Chapter XLII
She had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before her and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them that suddenly made vibrations1 deep, so that she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation2. A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton — this had given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it true that there was something still between them that might be a handle to make him declare himself to Pansy — a susceptibility, on his part, to approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not asked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now that it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there was something — something on Lord Warburton’s part. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united them to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair, but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself nothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought; it was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a better feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory of the few moments of intimacy3 through which they had once passed? Isabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition4. But what were his hopes, his pretensions5, and in what strange way were they mingled6 with his evidently very sincere appreciation7 of poor Pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond’s wife, and if so what comfort did he expect to derive8 from it? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother he was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed9 in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would do so for her sake and not for the small creature’s own — was this the service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty with which she found herself confronted — from the moment she admitted to herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection10 for her society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive11 one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were pretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another satisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement12 of duplicity she presently acquitted13 him; she preferred to believe him in perfect good faith. But if his admiration14 for Pansy were a delusion15 this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way; some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then she broke out of the labyrinth16, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her imagination surely did her little honour and that her husband’s did him even less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested17 as he need be, and she was no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till the contrary should be proved; proved more effectually than by a cynical18 intimation of Osmond’s.
Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little peace, for her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to the foreground of thought as quickly as a place was made for them. What had suddenly set them into livelier motion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange impression she had received in the afternoon of her husband’s being in more direct communication with Madame Merle than she suspected. That impression came back to her from time to time, and now she wondered it had never come before. Besides this, her short interview with Osmond half an hour ago was a striking example of his faculty19 for making everything wither20 that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he looked at. It was very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty21; the real fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a presumption22 against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye; as if his presence were a blight23 and his favour a misfortune. Was the fault in himself, or only in the deep mistrust she had conceived for him? This mistrust was now the clearest result of their short married life; a gulf24 had opened between them over which they looked at each other with eyes that were on either side a declaration of the deception25 suffered. It was a strange opposition26, of the like of which she had never dreamed — an opposition in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of contempt to the other. It was not her fault — she had practised no deception; she had only admired and believed. She had taken all the first steps in the purest confidence, and then she had suddenly found the infinite vista27 of a multiplied life to be a dark, narrow alley28 with a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading to the high places of happiness, from which the world would seem to lie below one, so that one could look down with a sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and choose and pity, it led rather downward and earthward, into realms of restriction29 and depression where the sound of other lives, easier and freer, was heard as from above, and where it served to deepen the feeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband — this was what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but not so easily explained, and so composite in its character that much time and still more suffering had been needed to bring it to its actual perfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active condition; it was not a chill, a stupor30, a despair; it was a passion of thought, of speculation31, of response to every pressure. She flattered herself that she had kept her failing faith to herself, however — that no one suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times when she thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually — it was not till the first year of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to gather; it was as if Osmond deliberately32, almost malignantly33, had put the lights out one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin, and she could still see her way in it. But it steadily34 deepened, and if now and again it had occasionally lifted there were certain corners of her prospect35 that were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation from her own mind: she was very sure of that; she had done her best to be just and temperate36, to see only the truth. They were a part, they were a kind of creation and consequence, of her husband’s very presence. They were not his misdeeds, his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing — that is but of one thing, which was NOT a crime. She knew of no wrong he had done; he was not violent, he was not cruel: she simply believed he hated her. That was all she accused him of, and the miserable37 part of it was precisely38 that it was not a crime, for against a crime she might have found redress39. He had discovered that she was so different, that she was not what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first he could change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like. But she was, after all, herself — she couldn’t help that; and now there was no use pretending, wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her and had made up his mind. She was not afraid of him; she had no apprehension40 he would hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort. He would if possible never give her a pretext41, never put himself in the wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed42 eyes, saw that he would have the better of her there. She would give him many pretexts43, she would often put herself in the wrong. There were times when she almost pitied him; for if she had not deceived him in intention she understood how completely she must have done so in fact. She had effaced44 herself when he first knew her; she had made herself small, pretending there was less of her than there really was. It was because she had been under the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to put forth45. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself, during the year of his courtship, any more than she. But she had seen only half his nature then, as one saw the disk of the moon when it was partly masked by the shadow of the earth. She saw the full moon now — she saw the whole man. She had kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free field, and yet in spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.
Ah, she had been immensely under the charm! It had not passed away; it was there still: she still knew perfectly46 what it was that made Osmond delightful47 when he chose to be. He had wished to be when he made love to her, and as she had wished to be charmed it was not wonderful he had succeeded. He had succeeded because he had been sincere; it never occurred to her now to deny him that. He admired her — he had told her why: because she was the most imaginative woman he had known. It might very well have been true; for during those months she had imagined a world of things that had no substance. She had had a more wondrous48 vision of him, fed through charmed senses and oh such a stirred fancy! — she had not read him right. A certain combination of features had touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of figures. That he was poor and lonely and yet that somehow he was noble — that was what had interested her and seemed to give her her opportunity. There had been an indefinable beauty about him — in his situation, in his mind, in his face. She had felt at the same time that he was helpless and ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness which was the very flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager strolling on the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet not putting to sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion. She would launch his boat for him; she would be his providence49; it would be a good thing to love him. And she had loved him, she had so anxiously and yet so ardently50 given herself — a good deal for what she found in him, but a good deal also for what she brought him and what might enrich the gift. As she looked back at the passion of those full weeks she perceived in it a kind of maternal51 strain — the happiness of a woman who felt that she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands. But for her money, as she saw to-day, she would never have done it. And then her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett, sleeping under English turf, the beneficent author of infinite woe52! For this was the fantastic fact. At bottom her money had been a burden, had been on her mind, which was filled with the desire to transfer the weight of it to some other conscience, to some more prepared receptacle. What would lighten her own conscience more effectually than to make it over to the man with the best taste in the world? Unless she should have given it to a hospital there would have been nothing better she could do with it; and there was no charitable institution in which she had been as much interested as in Gilbert Osmond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her think better of it and rub off a certain grossness attaching to the good luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been nothing very delicate in inheriting seventy thousand pounds; the delicacy53 had been all in Mr. Touchett’s leaving them to her. But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring him such a portion — in that there would be delicacy for her as well. There would be less for him — that was true; but that was his affair, and if he loved her he wouldn’t object to her being rich. Had he not had the courage to say he was glad she was rich?
Isabel’s cheek burned when she asked herself if she had really married on a factitious theory, in order to do something finely appreciable54 with her money. But she was able to answer quickly enough that this was only half the story. It was because a certain ardour took possession of her — a sense of the earnestness of his affection and a delight in his personal qualities. He was better than any one else. This supreme55 conviction had filled her life for months, and enough of it still remained to prove to her that she could not have done otherwise. The finest — in the sense of being the subtlest — manly56 organism she had ever known had become her property, and the recognition of her having but to put out her hands and take it had been originally a sort of act of devotion. She had not been mistaken about the beauty of his mind; she knew that organ perfectly now. She had lived with it, she had lived IN it almost — it appeared to have become her habitation. If she had been captured it had taken a firm hand to seize her; that reflection perhaps had some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant57, more cultivated, more trained to admirable exercises, she had not encountered; and it was this exquisite58 instrument she had now to reckon with. She lost herself in infinite dismay when she thought of the magnitude of HIS deception. It was a wonder, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn’t hate her more. She remembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it — it had been like the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of their life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that she must get rid of them. He had told her that already, before their marriage; but then she had not noticed it: it had come back to her only afterwards. This time she might well have noticed it, because he had really meant it. The words had been nothing superficially; but when in the light of deepening experience she had looked into them they had then appeared portentous59. He had really meant it — he would have liked her to have nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She had known she had too many ideas; she had more even than he had supposed, many more than she had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she HAD been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had too many ideas for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with some one else. One couldn’t pluck them up by the roots, though of course one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been this, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She had no opinions — none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant had been the whole thing — her character, the way she felt, the way she judged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was what he had not known until he had found himself — with the door closed behind, as it were — set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at life which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least it was a very humble60, accommodating way! The strange thing was that she should not have suspected from the first that his own had been so different. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly that of an honest man and a gentleman. Hadn’t he assured her that he had no superstitions61, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their freshness? Hadn’t he all the appearance of a man living in the open air of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth and knowledge and believing that two intelligent people ought to look for them together and, whether they found them or not, find at least some happiness in the search? He had told her he loved the conventional; but there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency62 and of all the stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous63. But when, as the months had elapsed, she had followed him further and he had led her into the mansion65 of his own habitation, then, THEN she had seen where she really was.
She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she had taken the measure of her dwelling66. Between those four walls she had lived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of her life. It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of suffocation67. Osmond’s beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air; Osmond’s beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high window and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering; for physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come and go; she had her liberty; her husband was perfectly polite. He took himself so seriously; it was something appalling68. Under all his culture, his cleverness, his amenity69, under his good-nature, his facility, his knowledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken him so seriously as that. How could she — especially when she had known him better? She was to think of him as he thought of himself — as the first gentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought of him at first, and that indeed was the reason she had married him. But when she began to see what it implied she drew back; there was more in the bond than she had meant to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every one but some three or four very exalted70 people whom he envied, and for everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was very well; she would have gone with him even there a long distance; for he pointed71 out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of life, opened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance of mankind, that she had been properly impressed with the infinite vulgarity of things and of the virtue72 of keeping one’s self unspotted by it. But this base, if noble world, it appeared, was after all what one was to live for; one was to keep it forever in one’s eye, in order not to enlighten or convert or redeem73 it, but to extract from it some recognition of one’s own superiority. On the one hand it was despicable, but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond had talked to Isabel about his renunciation, his indifference74, the ease with which he dispensed76 with the usual aids to success; and all this had seemed to her admirable. She had thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite independence. But indifference was really the last of his qualities; she had never seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself, avowedly77, the world had always interested her and the study of her fellow creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing, however, to renounce78 all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of a personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make her believe it was a gain! This at least was her present conviction; and the thing certainly would have been easier than to care for society as Osmond cared for it.
He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never really done so; he had looked at it out of his window even when he appeared to be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she had tried to have hers; only it was strange that people should seek for justice in such different quarters. His ideal was a conception of high prosperity and propriety79, of the aristocratic life, which she now saw that he deemed himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never lapsed64 from it for an hour; he would never have recovered from the shame of doing so. That again was very well; here too she would have agreed; but they attached such different ideas, such different associations and desires, to the same formulas. Her notion of the aristocratic life was simply the union of great knowledge with great liberty; the knowledge would give one a sense of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment80. But for Osmond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated attitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated81, the transmitted; so was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an immense esteem82 for tradition; he had told her once that the best thing in the world was to have it, but that if one was so unfortunate as not to have it one must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he meant by this that she hadn’t it, but that he was better off; though from what source he had derived83 his traditions she never learned. He had a very large collection of them, however; that was very certain, and after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in accordance with them; the great thing not only for him but for her. Isabel had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person than their proprietor84 traditions must be of a thoroughly85 superior kind; but she nevertheless assented86 to this intimation that she too must march to the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in her husband’s past; she who of old had been so free of step, so desultory87, so devious88, so much the reverse of processional. There were certain things they must do, a certain posture89 they must take, certain people they must know and not know. When she saw this rigid90 system close about her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries91, that sense of darkness and suffocation of which I have spoken took possession of her; she seemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of course; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately92, pleadingly. She had pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for the aspect and denomination94 of their life — the cause of other instincts and longings95, of quite another ideal.
Then it was that her husband’s personality, touched as it never had been, stepped forth and stood erect96. The things she had said were answered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably97 ashamed of her. What did he think of her — that she was base, vulgar, ignoble98? He at least knew now that she had no traditions! It had not been in hsis prevision of things that she should reveal such flatness; her sentiments were worthy99 of a radical100 newspaper or a Unitarian preacher. The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her own at all. Her mind was to be his — attached to his own like a small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional nosegay. It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn’t wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring her mind to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would be richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences; and Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no great insolence101 on the part of a man so accomplished102 and a husband originally at least so tender. But there were certain things she could never take in. To begin with, they were hideously103 unclean. She was not a daughter of the Puritans, but for all that she believed in such a thing as chastity and even as decency. It would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything of the sort; some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did all women have lovers? Did they all lie and even the best have their price? Were there only three or four that didn’t deceive their husbands? When Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them than for the gossip of a village parlour — a scorn that kept its freshness in a very tainted104 air. There was the taint105 of her sister-in-law: did her husband judge only by the Countess Gemini? This lady very often lied, and she had practised deceptions106 that were not simply verbal. It was enough to find these facts assumed among Osmond’s traditions — it was enough without giving them such a general extension. It was her scorn of his assumptions, it was this that made him draw himself up. He had plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as well furnished; but that she should turn the hot light of her disdain107 upon his own conception of things — this was a danger he had not allowed for. He believed he should have regulated her emotions before she came to it; and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched108 on his discovering he had been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one that sensation there was nothing left but to hate her.
She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred109, which at first had been a refuge and a refreshment110, had become the occupation and comfort of his life. The feeling was deep, because it was sincere; he had had the revelation that she could after all dispense75 with him. If to herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at first as a kind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite effect might it not be expected to have had upon HIM? It was very simple; he despised her; she had no traditions and the moral horizon of a Unitarian minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand Unitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living with now for a time that she had ceased to measure. What was coming — what was before them? That was her constant question. What would he do — what ought SHE to do? When a man hated his wife what did it lead to? She didn’t hate him, that she was sure of, for every little while she felt a passionate93 wish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt afraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she had deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married, at all events, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely spoken to her for a week; his manner was as dry as a burned-out fire. She knew there was a special reason; he was displeased111 at Ralph Touchett’s staying on in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her cousin — he had told her a week before it was indecent she should go to him at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph’s invalid112 state had not appeared to make it brutal113 to denounce him; but having had to contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this as she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband’s rage as if Osmond had locked her into her room — which she was sure was what he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she was not defiant114, but she certainly couldn’t pretend to be indifferent to Ralph. She believed he was dying at last and that she should never see him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that she had never known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There was an everlasting115 weight on her heart — there was a livid light on everything. But Ralph’s little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the hour that she sat with him her ache for herself became somehow her ache for HIM. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never had a brother, but if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying, he would be dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her there was perhaps some reason; it didn’t make Gilbert look better to sit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him — it was not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It was simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There was something in Ralph’s talk, in his smile, in the mere116 fact of his being in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more spacious117. He made her feel the good of the world; he made her feel what might have been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond — quite apart from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act of devotion to conceal118 her misery119 from him. She concealed120 it elaborately; she was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and before her again — it lived before her again — it had never had time to die — that morning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond. She had only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to feel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery, what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more intelligent — to arrive at such a judgement as that. Gilbert had never been so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her at least he should never know if he was right; and this was what she was taking care of now. It gave her plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation, religion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange exercises, and Isabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin, had an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a kindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was, the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had once wounded her greatly and that the event had put him to shame, but that, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge121 and even considerately forbore to flaunt122 her happiness in his face. Ralph smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary form of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She didn’t wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that was the great thing, and it didn’t matter that such knowledge would rather have righted him.
For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but her vigil took no heed123 of time. Her mind, assailed124 by visions, was in a state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to her there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why Pansy shouldn’t be married as you would put a letter in the post-office? When the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for the lamp had long since gone out and the candles burned down to their sockets125. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room and stood there gazing at a remembered vision — that of her husband and Madame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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17
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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18
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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19
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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21
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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22
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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23
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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24
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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25
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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26
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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27
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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28
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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29
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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30
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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31
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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32
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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33
malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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34
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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35
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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36
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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37
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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38
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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39
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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40
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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41
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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42
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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43
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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44
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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49
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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50
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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51
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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52
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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53
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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54
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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55
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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56
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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57
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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58
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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59
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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60
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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61
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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62
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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63
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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64
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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65
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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66
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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67
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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68
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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69
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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70
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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71
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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72
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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73
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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74
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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75
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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76
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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77
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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78
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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79
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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80
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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81
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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82
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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83
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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84
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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85
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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86
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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88
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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89
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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90
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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91
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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93
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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94
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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95
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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96
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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97
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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98
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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99
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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100
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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101
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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102
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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103
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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104
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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105
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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106
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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107
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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108
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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109
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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110
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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111
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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112
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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113
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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114
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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115
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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116
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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117
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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118
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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119
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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120
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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121
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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122
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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123
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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124
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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125
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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