OUGHT I to have been prepared for the calamity1 which had now fallen on my sisters and myself? If I had looked my own experience of my poor father fairly in the face, would it not have been plain to me that the habits of a life were not likely to be altered at the end of a life? Surely — if I had exerted my intelligence — I might have foreseen that the longer his reformation lasted, the nearer he was to a relapse, and the more obviously probable it became that he would fail to fulfill2 the hopeful expectations which I had cherished of his conduct in the future? I grant it all. But where are the pattern people who can exert their intelligence — when their intelligence points to one conclusion, and their interests to another? Ah, my dear ladies and gentlemen, there is such a fine strong foundation of stupidity at the bottom of our common humanity — if we only knew it!
I could feel no hesitation3 — as soon as I had recovered myself — about what it was my duty to do. My duty was to leave Dimchurch in time to catch the fast mail-train from London to the Continent, at eight o’clock that night.
And leave Lucilla?
Yes! not even Lucilla’s interests — dearly as I loved her; alarmed as I felt about her — were as sacred as the interests which called me to my father’s bedside. I had some hours to spare before it would be necessary for me to leave her. All I could do was to employ those hours in taking the strictest precautions I could think of to protect her in my absence. I could not be long parted from her. One way or the other, the miserable4 doubt whether my father would live or die, would, at his age, soon be over.
I sent for her to see me in my room, and showed her my letter.
She was honestly grieved when she read it. For a moment — when she spoke5 her few words of sympathy — the painful constraint6 in her manner towards me passed away. It returned again, when I announced my intention of starting for France that day, and expressed the regret I felt at being obliged to defer7 our visit to Ramsgate for the present. She not only answered restrainedly (forming, as I fancied, some thought at the moment in her own mind)— she left me, with a commonplace excuse. “You must have much to think of in this sad affliction: I won’t intrude8 on you any longer. If you want me, you know where to find me.” With no more than those words, she walked out of the room.
I never remember, at any other time, such a sense of helplessness and confusion as came over me when she had closed the door. I set to work to pack up the few things I wanted for the journey; feeling instinctively9 that if I did not occupy myself in doing something, I should break down altogether. Accustomed in all the other emergencies of my life, to decide rapidly, I was not even clear enough in my mind to see the facts as they were. As to resolving on anything, I was about as capable of doing that as the baby in Mrs. Finch10’s arms.
The effort of packing aided me to rally a little — but did no more towards restoring me to my customary tone of mind.
I sat down helplessly, when I had done; feeling the serious necessity of clearing matters up between Lucilla and myself, before I went away, and still as ignorant as ever how to do it. To my own indescribable disgust, I actually felt tears beginning to find their way into my eyes! I had just enough of Pratolungo’s widow left in me to feel heartily11 ashamed of myself. Past vicissitudes12 and dangers, in the days of my republican life with my husband, had made me a sturdy walker — with a gypsy relish13 (like my little Jicks) for the open air. I snatched up my hat, and went out, to see what exercise would do for me.
I tried the garden. No! the garden was (for some inscrutable reason) not big enough. I had still some hours to spare. I tried the hills next.
Turning towards the left, and passing the church, I heard through the open windows the boom-boom of Reverend Finch’s voice, catechizing the village children. Thank Heaven, he was out of my way at any rate! I mounted the hills, hurrying on as fast as I could. The air and the movement cleared my mind. After more than an hour of hard walking, I returned to the rectory, feeling like my old self again.
Perhaps, there were some dregs of irresolution14 still left in me. Or, perhaps, there was some enervating15 influence in my affliction, which made me feel more sensitively than ever the change in the relations between Lucilla and myself. Having, by this time, resolved to come to a plain explanation, before I left her unprotected at the rectory, I shrank, even yet, from confronting a possible repulse16, by speaking to her personally. Taking a leaf out of poor Oscar’s book, I wrote what I wanted to say to her in a note.
I rang the bell — once, twice. Nobody answered it.
I went to the kitchen. Zillah was not there. I knocked at the door of her bed-room. There was no answer: the bed-room was empty when I looked in. Awkward as it would be, I found myself obliged, either to give my note to Lucilla with my own hand, or to decide on speaking to her, after all.
I could not prevail on myself to speak to her. So I went to her room with my note, and knocked at the door.
Here again there was no reply. I knocked once more — with the same result. I looked in. There was no one in the room. On the little table at the foot of the bed, there lay a letter addressed to me. The writing was in Zillah’s hand. But Lucilla had written her name in the corner in the usual way, to show that she had dictated17 the letter to her nurse. A load was lifted off my heart as I took it up. The same idea (I concluded) had occurred to her which had occurred to me. She too had shrunk from the embarrassment18 of a personal explanation. She too had written — and was keeping out of the way until her letter had spoken for her, and had united us again as friends before I left the house.
With these pleasant anticipations19, I opened the letter. Judge what I felt when I found what it really contained.
“DEAR MADAME PRATOLUNGO— You will agree with me, that it is very important, after what Herr Grosse has said about the recovery of my sight, that my visit to Ramsgate should not be delayed. As you are unable, through circumstances which I sincerely regret, to accompany me to the sea-side, I have determined20 to go to London to my aunt, Miss Batchford, and to ask her to be my companion instead of you. I have had experience enough of her sincere affection for me to be quite sure that she will gladly take the charge of me off your hands. As no time is to be lost, I start for London without waiting for your return from your walk to wish you good-bye. You so thoroughly21 understand the necessity of dispensing22 with formal farewells, in cases of emergency, that I am sure you will not feel offended at my taking leave of you in this way. With best wishes for your father’s recovery, believe me,
“Yours very truly,
“LUCILLA.
“P. S. — You need be under no apprehension23 about me. Zillah goes with me as far as London; and I shall communicate with Herr Grosse when I arrive at my aunt’s house.”
But for one sentence in it, I should most assuredly have answered this cruel letter by instantly resigning my situation as Lucilla’s companion.
The sentence to which I refer, contained the words which cast in my teeth the excuses that I had made for Oscar’s absence. The sarcastic24 reference to my recent connection with a case of emergency, and to my experience of the necessity of dispensing with formal farewells, removed my last lingering doubts of Nugent’s treachery. I now felt, not suspicion only, but positive conviction that he had communicated with her in his brother’s name, and that he had contrived25 (by some means at which it was impossible for me to guess) so to work on Lucilla’s mind — so to excite that indwelling distrust which her blindness had rooted in her character — as to destroy her confidence in me for the time being.
Arriving at this conclusion, I could still feel compassionately26 and generously towards Lucilla. Far from blaming my poor deluded27 sister-friend for her cruel departure and her yet crueler letter, I laid the whole fault on the shoulders of Nugent. Full as my mind was of my own troubles, I could still think of the danger that threatened Lucilla, and of the wrong that Oscar had suffered. I could still feel the old glow of my resolution to bring them together again, and still remember (and determine to pay) the debt I owed to Nugent Dubourg.
In the turn things had taken, and with the short time still at my disposal, what was I to do next? Assuming that Miss Batchford would accompany her niece to Ramsgate, how could I put the necessary obstacle in Nugent’s way, if he attempted to communicate with Lucilla at the sea-side, in my absence?
It was impossible for me to decide this, unless I first knew whether Miss Batchford, as a member of the family, was to be confidentially28 informed of the sad position in which Oscar and Lucilla now stood towards each other.
The person to consult in this difficulty was the rector. As head of the household, and in my absence, the responsibility evidently rested with Reverend Finch.
I went round at once to the other side of the house. If Mr. Finch had returned to the rectory, after the catechizing was over, well and good. If not, I should be obliged to inquire in the village and seek him at the cottages of his parishioners. His magnificent voice relieved me from all anxiety on this head. The boom-boom which I had last heard in the church, I now heard again in the study.
When I entered the room, Mr. Finch was on his legs, highly excited; haranguing30 Mrs. Finch and the baby, ensconced as usual in a corner. My appearance on the scene diverted his flow of language, for the moment, so that it all poured itself out on my unlucky self. (If you recollect31 that the rector and Lucilla’s aunt had been, from time immemorial, on the worst of terms — you will be prepared for what is coming. If you have forgotten this, look back at my sixth chapter and refresh your memory.)
“The very person I was going to send for!” said the Pope of Dimchurch. “Don’t excite Mrs. Finch! Don’t speak to Mrs. Finch! You shall hear why directly. Address yourself exclusively to Me. Be calm, Madame Pratolungo! you don’t know what has happened. I am here to tell you.”
I ventured to stop him: mentioning that Lucilla’s letter had informed me of his daughter’s sudden departure for her aunt’s house. Mr. Finch waved away my answer with his hand, as something too infinitely32 unimportant to be worthy33 of a moment’s notice.
“Yes! yes! yes!” he said. “You have a superficial acquaintance with the facts. But you are far from being aware of what my daughter’s sudden removal of herself from my roof really means. Now don’t be frightened, Madame Pratolungo! and don’t excite Mrs. Finch! (How are you, my dear? how is the child? Both well? Thanks to an overruling Providence34, both well.) Now, Madame Pratolungo, attend to this. My daughter’s flight — I say flight advisedly: it is nothing less — my daughter’s flight from my house means (I entreat35 you to be calm!)— means ANOTHER BLOW dealt at me by the family of my first wife. Dealt at me,” repeated Mr. Finch; heating himself with the recollection of his old feud36 with the Batchfords —“Dealt at me by Miss Batchford (by Lucilla’s aunt, Madame Pratolungo) through my unoffending second wife, and my innocent child. — Are you sure you are well, my dear? are you sure the infant is well? Thank Providence! — Concentrate your attention, Madame Pratolungo! Your attention is wandering. Prompted by Miss Batchford, my daughter has left my roof. Ramsgate is a mere37 excuse. And how has she left it? Not only without first seeing Me — I am Nobody! but without showing the slightest sympathy for Mrs. Finch’s maternal38 situation. Attired39 in her traveling costume, my daughter precipitately40 entered (or to use my wife’s graphic41 expression ‘bounced into’) the nursery, while Mrs. Finch was administering maternal sustenance42 to the infant. Under circumstances which might have touched the heart of a bandit or a savage43, my unnatural44 daughter (remind me, Mrs. Finch; we will have a little Shakespeare to-night; I will read King Lear), my unnatural daughter announced without one word of preparation that a domestic affliction would prevent you from accompanying her to Ramsgate. — Grieved, dear Madame Pratolungo, to hear of it. Cast your burden on Providence. Bear up, Mrs. Finch; bear up — Having startled my wife with this harrowing news, my daughter next shocked her by declaring that she was going to leave her father’s roof, without waiting to bid her father good-bye. The catching45 of a train, you will observe, was (no doubt at Miss Batchford’s instigation) of more importance than the parental46 embrace or the pastoral blessing47. Leaving a message of apology for Me, my heartless child (I use Mrs. Finch’s graphic language again — you have fair, very fair powers of expression, Mrs. Finch)— my heartless child ‘bounced out’ of the nursery to catch her train; having, for all she knew, or cared, administered a shock to my wife which might have soured the fountain of maternal sustenance at its source. There is where the Blow falls, Madame Pratolungo! How do I know that acid disturbance48 is not being communicated at this moment, instead of wholesome49 nourishment50, between mother and child? I shall prepare you an alkaline draught51, Mrs. Finch, to be taken after meals. Don’t speak; don’t move! Give me your pulse. I hold Miss Batchford accountable, Madame Pratolungo, for whatever happens — my daughter is a mere instrument in the hands of my first wife’s family. Give me your pulse, Mrs. Finch. I don’t like your pulse. Come up-stairs directly. A recumbent position, and another warm bath — under Providence, Madame Pratolungo! — may parry the Blow. Would you kindly52 open the door, and pick up Mrs. Finch’s handkerchief? Never mind the novel — the handkerchief.”
I seized my first opportunity of speaking again, while Mr. Finch was conducting his wife (with his arm round her waist) to the door — putting the question which I had been waiting to ask, in this cautious form:
“Do you propose to communicate, sir, either with your daughter or with Miss Batchford, while Lucilla is away from the rectory? My object in venturing to ask ——”
Before I could state my object, Mr. Finch turned round (turning Mrs. Finch with him) and surveyed me from head to foot with a look of indignant astonishment53.
“Is it possible you can see this double Wreck54,” said Mr. Finch, indicating his wife and child, “and suppose that I would communicate or sanction communication of any sort, with the persons who are responsible for it? — My dear! Can you account for Madame Pratolungo’s extraordinary question? Am I to understand (do you understand) that Madame Pratolungo is insulting me?”
It was useless to try to explain myself. It was useless for Mrs. Finch (who had made several abortive55 efforts to put in a word or two, on her own part) to attempt to pacify56 her husband. All the poor damp lady could do was to beg me to write to her from foreign parts. “I’m sorry you’re in trouble; and I should really be glad to hear from you.” Mrs. Finch had barely time to say those kind words — before the rector, in a voice of thunder, desired me to look at “that double Wreck, and respect it if I did not respect him”— and with that walked himself, his wife, and his baby out of the room.
Having gained the object which had brought me into the study, I made no attempt to detain him. The little sense the man possessed57 at the best of times, was completely upset by the shock which Lucilla’s abrupt58 departure had inflicted59 on his high opinion of his own importance. That he would end in being reconciled to his daughter — before her next subscription60 to the household expenses fell due — was a matter of downright certainty. But, until that time came, I felt equally sure that he would vindicate61 his outraged62 dignity by declining to hold any communication, in person or in writing, with Ramsgate. During the short term of my absence from England, Miss Batchford would be left as ignorant of her niece’s perilous63 position between the twin-brothers, as Lucilla herself. To know this was to have gained the information that I wanted. Nothing was left but to set my brains to work at once, and act on it.
How was I to act on it?
On the spur of the moment, I could see but one way. If Grosse pronounced Lucilla’s recovery to be complete, before I returned from abroad, the best thing I could do would be to put Miss Batchford in a position to reveal the truth in my place — without running any risk of a premature64 discovery. In other words, without letting the old lady into the secret, before the time arrived at which it could be safely divulged65.
This apparently66 intricate difficulty was easily overcome, by writing two letters (before I went away) instead of one.
The first letter I addressed to Lucilla. Without any reference to her behavior to me, I stated, in the fullest detail and with all needful delicacy67, her position between Oscar and Nugent: and referred her for proof of the truth of my assertions to her relatives at the rectory. “I leave it entirely68 to your discretion” (I added) “to write me an answer or not. Put the warning which I now give you to the proof; and if you wonder why it has been so long delayed, apply to Herr Grosse on whom the whole responsibility rests.” There I ended; being resolved, after the wrong that Lucilla had inflicted on me, to leave my justification69 to facts. I confess I was too deeply wounded by her conduct — though I did lay all the blame of it on Nugent — to care to say a word in my own defence.
This letter sealed, I wrote next to Lucilla’s aunt.
It was not an easy matter to address Miss Batchford. The contempt with which she regarded Mr. Finch’s opinions in politics and religion, was more than matched by the strong aversion which she felt for my republican opinions. I have already mentioned, far back in these pages, that a dispute on politics between the Tory old lady and myself ended in a quarrel between us, which closed the doors of her house on me from that time forth70. Knowing this, I ventured on writing to her nevertheless, because I also knew Miss Batchford to be (apart from her furious prejudices) a gentlewoman in the best sense of the word; devotedly71 attached to her niece, and quite as capable, when that devotion was appealed to, of doing justice to me (apart from my furious prejudices) as I was of doing justice to her. Writing in a tone of unaffected respect, and appealing to her forbearance to encourage mine, I requested her to hand my letter to Lucilla on the day when the surgeon reported that all further necessity for his attendance had ceased. In the interval72 before this happened, I entreated73 Miss Batchford, in her niece’s interests, to consider my letter as a strictly74 private communication; adding, that my sufficient reason for venturing to make this condition would be found in my letter to Lucilla — which I authorized75 her aunt to read as soon as the time had arrived for opening it.
By this means I had, as I firmly believed, taken the only possible way of preventing Nugent Dubourg from doing any serious mischief76 in my absence.
Whatever his uncontrolled infatuation for Lucilla might lead him to do next, he could proceed to no serious extremities77 until Grosse pronounced her recovery to be complete. On the day when Grosse did that, she would receive my letter, and would discover for herself the abominable78 deception79 which had been practiced on her. As to attempting to find Nugent, no idea of doing this entered my mind. Wherever he might be, at home or abroad, it would be equally useless to appeal to his honor again. It would be degrading myself to speak to him or to trust him. To expose him to Lucilla the moment it became possible was the one thing to be done. I was ready with my letters, one enclosed in the other, when good Mr. Gootheridge (with whom I had arranged previously) called to drive me to Brighton in his light cart. The chaise which he had for hire had been already used to make the same journey by Lucilla and the nurse, and had not yet been returned to the inn. I reached my train before the hour of starting, and arrived in London with a sufficient margin80 of time to spare.
Resolved to make sure that no possible mischance could occur, I drove to Miss Batchford’s house, and saw the cabman give my letter into the servant’s hands.
It was a bitter moment when I found myself pulling down my veil, in the fear that Lucilla might be at the window and see me! Nobody was visible but the man who answered the door. If pen, ink, and paper had been within my reach at the moment, I think I should have written to her on my own account, after all! As it was, I could only forgive her the injury she had done me. From the bottom of my heart, I forgave her, and longed for the blessed time which should unite us again. In the meanwhile, having done everything that I could to guard and help her, I was now free to give to Oscar all the thoughts that I could spare from my poor misguided father.
Being bound for the Continent, I determined (though the chances were a hundred to one against me) to do all that I could, in my painful position, to discover the place of Oscar’s retreat. The weary hours of suspense81 at my father’s bedside would be lightened to me, if I could feel that the search for the lost man was being carried on at my instigation, and that from day to day there was a bare possibility of my hearing of him, if there was no more.
The office of the lawyer whom I had consulted during my previous visit to London, lay in my way to the terminus. I drove there next, and was fortunate enough to find him still at business.
No tidings had yet been heard of Oscar. The lawyer, however, proved to be useful by giving me a letter of introduction to a person at Marseilles, accustomed to conduct difficult confidential29 inquiries82, and having agents whom he could employ in all the great cities of Europe. A man of Oscar’s startling personal appearance would be surely more or less easy to trace, if the right machinery83 to do it could only be set at work. My savings84 would suffice for this purpose to a certain extent — and to that extent I resolved that they should be used when I reached my journey’s end.
It was a troubled sea on the channel passage that night. I remained on deck; accepting any inconvenience rather than descend85 into the atmosphere of the cabin. As I looked out to sea on one side and on the other, the dark waste of tossing waters seemed to be the fit and dreary86 type of the dark prospect87 that was before me. On the trackless path that we were ploughing, a faint misty88 moonlight shed its doubtful ray. Like the doubtful light of hope, faintly flickering89 on my mind when I thought of the coming time!
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
fulfill
|
|
| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
constraint
|
|
| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
defer
|
|
| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
intrude
|
|
| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
finch
|
|
| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
vicissitudes
|
|
| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
relish
|
|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
irresolution
|
|
| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
enervating
|
|
| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
repulse
|
|
| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
dictated
|
|
| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
anticipations
|
|
| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
dispensing
|
|
| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
sarcastic
|
|
| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
compassionately
|
|
| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
deluded
|
|
| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
confidentially
|
|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
haranguing
|
|
| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
entreat
|
|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
feud
|
|
| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
attired
|
|
| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
precipitately
|
|
| adv.猛进地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
graphic
|
|
| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
sustenance
|
|
| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
parental
|
|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
disturbance
|
|
| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
nourishment
|
|
| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
wreck
|
|
| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
abortive
|
|
| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
pacify
|
|
| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
subscription
|
|
| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
vindicate
|
|
| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
outraged
|
|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
perilous
|
|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
divulged
|
|
| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
justification
|
|
| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
devotedly
|
|
| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
authorized
|
|
| a.委任的，许可的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
extremities
|
|
| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
abominable
|
|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
margin
|
|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
machinery
|
|
| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
savings
|
|
| n.存款，储蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
flickering
|
|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |