do it,” she thought, with a sense of indescribable terror, “if I don’t stop him!” There is but one chance for her. The only certain way to prevent Horace from appealing to his friend was to grant what Horace wished for before his friend entered the house. She laid her hand on his shoulder; she hid the terrible anxieties that were devouring77 her under an assumption of coquetry painful and pitiable to see.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said, gayly. “What were we saying just now — before we began to speak of Mr. Julian Gray?”
“We were wondering what had become of Lady Janet,” Horace replied.
She tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. “No! no! It was something you said before that.”
Her eyes completed what her words had left unsaid. Horace’s arm stole round her waist.
“I was saying that I loved you,” he answered, in a whisper.
“Only that?”
“Are you tired of hearing it?”
She smiled charmingly. “Are you so very much in earnest about — about —” She stopped, and looked away from him.
“About our marriage?”
“Yes.”
“It is the one dearest wish of my life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There was a pause. Mercy’s fingers toyed nervously78 with the trinkets at her watch-chain. “When would you like it to be?” she said, very softly, with her whole attention fixed79 on the watch-chain.
She had never spoken, she had never looked, as she spoke and looked now. Horace was afraid to believe in his own good fortune. “Oh, Grace!” he exclaimed, “you are not trifling80 with me?”
“What makes you think I am trifling with you?”
Horace was innocent enough to answer her seriously. “You would not even let me speak of our marriage just now,” he said.
“Never mind what I did just now,” she retorted, petulantly81. “They say women are changeable. It is one of the defects of the sex.”
“Heaven be praised for the defects of the sex!” cried Horace, with devout82 sincerity83. “Do you really leave me to decide?”
“If you insist on it.”
Horace considered for a moment — the subject being the law of marriage. “We may be married by license84 in a fortnight,” he said. “I fix this day fortnight.”
She held up her hands in protest.
“Why not? My lawyer is ready. There are no preparations to make. You said when you accepted me that it was to be a private marriage.”
Mercy was obliged to own that she had certainly said that.
“We might be married at once — if the law would only let us. This day fortnight! Say — Yes!” He drew her closer to him. There was a pause. The mask of coquetry — badly worn from the first — dropped from her. Her sad gray eyes rested compassionately85 on his eager face. “Don’t look so serious!” he said. “Only one little word, Grace! Only Yes.”
She sighed, and said it. He kissed her passionately. It was only by a resolute86 effort that she released herself.
“Leave me!” she said, faintly. “Pray leave me by myself!”
She was in earnest — strangely in earnest. She was trembling from head to foot. Horace rose to leave her. “I will find Lady Janet,” he said; “I long to show the dear old lady that I have recovered my spirits, and to tell her why.” He turned round at the library door. “You won’t go away? You will let me see you again when you are more composed?”
“I will wait here,” said Mercy.
Satisfied with that reply, he left the room.
Her hands dropped on her lap; her head sank back wearily on the cushions at the head of the sofa. There was a dazed sensation in her: her mind felt stunned87. She wondered vacantly whether she was awake or dreaming. Had she really said the word which pledged her to marry Horace Holmcroft in a fortnight? A fortnight! Something might happen in that time to prevent it: she might find her way in a fortnight out of the terrible position in which she stood. Anyway, come what might of it, she had chosen the preferable alternative to a private interview with Julian Gray. She raised herself from her recumbent position with a start, as the idea of the interview — dismissed for the last few minutes — possessed88 itself again of her mind. Her excited imagination figured Julian Gray as present in the room at that moment, speaking to her as Horace had proposed. She saw him seated close at her side — this man who had shaken her to the soul when he was in the pulpit, and when she was listening to him (unseen) at the other end of the chapel — she saw him close by her, looking her searchingly in the face; seeing her shameful89 secret in her eyes; hearing it in her voice; feeling it in her trembling hands; forcing it out of her word by word, till she fell prostrate90 at his feet with the confession of the fraud. Her head dropped again on the cushions; she hid her face in horror of the scene which her excited fancy had conjured91 up. Even now, when she had made that dreaded92 interview needless, could she feel sure (meeting him only on the most distant terms) of not betraying herself? She could not feel sure. Something in her shuddered93 and shrank at the bare idea of finding herself in the same room with him. She felt it, she knew it: her guilty conscience owned and feared its master in Julian Gray!
The minutes passed. The violence of her agitation94 began to tell physically95 on her weakened frame.
She found herself crying silently without knowing why. A weight was on her head, a weariness was in all her limbs. She sank lower on the cushions — her eyes closed — the monotonous96 ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece grew drowsily97 fainter and fainter on her ear. Little by little she dropped into slumber98 — slumber so light that she started when a morsel99 of coal fell into the grate, or when the birds chirped100 and twittered in their aviary101 in the winter-garden.
Lady Janet and Horace came in. She was faintly conscious of persons in the room. After an interval102 she opened her eyes, and half rose to speak to them. The room was empty again. They had stolen out softly and left her to repose103. Her eyes closed once more. She dropped back into slumber, and from slumber, in the favoring warmth and quiet of the place, into deep and dreamless sleep.
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1
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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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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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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mitigating
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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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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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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38
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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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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45
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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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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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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81
petulantly
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82
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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83
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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84
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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86
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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89
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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90
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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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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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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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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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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98
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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99
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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101
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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102
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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103
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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