“I presume it is to my kind friend Sir George Legrath that I am indebted for the pleasure of this interview,” he said, after the short pause that followed his introductory speech; “for I need not flatter myself you will believe me when I say that I was fully4 aware, even before I met you in Lady Medenham’s house the other day, that we should be talking together in this Temple within a week.”
The palpable absurdity5 of this speech gave me just the opportunity for which I was waiting.
“Monsieur Pharos,” I said, with as much sternness as I could manage to throw into my voice, “successful as you have hitherto been in deceiving me, it is not the least use your attempting to do so on the present occasion. I am quite willing to state that it was my friend Sir George Legrath who put me in the way of communicating with you. I called upon him on Tuesday morning and obtained your address from him.”
He nodded his head.
“You will pardon me, I hope, if I seat myself,” he said. “It seems that this interview is likely to be a protracted6 one, and as I am no longer young I doubt if I can go through it standing7.”
With this apology he seated himself on a block of stone at the foot of one of the graceful8 columns which in bygone days had supported the entrance to the Temple, and, resting his chin on his hands, which again leaned on the carved handle of his stick, he turned to me and in a mocking voice said: “This air of mystery is no doubt very appropriate, my friend; but since you have taken such trouble to find me, perhaps you will be good enough to furnish me with your reason?”
I scratched in the dust with the point of my stick before I replied. Prepared as I was with what I had to say to him, and justified9 as I felt in pursuing the course I had determined10 to adopt, for the first time since I had arrived in Naples a doubt as to the probability, or even the sanity11, of my case entered my head.
“I can quite understand your embarrassment, my dear Mr. Forrester,” he said, with a little laugh, when he saw that I did not begin. “I am afraid you have formed a totally wrong impression of me. By some mischance a train of circumstances has arisen which has filled your mind with suspicion of me. As a result, instead of classing me among your warmest and most admiring friends, as I had hoped you would do, you distrust me and have nothing but unpleasant thoughts in your mind concerning me. Pray let me hear the charges you bring against me, and I feel sure — nay12, I am certain — I shall be able to refute them. The matter of what occurred at Cleopatra’s Needle has already been disposed of, and I do not think we need refer to it again. What else have you to urge?”
His voice had entirely13 changed. It had lost its old sharpness, and was softer, more musical, and infinitely14 more agreeable than I had ever known it before. He rose from his seat and moved a step toward me. Placing his hand upon my arm, and looking me full and fair in the face, he said:
“Mr. Forrester, I am an old man — how old you can have no idea — and it is too late in my life for me to begin making enemies. Fate, in one of her cruel moments, has cursed me with an unpleasing exterior16. Nay, do not pretend that you think otherwise, for I know it to be true. Those whom I would fain conciliate are offended by it. You, however, I should have thought would have seen below the surface. Why should we quarrel? To quote your own Shakespeare, ‘I would be friends with you and have your love.’ I am rich, I have influence, I have seen a great deal of the world, and have studied mankind as few others have done. If, therefore, we joined forces, what is there we might not do together?”
Incredible as it may seem after all I had suffered on his account, such was the influence he exerted over me that I now began to find myself wishing it were not necessary for me to say the things I had come to say. But I had no intention of allowing him to suppose I could be moved as easily as he seemed to imagine.
“Before there can be any talk of friendship or even of association between us, Monsieur Pharos,” I said, “it will be necessary for me to have a complete understanding with you. If I have wronged you, as I sincerely hope I have done, I will endeavour to make amends17 for it. Are you aware that on the night of Lady Medenham’s ‘at home’ a diabolical18 murder was committed at the old curiosity shop at the corner of the street adjoining that in which my studio is situated19?”
“One could hardly read the English papers without being aware of it,” he answered gravely; “but I scarcely see in what way that affects me.”
Here he stopped and gazed at me for a moment in silence as if he were anxious to read what was passing in my mind. Then he began again:
“Surely you do not mean to tell me, Mr. Forrester, that your dislike to me is so great as to induce you to believe that I was the perpetrator of that ghastly deed?”
“Since you are aware that a murder was committed,” I said, without appearing to notice his interruption, “perhaps you also know that the deed was supposed to have been done between the hours of midnight and one o’clock. You may also have read that an individual was seen leaving the house by the back entrance almost on the stroke of one, and that he was believed to have taken refuge in my studio.”
“Now that you recall the circumstance, I confess I did see something of the sort in the paper,” he answered; “and I remember reading also that you informed the inspector20 of police, who called upon you to make inquiries21, that to the best of your knowledge no such man had entered your house. What then?”
“Well, Monsieur Pharos, it was a few moments after the hour mentioned that you made your appearance before me, breathing heavily as though you had been running. Upon my questioning you, you offered the paltry22 excuse that you had been for a walk after Lady Medenham’s ‘at home,’ and that you had missed your way and come quite by chance to my studio.”
“As I shall prove to your satisfaction when you have finished, that was exactly what happened.”
“But you have not heard all,” I replied. “While in my rooms you became desirous of possessing the mummy of the Egyptian magician, Ptahmes. You expressed a wish that I should present it to you, and, when I declined to do so, you hypnotised me and took it without either my leave or my license23 — a very questionable24 proceeding25 if viewed in the light of the friendship you profess26 to entertain for me. How the law of the land would regard it doubtless you know as well as I do.”
As I said this I watched his face closely, but if I hoped to find any expression of shame there I was destined27 to be disappointed.
“My dear Forrester,” he said, “it is very plain indeed that you have developed an intense dislike to me. Otherwise you would scarcely be so ready to believe evil of me. How will you feel when I convince you that all the ill you think of me is undeserved? Answer me that!”
“If only you can do so,” I cried, clutching eagerly at the hope he held out. “If you can prove that I have wronged you, I will only too gladly make you any amends in my power You can not imagine what these last few days have been to me. I have perjured28 myself to save you. I have risked my good name, I have ——”
“And I thank you,” he answered. “I don’t think you will find me ungrateful. But before I accept your services I must prove to you that I am not as bad as you think me. Let us for a moment consider the matter. We will deal with the case of the mummy first, that being, as you will allow, of the least importance as far as you, individually, are concerned. Before I unburden myself, however, I must make you understand the disadvantage I am labouring under. To place my meaning more clearly before you, it would be necessary for me to make an assertion which I have the best of reasons for knowing you would not believe. Perhaps I made a mistake on that particular evening to which we are referring, when I induced you to believe that it was by accident I visited your studio. I am prepared now to confess that it was not so. I was aware that you had that mummy in your possession. I had known it for some considerable time, but I had not been able to get in touch with you. That night an opportunity offered, and I seized it with avidity. I could not wait until the next day, but called upon you within a few hours of meeting you at Lady Medenham’s ‘at home.’ I endeavoured to induce you to part with the mummy, but in vain. My entreaties29 would not move you. I exerted all my eloquence30, argued and pleaded as I have seldom, if ever, done to a man before. Then, seeing that it was useless, I put into force a power of which I am possessed31, and determined that, come what might, you should do as I desired. I do not deny that in so doing I was to blame, but I think, if the magnitude of the temptation were brought home to you, you would understand how difficult it would be not to fall. Let me make my meaning clearer to you if possible.”
“It would, perhaps, be as well,” I answered, with a touch of sarcasm32, “for at present I am far from being convinced.”
“You have been informed already by our mutual33 friend Sir George Legrath that I am of Egyptian descent. Perhaps you do not understand that, while the ancient families of your country are proud of being able to trace their pedigrees back to the time of the Norman Conquest, a beggarly eight hundred years or thereabouts, I, Pharos, can trace mine, with scarcely a break, back to the nineteenth dynasty of Egyptian history, a period of over three thousand years. It was that very Ptahmes, the man whose mummy your father stole from its ancient resting-place, who was the founder34 of our house. For some strange reason, what I can not tell, I have always entertained the belief that my existence upon this earth, and such success as I shall meet with, depend upon my finding that mummy and returning it to the tomb from which sacrilegious hands had taken it. At first this was only a mere35 desire; since then it has become a fixed36 determination, which has grown in strength and intensity37 until it has become more than a determination, a craving38 in which the happiness of my whole existence is involved. For many years, with a feverish39 longing40 which I can not expect or hope to make you understand, I searched Europe from end to end, visiting all the great museums and private collections of Egyptian antiquities41, but without success. Then, quite by chance and in a most circuitous42 fashion, I discovered that it was your father who had found it, and that at his death it had passed on to you. I visited England immediately, obtained an introduction to you, and the rest you know.”
“And where is the mummy now?” I inquired.
“In Naples,” he replied. “To-morrow I start with it for Egypt, to return it to the place whence your father took it.”
“But allow me to remark that it is not your property, Monsieur Pharos,” I replied; “and even taking into consideration the circumstances you relate, you must see yourself that you have no right to act as you propose doing.”
“And pray by what right did your father rifle the dead man’s tomb?” said Pharos quietly. “And since you are such a stickler43 for what is equitable44, perhaps you will show me his justification45 for carrying away the body from the country in which it had been laid to rest and conveying it to England to be stared at in the light of a curiosity. No, Mr. Forrester, your argument is a poor one, and I should combat it to the last. I am prepared, however, to make a bargain with you.”
“And what is that bargain?” I inquired.
“It is as follows,” he replied. “Our interest in the dead man shall be equal. Since it was your father who stole the mummy from its resting-place, let it be the descendant of the dead Ptahmes who restores it. As you will yourself see, and as I think you must in common honesty admit, what I am doing in this matter can in no way advance my own personal interests. If I have taken from you a possession which you valued so highly, set your own figure upon it, and double what you ask I will pay. Can I say anything fairer?”
I did not know what answer to make. If the man were what he said, the veritable descendant of the king’s magician, then it was only natural he should be willing to sacrifice anything to obtain possession of the body of his three-thousand-years-old ancestor. On my part the sentiment was undoubtedly46 a much weaker one. The mummy had been left me, among other items of his collection, by my father, and, when that has been said, my interest in the matter lapsed47. There was, however, a weightier issue to be decided48 before I could do him the favour he asked.
“So much for the mummy incident,” I said. “What you have to do now is to clear yourself of the more serious suspicion that exists against you. I refer to the murder of the curiosity dealer49.”
“But surely, Mr. Forrester,” he said, “you can not be serious when you say you believe I had anything to do with that dreadful affair?”
“You know very well what I do and what I do not believe,” I answered. “I await your reply.”
“Since you press me for it, I will give it,” he continued. “But remember this, if I have to convince you of my innocence51, your only chance will be gone, for I shall never feel the same toward you again.”
As he said this the old fierce light came into his eyes, and for a moment he looked as dangerous as on that evening in the studio.
“I repeat, I ask you to convince me,” I said as firmly as my voice could speak.
“Then I will do so,” he replied, and dived his hand into his coat pocket. When he produced it again it held a crumpled52 copy of a newspaper. He smoothed it out upon his knee and handed it to me.
“If you will look at the third column from the left, you will see a heading entitled ‘The mysterious murder in Bonwell Street.’ Pray read it.”
I took the paper and read as follows:
MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN BONWELL STREET.
EXTRAORDINARY CONFESSION53 AND SUICIDE.
“Shortly before nine o’clock this morning, a tall, middle-aged54 man, giving the name of Johann Schmidt, a German, and evidently in a weak state of health, entered the precincts of Bow Street Police Station, and informed the officer in charge that he desired to give himself up to justice as the murderer of Herman Clausand, the curiosity dealer of Bonwell Street, the victim of the shocking tragedy announced in our issue of Tuesday last. Schmidt, who spoke55 with considerable earnestness and seemed desirous of being believed, stated that several years before he had been in the deceased’s employ, and since his dismissal had nursed feelings of revenge. On the day preceding the murder he had called at Bonwell Street, and, after informing Clausand that he was out of employment and starving, asked to be again taken into his service; the other, however, refused to entertain his request, whereupon Schmidt very reluctantly left the shop. For the remainder of the day he wandered about London, endeavouring to obtain work, but about midnight, having been unsuccessful, he returned to Bonwell Street and rang the bell. The door was opened by Clausand himself, who, as we stated in our first account of the murder, lived alone. Schmidt entered, and once more demanded employment, or at least money sufficient to enable him to find shelter for the night. Again Clausand refused, whereupon the man picked up a dagger56 from a stand near by and stabbed him to the heart. Frightened at what he had done, he did not stay to rob the body, but made his way through the house and out by the back door. Passing into Murbrook Street, he saw a policeman coming toward him, but by stepping into a doorway57 managed to avoid him. Since that time, up to the moment of surrendering himself, he had been wandering about London, and it was only when he found starvation staring him in the face that he determined to give himself up. Having told his story, the man was about to be searched prior to being conducted to a cell, when he drew from his pocket a revolver and placed the muzzle58 to his forehead. Before the bystanders could stop him he had pulled the trigger; there was a loud report, and a moment later the wretched man fell dead at the officer’s feet. The divisional surgeon was immediately summoned, but on his arrival found that life was extinct. Inquiries were at once made with a view to ascertaining60 whether the story he had told had any foundation in fact. We have since learned that the description he gave of himself was a true one, that he had once been in Clausand’s employ, and that on the day preceding the murder he had openly asserted in a public-house in the neighbourhood of Soho his intention of being revenged upon the dead man.
“The coroner has been informed, and an inquest will be held to-morrow morning.”
After I had read it, I stood for some moments looking at the paper in my hand. Then I turned to Pharos, who was still seated on the block of stone watching me intently. Since this miserable61 wretch59 had confessed to the crime, it was plain that I had wronged him in supposing he had committed it. A weight was undoubtedly lifted from my mind, but for some reason or another the satisfaction I derived62 from this was by no means as great as I had expected it would be. At the back of my mind there was still a vague impression that I was being deceived, and, do what I would, I could not rid myself of it.
“That, I think, should convince you, Mr. Forrester,” said Pharos, rising and coming toward me, “how very unwise it is ever to permit one’s feelings to outweigh63 one’s judgment64. You made up your mind that you disliked me, and for the simple reason that I had the misfortune to lose my way on that particular evening, and to reach your studio about the same time that that terrible murder was committed, you were ready at a moment’s notice to believe me guilty of the crime.”
“What you say is quite true,” I answered humbly65. “I acted very foolishly, I admit. I have done you a great wrong, and you have behaved very generously about it.”
“In that case we will say no more about it,” he replied. “It is an unpleasant subject; let us forget it and never refer to it again. As I asked you to believe when last I saw you, my only desire is that you should think well of me and that we should be friends. As another proof of my kindly66 feeling toward yourself, I will go further than I originally intended and say that I am willing to restore the mummy I took from you. It is here in Naples, but, if you wish, it shall be at once returned to your house in London.”
This was more than I had expected from him, and it impressed me accordingly.
“I could not dream of such a thing,” I replied. “Since you have been so generous, let me follow your example. I have wronged you, and, as some small return, I ask you to keep the king’s magician, and do with him as you please.”
“I accept your offer in the spirit in which it is made,” he replied. “Now, perhaps, we had better be going. If you have nothing better to do this evening I should be glad if you would dine with me. I think I can promise you a better dinner than you will get at your own hotel, and afterward67, I have no doubt, we shall be able to induce my ward15 to give us some music. You had better say ‘Yes,’ for, I assure you, we shall both be disappointed if you refuse.”
“You are really very kind,” I began, “but ——”
“With your permission we will have no ‘buts,’” he replied, with a wave of his hand. “The matter is settled, and I shall look forward to a pleasant evening. My carriage is at the gate, and if you will drive back with me I shall be doubly honoured.”
If there had been any way of getting out of it, I think I should have taken advantage of it; but as I could not discover one, I was perforce compelled to accept his invitation.
“I wonder if this city has the same fascination68 for you, Mr. Forrester, that it has for me?” said Pharos, after I had given my consent to the arrangement he proposed. “For my own part I never come to Naples without paying it a visit; but how very few are there of the numbers who visit it weekly that really understand it! What tales I could tell you of it, if only they interested you! How vividly69 I could bring back to you the life of the people who once spoke in this forum70, bathed in yonder baths, applauded in the theatre nineteen hundred years ago! Let us follow this street which leads toward the Temple of Isis, that Temple in which the Egyptian goddess was worshipped by such as pretended to believe in her mysterious powers. I say pretended, because it was the fashion then to consult her oracles71 — a fashion as insulting as it was popular.”
By this time we had passed out of the Temple of Mercury and were making our way along the time-worn pavement toward the building of which he spoke. The sun was sinking in the west, and already long shadows were drawing across the silent streets, intensifying72 the ghostliness of the long-deserted city. Reaching the Temple, we entered and looked about us.
“See how its grandeur73 has departed from it,” said Pharos, with a note of sadness in his voice that made me turn and gaze at him in surprise. “Time was when this was the most beautiful temple in the city, when every day her courts were thronged74 with worshippers, when her oracles boasted a reputation that reached even to mighty75 Rome. On this spot stood the statue of the goddess herself. There that of her son, the god Horus. Here was the purgatorium, and there the bronze figure of the bull god Apis. Can you not picture the crowd of eager faces beyond the rails, the white-robed priests, and the sacrifice being offered up on yonder altar amid the perfumes of frankincense and myrrh? Where, Mr. Forrester, are these priests now? The crowd of worshippers, the statues? Gone — gone — dust and ashes, these nineteen hundred years. Come, we have lingered here long enough, let us go further.”
Leaving the Temple we made our way into the Stabian Street, passed the Temple of ?sculapius, and did not stop until we had reached the house of Tullus Agrippa. Into this Pharos led me.
“O Tullus Agrippa!” he cried, as if apostrophizing the dead man, “across the sea of time, I, Pharos the Egyptian, salute76 thee! Great was thy wealth and endless thy resources. Greedy of honour and praise wast thou, and this house was the apex77 of thy vanity. Here is that same triclinium where thy guests were wont78 to assemble when thou didst invite them to thy banquets. Here the room in which thou didst condemn79 thine only son to perpetual banishment80. In those days, when the sun was warm and the table was laden81 with the banquet, and friends crowded about thee and praised the beauty of thy frescoes82, the excellence83 of thy wine, the cunning of thy cook, and the service of thy slaves, little didst thou dream that nineteen centuries later would find thy house roofless, dug up from the bowels84 of the earth, and thy cherished rooms a show to be gaped85 at by all who cared to pay a miserable fee. Least of all didst thou think then that Pharos the Egyptian would be standing in the room where once thou didst rule so absolute, telling thy faults and follies86 to a man of a race that in thy day was well-nigh unknown.”
He stopped for a moment, and then, turning to me again, recommenced with fresh energy:
“The owner of this house, Tullus Agrippa, was avaricious87, cruel, vain, and sensual. He gave of his wealth only when he was assured of a large return. He was hated on every hand, and by his own family and dependants88 most of all. What did his wealth avail him on that last dread50 day, when the streets were filled with flying citizens, when all was confusion and none knew which way to turn for safety? The catastrophe89 found him tossing on a bed of sickness and scarcely able to stand alone. With the first shock of the earthquake he called imperiously for his favourite slave, but received no answer. He called again, this time almost with entreaty90. Still no answer came. The walls of his house trembled and shook as he rose from his couch and staggered out into the fast darkening street. Like a blind man he groped his way to yonder corner, calling upon the names of his gods as he went, and offering every sestertia in his possession to the person who would conduct him to a place of safety. A man brushed against him. He looked up and recognised the gladiator, Tymon, the man he had encouraged and whose richest patron he had been. Accordingly, he seized him and clung to him, offering gifts innumerable if he would only carry him as far as the Marine91 Gate. But this, as Tymon knew, was no time for helping92 others, with that terrible shower of ashes pouring down like rain. The gladiator cast him off, but the other was not to be denied. He struggled to his knees and threw his arms around the strong man’s legs, but only for an instant. Roused to a pitch of fury by his terror, Tymon struck him a blow on the temple with the full strength of his ponderous93 fist. The old man stumbled against the wall, clutched at it for support, and at length fell senseless upon the ground. The shower of ashes and scoria quickly covered him, and nineteen hundred years later the workmen, excavating94 the ruins, discovered his body at the base of yonder wall. Such was the fate of the noble Tullus Agrippa, citizen of Rome, and once the owner of this house.”
Before I could reply or ask how he had become familiar with these details, he had made his way outside and was in the road once more. I followed him to the Street of Fortune, passed the House of the Fawn95, the Baths, and the Villa96 of Glaucus. Of each he had some story to tell — some anecdote97 to relate. From the graphic98 way in which he described everything, the names and characters he introduced, I might have been excused had I even believed that he had known the city in its prime and been present on the day of its destruction. I said as much to him, but he only shook his head.
“Think what you please,” he said. “If I were to tell you the truth you would not believe me. For that reason I prefer that you should credit me with the possession of an exceedingly vivid imagination. If I have succeeded in making the last hour pass pleasantly, I am amply rewarded. But it grows late; the guards are coming in search of us; let us return to the gate.”
Accordingly, we made our way back to the Porta Marina, and down the path toward the entrance to the ruins. My companion was evidently well known to the officials, for they treated him with obsequious99 respect, bowing before him and inquiring if he had seen certain new excavations100, as if the success of the latter depended entirely on his good opinion of them. In the road outside a carriage was standing, to which was attached a magnificent pair of black horses. A coachman, dressed in a neat but unpretentious black livery, sat upon the box, while a footman stood beside the carriage door. The whole turn-out was in excellent taste, and would have made a creditable appearance in the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde Park. Into this elegant equipage Pharos invited me to step, and as soon as I had seated myself he took his place beside me. Hot though the night was, a heavy fur rug was wrapped round his knees, and when this had been done he laid himself back upon the cushions with a sigh of relief, as if the exertion101 of the afternoon had been too much for him.
“So much for Pompeii,” he said, as the horses sprang forward. “Now for Naples and the most beautiful creature it contains at present, my ward, the Fr?ulein Valerie de Vocsqal.”
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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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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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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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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infinitely
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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amends
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diabolical
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situated
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inspector
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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paltry
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license
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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41
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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stickler
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| n.坚持细节之人 | |
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equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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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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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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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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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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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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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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intensifying
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的现在分词 )；增辉 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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91
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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excavating
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| v.挖掘( excavate的现在分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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