Her eyes still rested on Horace. After hearing what he had heard could he resist that gentle, pleading look? Would he forgive her? A while since Julian had seen tears on his cheeks, and had believed that he felt for her. Why was he now silent? Was it possible that he only felt for himself?
For the last time — at the crisis of her life — Julian spoke1 for her. He had never loved her as he loved her at that moment; it tried even his generous nature to plead her cause with Horace against himself. But he had promised her, without reserve, all the help that her truest friend could offer. Faithfully and manfully he redeemed3 his promise.
“Horace!” he said.
Horace slowly looked up. Julian rose and approached him.
“She has told you to thank me, if her conscience has spoken. Thank the noble nature which answered when I called upon it! Own the priceless value of a woman who can speak the truth. Her heartfelt repentance4 is a joy in heaven. Shall it not plead for her on earth? Honor her, if you are a Christian5! Feel for her, if you are a man!”
He waited. Horace never answered him.
Mercy’s eyes turned tearfully on Julian. His heart was the heart that felt for her! His words were the words which comforted and pardoned her! When she looked back again at Horace, it was with an effort. His last hold on her was lost. In her inmost mind a thought rose unbidden — a thought which was not to be repressed. “Can I ever have loved this man?”
She advanced a step toward him; it was not possible, even yet, to completely forgot the past. She held out her hand.
He rose on his side — without looking at her.
“Before we part forever,” she said to him, “will you take my hand as a token that you forgive me?”
He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment the generous impulse died away in him. In its place came the mean fear of what might happen if he trusted himself to the dangerous fascination6 of her touch. His hand dropped again at his side; he turned away quickly.
“I can’t forgive her!” he said.
With that horrible confession7 — without even a last look at her — he left the room.
At the moment when he opened the door Julian’s contempt for him burst its way through all restraints.
“Horace,” he said, “I pity you!”
As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turned aside from both of them — she had retired8 to a distant part of the library The first bitter foretaste of what was in store for her when she faced the world again had come to her from Horace! The energy which had sustained her thus far quailed9 before the dreadful prospect10 — doubly dreadful to a woman — of obloquy11 and contempt. She sank on her knees before a little couch in the darkest corner of the room. “O Christ, have mercy on me!” That was her prayer — no more.
Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind hand touched her; his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.
“Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God’s angels rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God’s creatures!”
He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. She caught his hand — she pressed it to her bosom12; she pressed it to her lips — then dropped it suddenly, and stood before him trembling like a frightened child.
“Forgive me!” was all she could say. “I was so lost and lonely — and you are so good to me!”
She tried to leave him. It was useless — her strength was gone; she caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He looked at her. The confession of his love was just rising to his lips — he looked again, and checked it. No, not at that moment; not when she was helpless and ashamed; not when her weakness might make her yield, only to regret it at a later time. The great heart which had spared her and felt for her from the first spared her and felt for her now.
He, too, left her — but not without a word at parting.
“Don’t think of your future life just yet,” he said, gently. “I have something to propose when rest and quiet have restored you.” He opened the nearest door — the door of the dining-room — and went out.
The servants engaged in completing the decoration of the dinner-table noticed, when “Mr. Julian” entered the room, that his eyes were “brighter than ever.” He looked (they remarked) like a man who “expected good news.” They were inclined to suspect — though he was certainly rather young for it — that her ladyship’s nephew was in a fair way of preferment in the Church.
Mercy seated herself on the couch.
There are limits, in the physical organization of man, to the action of pain. When suffering has reached a given point of intensity13 the nervous sensibility becomes incapable14 of feeling more. The rule of Nature, in this respect, applies not only to sufferers in the body, but to sufferers in the mind as well. Grief, rage, terror, have also their appointed limits. The moral sensibility, like the nervous sensibility, reaches its period of absolute exhaustion16, and feels no more.
The capacity for suffering in Mercy had attained17 its term. Alone in the library, she could feel the physical relief of repose18; she could vaguely19 recall Julian’s parting words to her, and sadly wonder what they meant — she could do no more.
An interval20 passed; a brief interval of perfect rest.
She recovered herself sufficiently21 to be able to look at her watch and to estimate the lapse22 of time that might yet pass before Julian returned to her as he had promised. While her mind was still languidly following this train of thought she was disturbed by the ringing of a bell in the hall, used to summon the servant whose duties were connected with that part of the house. In leaving the library, Horace had gone out by the door which led into the hall, and had failed to close it. She plainly heard the bell — and a moment later (more plainly still) she heard Lady Janet’s voice!
She started to her feet. Lady Janet’s letter was still in the pocket of her apron23 — the letter which imperatively24 commanded her to abstain25 from making the very confession that had just passed her lips! It was near the dinner hour, and the library was the favorite place in which the mistress of the house and her guests assembled at that time. It was no matter of doubt; it was an absolute certainty that Lady Janet had only stopped in the hall on her way into the room.
The alternative for Mercy lay between instantly leaving the library by the dining-room door — or remaining where she was, at the risk of being sooner or later compelled to own that she had deliberately26 disobeyed her benefactress. Exhausted27 by what she had already suffered, she stood trembling and irresolute28, incapable of deciding which alternative she should choose.
Lady Janet’s voice, clear and resolute29, penetrated30 into the room. She was reprimanding the servant who had answered the bell.
“Is it your duty in my house to look after the lamps?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And is it my duty to pay you your wages?”
“If you please, my lady.”
“Why do I find the light in the hall dim, and the wick of that lamp smoking? I have not failed in my duty to You. Don’t let me find you failing again in your duty to Me.”
(Never had Lady Janet’s voice sounded so sternly in Mercy’s ear as it sounded now. If she spoke with that tone of severity to a servant who had neglected a lamp, what had her adopted daughter to expect when she discovered that her entreaties31 and her commands had been alike set at defiance33?)
Having administered her reprimand, Lady Janet had not done with the servant yet. She had a question to put to him next.
“Where is Miss Roseberry?”
“In the library, my lady.”
Mercy returned to the couch. She could stand no longer; she had not even resolution enough left to lift her eyes to the door.
Lady Janet came in more rapidly than usual. She advanced to the couch, and tapped Mercy playfully on the cheek with two of her fingers.
“You lazy child! Not dressed for dinner? Oh, fie, fie!”
Her tone was as playfully affectionate as the action which had accompanied her words. In speechless astonishment34 Mercy looked up at her.
Always remarkable35 for the taste and splendor36 of her dress, Lady Janet had on this occasion surpassed herself. There she stood revealed in her grandest velvet37, her richest jewelry38, her finest lace — with no one to entertain at the dinner-table but the ordinary members of the circle at Mablethorpe House. Noticing this as strange to begin with, Mercy further observed, for the first time in her experience, that Lady Janet’s eyes avoided meeting hers. The old lady took her place companionably on the couch; she ridiculed39 her “lazy child’s” plain dress, without an ornament40 of any sort on it, with her best grace; she affectionately put her arm round Mercy’s waist, and rearranged with her own hand the disordered locks of Mercy’s hair — but the instant Mercy herself looked at her, Lady Janet’s eyes discovered something supremely41 interesting in the familiar objects that surrounded her on the library walls.
How were these changes to be interpreted? To what possible conclusion did they point?
Julian’s profounder knowledge of human nature, if Julian had been present, might have found a clew to the mystery. He might have surmised42 (incredible as it was) that Mercy’s timidity before Lady Janet was fully2 reciprocated43 by Lady Janet’s timidity before Mercy. It was even so. The woman whose immovable composure had conquered Grace Roseberry’s utmost insolence44 in the hour of her triumph — the woman who, without once flinching45, had faced every other consequence of her resolution to ignore Mercy’s true position in the house — quailed for the first time when she found herself face to face with the very person for who m she had suffered and sacrificed so much. She had shrunk from the meeting with Mercy, as Mercy had shrunk from the meeting with her. The splendor of her dress meant simply that, when other excuses for delaying the meeting downstairs had all been exhausted, the excuse of a long, and elaborate toilet had been tried next. Even the moments occupied in reprimanding the servant had been moments seized on as the pretext46 for another delay. The hasty entrance into the room, the nervous assumption of playfulness in language and manner, the evasive and wandering eyes, were all referable to the same cause. In the presence of others, Lady Janet had successfully silenced the protest of her own inbred delicacy47 and inbred sense of honor. In the presence of Mercy, whom she loved with a mother’s love — in the presence of Mercy, for whom she had stooped to deliberate concealment48 of the truth — all that was high and noble in the woman’s nature rose in her and rebuked49 her. What will the daughter of my adoption50, the child of my first and last experience of maternal51 love, think of me, now that I have made myself an accomplice52 in the fraud of which she is ashamed? How can I look her in the face, when I have not hesitated, out of selfish consideration for my own tranquillity53, to forbid that frank avowal54 of the truth which her finer sense of duty had spontaneously bound her to make? Those were the torturing questions in Lady Janet’s mind, while her arm was wound affectionately round Mercy’s waist, while her fingers were busying themselves familiarly with the arrangement of Mercy’s hair. Thence, and thence only, sprang the impulse which set her talking, with an uneasy affectation of frivolity55, of any topic within the range of conversation, so long as it related to the future, and completely ignored the present and the past.
“The winter here is unendurable,” Lady Janet began. “I have been thinking, Grace, about what we had better do next.”
Mercy started. Lady Janet had called her “Grace.” Lady Janet was still deliberately assuming to be innocent of the faintest suspicion of the truth.
“No,” resumed her ladyship, affecting to misunderstand Mercy’s movement, “you are not to go up now and dress. There is no time, and I am quite ready to excuse you. You are a foil to me, my dear. You have reached the perfection of shabbiness. Ah! I remember when I had my whims56 and fancies too, and when I looked well in anything I wore, just as you do. No more of that. As I was saying, I have been thinking and planning what we are to do. We really can’t stay here. Cold one day, and hot the next — what a climate! As for society, what do we lose if we go away? There is no such thing as society now. Assemblies of well-dressed mobs meet at each other’s houses, tear each other’s clothes, tread on each other’s toes. If you are particularly lucky, you sit on the staircase, you get a tepid57 ice, and you hear vapid58 talk in slang phrases all round you. There is modern society. If we had a good opera, it would be something to stay in London for. Look at the programme for the season on that table — promising59 as much as possible on paper, and performing as little as possible on the stage. The same works, sung by the same singers year after year, to the same stupid people — in short the dullest musical evenings in Europe. No! the more I think of it, the more plainly I perceive that there is but one sensible choice before us: we must go abroad. Set that pretty head to work; choose north or south, east or west; it’s all the same to me. Where shall we go?”
Mercy looked at her quickly as she put the question.
Lady Janet, more quickly yet, looked away at the programme of the opera-house. Still the same melancholy60 false pretenses61! still the same useless and cruel delay! Incapable of enduring the position now forced upon her, Mercy put her hand into the pocket of her apron, and drew from it Lady Janet’s letter.
“Will your ladyship forgive me,” she began, in faint, faltering62 tones, “if I venture on a painful subject? I hardly dare acknowledge —” In spite of her resolution to speak out plainly, the memory of past love and past kindness prevailed with her; the next words died away on her lips. She could only hold up the letter.
Lady Janet declined to see the letter. Lady Janet suddenly became absorbed in the arrangement of her bracelets63.
“I know what you daren’t acknowledge, you foolish child!” she exclaimed. “You daren’t acknowledge that you are tired of this dull house. My dear! I am entirely64 of your opinion — I am weary of my own magnificence; I long to be living in one snug65 little room, with one servant to wait on me. I’ll tell you what we will do. We will go to Paris, in the first place. My excellent Migliore, prince of couriers, shall be the only person in attendance. He shall take a lodging66 for us in one of the unfashionable quarters of Paris. We will rough it, Grace (to use the slang phrase), merely for a change. We will lead what they call a ‘Bohemian life.’ I know plenty of writers and painters and actors in Paris — the liveliest society in the world, my dear, until one gets tired of them. We will dine at the restaurant, and go to the play, and drive about in shabby little hired carriages. And when it begins to get monotonous67 (which it is only too sure to do!) we will spread our wings and fly to Italy, and cheat the winter in that way. There is a plan for you! Migliore is in town. I will send to him this evening, and we will start to-morrow.”
Mercy made another effort.
“I entreat32 your ladyship to pardon me,” she resumed. “I have something serious to say. I am afraid —”
“I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and you don’t like to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts two hours; we will shut ourselves up in a private cabin. I will send at once — the courier may be engaged. Ring the bell.”
“Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope to associate myself again with any future plans of yours —”
“What! you are afraid of our ‘Bohemian life’ in Paris? Observe this, Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, it is ‘an old head on young shoulders.’ I say no more. Ring the bell.”
“This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy I feel of your kindness, how ashamed I am —”
“Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You ought to be ashamed, at your age, of making me get up to ring the bell.”
Her obstinacy68 was immovable; she attempted to rise from the couch. But one choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated Lady Janet, and rang the bell.
The man-servant came in. He had his little letter-tray in his hand, with a card on it, and a sheet of paper beside the card, which looked like an open letter.
“You know where my courier lives when he is in London?’ asked Lady Janet.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Send one of the grooms69 to him on horseback; I am in a hurry. The courier is to come here without fail to-morrow morning — in time for the tidal train to Paris. You understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“What have you got there? Anything for me?”
“For Miss Roseberry, my lady.”
As he answered, the man handed the card and the open letter to Mercy.
“The lady is waiting in the morning-room, miss. She wished me to say she has time to spare, and she will wait for you if you are not ready yet.”
Having delivered his message in those terms, he withdrew.
Mercy read the name on the card. The matron had arrived! She looked at the letter next. It appeared to be a printed circular, with some lines in pencil added on the empty page. Printed lines and written lines swam before her eyes. She felt, rather than saw, Lady Janet’s attention steadily70 and suspiciously fixed71 on her. With the matron’s arrival the foredoomed end of the flimsy false pretenses and the cruel delays had come.
“A friend of yours, my dear?”
“Yes, Lady Janet.”
“Am I acquainted with her?”
“I think not, Lady Janet.”
“You appear to be agitated72. Does your visitor bring bad news? Is there anything that I can do for you?”
“You can add — immeasurably add, madam — to all your past kindness, if you will only bear with me and forgive me.”
“Bear with you and forgive you? I don’t understand.”
“I will try to explain. Whatever else you may think of me, Lady Janet, for God’s sake don’t think me ungrateful!”
Lady Janet held up her hand for silence.
“I dislike explanations,” she said, sharply. “Nobody ought to know that better than you. Perhaps the lady’s letter will explain for you. Why have you not looked at it yet?”
“I am in great trouble, madam, as you noticed just now —”
“Have you any objection to my knowing who your visitor is?”
“No, Lady Janet.”
“Let me look at her card, then.”
Mercy gave the matron’s card to Lady Janet, as she had given the matron’s telegram to Horace.
Lady Janet read the name on the card — considered — decided73 that it was a name quite unknown to her — and looked next at the address: “Western District Refuge, Milburn Road.”
“A lady connected with a Refuge?” she said, speaking to herself; “and calling here by appointment — if I remember the servant’s message? A strange time to choose, if she has come for a subscription74!”
She paused. Her brow contracted; her face hardened. A word from her would now have brought the interview to its inevitable75 end, and she refused to speak the word. To the last moment she persisted in ignoring the truth! Placing the card on the couch at her side, she pointed15 with her long yellow-white forefinger76 to the printed letter lying side by side with her own letter on Mercy’s lap.
“Do you mean to read it, or not?” she asked.
Mercy lifted her eyes, fast filling with tears, to Lady Janet’s face.
“May I beg that your ladyship will read it for me?” she said — and placed the matron’s letter in Lady Janet’s hand.
It was a printed circular announcing a new development in the charitable work of the Refuge. Subscribers were informed that it had been decided to extend the shelter and the training of the institution (thus far devoted77 to fallen women alone) so as to include destitute78 and helpless children found wandering in the streets. The question of the number of children to be thus rescued and protected was left dependent, as a matter of course, on the bounty79 of the friends of the Refuge, the cost of the maintenance of each child being stated at the lowest possible rate. A list of influential80 persons who had increased their subscriptions81 so as to cover the cost, and a brief statement of the progress already made with the new work, completed the appeal, and brought the circular to its end.
The lines traced in pencil (in the matron’s handwriting) followed on the blank page.
“Your letter tells me, my dear, that you would like — remembering your own childhood — to be employed when you return among us in saving other poor children left helpless on the world. Our circular will inform you that I am able to meet your wishes. My first errand this evening in your neighborhood was to take charge of a poor child — a little girl — who stands sadly in need of our care. I have ventured to bring her with me, thinking she might help to reconcile you to the coming change in your life. You will find us both waiting to go back with you to the old home. I write this instead of saying it, hearing from the servant that you are not alone, and being unwilling82 to intrude83 myself, as a stranger, on the lady of the house.”
Lady Janet read the penciled lines, as she had read the printed sentences, aloud. Without a word of comment she laid the letter where she had laid the card; and, rising from her seat, stood for a moment in stern silence, looking at Mercy. The sudden change in her which the letter had produced — quietly as it had taken place — was terrible to see. On the frowning brow, in the flashing eyes, on the hardened lips, outraged84 love and outraged pride looked down on the lost woman, and said, as if in words, You have roused us at last.
“If that letter means anything,” she said, “it means you are about to leave my house. There can be but one reason for your taking such a step as that.”
“It is the only atonement I can make, madam.”
“I see another letter on your lap. Is it my letter?”
“Yes.”
“Have you read it?”
“I have read it.”
“Have you seen Horace Holmcroft?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told Horace Holmcroft —”
“Oh, Lady Janet —”
“Don’t interrupt me. Have you told Horace Holmcroft what my letter positively85 forbade you to communicate, either to him or to any living creature? I want no protestations and excuses. Answer me instantly, and answer in one word — Yes, or No.”
Not even that haughty86 language, not even those pitiless tones, could extinguish in Mercy’s heart the sacred memories of past kindness and past love. She fell on her knees — her outstretched hands touched Lady Janet’s dress. Lady Janet sharply drew her dress away, and sternly repeated her last words.
“Yes? or No?”
“Yes.”
She had owned it at last! To this end Lady Janet had submitted to Grace Roseberry; had offended Horace Holmcroft; had stooped, for the first time in her life, to concealments and compromises that degraded her. After all that she had sacrificed and suffered, there Mercy knelt at her feet, self-convicted of violating her commands, trampling87 on her feelings, deserting her house! And who was the woman who had done this? The same woman who had perpetrated the fraud, and who had persisted in the fraud until her benefactress had descended88 to become her accomplice. Then, and then only, she had suddenly discovered that it was her sacred duty to tell the truth!
In proud silence the great lady met the blow that had fallen on her. In proud silence she turned her back on her adopted daughter and walked to the door.
Mercy made her last appeal to the kind friend whom she had offended — to the second mother whom she had loved.
“Lady Janet! Lady Janet! Don’t leave me without a word. Oh, madam, try to feel for me a little! I am returning to a life of humiliation89 — the shadow of my old disgrace is falling on me once more. We shall never meet again. Even though I have not deserved it, let my repentance plead with you! Say you forgive me!”
Lady Janet turned round on the threshold of the door.
“I never forgive ingratitude,” she said. “Go back to the Refuge.”
The door opened and closed on her. Mercy was alone again in the room.
Unforgiven by Horace, unforgiven by Lady Janet! She put her hands to her burning head and tried to think. Oh, for the cool air of the night! Oh, for the friendly shelter of the Refuge! She could feel those sad longings90 in her: it was impossible to think.
She rang the bell — and shrank back the instant she had done it. Had she any right to take that liberty? She ought to have thought of it before she rang. Habit — all habit. How many hundreds of times she had rung the bell at Mablethorpe House!
The servant came in. She amazed the man — she spoke to him so timidly: she even apologized for troubling him!
“I am sorry to disturb you. Will you be so kind as to say to the lady that I am ready for her?”
“Wait to give that message,” said a voice behind them, “until you hear the bell rung again.”
Mercy looked round in amazement91. Julian had returned to the library by the dining-room door.
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1
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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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pretenses
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| n.借口（pretense的复数形式） | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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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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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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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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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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82
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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83
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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84
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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87
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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88
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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89
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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90
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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