There is something in the decay of ancient grandeur2 to interest even the most unconcerned spectator — the evidences of greatness, of power, and of pride that survive the wreck3 of time, proving, in mournful contrast with present desolation and decay, what WAS in other days, appeal, with a resistless power, to the sympathies of our nature. And when, as we gaze on the scion4 of some ruined family, the first impulse of nature that bids us regard his fate with interest and respect is justified5 by the recollection of great exertions7 and self-devotion and sacrifices in the cause of a lost country and of a despised religion — sacrifices and efforts made with all the motives8 of faithfulness and of honour, and terminating in ruin — in such a case respect becomes veneration9, and the interest we feel amounts almost to a passion.
It is this feeling which has thrown the magic veil of romance over every roofless castle and ruined turret10 throughout our country; it is this feeling that, so long as a tower remains11 above the level of the soil, so long as one scion of a prostrate12 and impoverished13 family survives, will never suffer Ireland to yield to the stranger more than the ‘mouth honour’ which fear compels.3 I who have conversed14 viva voce et propria persona with those whose recollections could run back so far as the times previous to the confiscations which followed the Revolution of 1688 — whose memory could repeople halls long roofless and desolate17, and point out the places where greatness once had been, may feel all this more strongly, and with a more vivid interest, than can those whose sympathies are awakened18 by the feebler influence of what may be called the PICTURESQUE19 effects of ruin and decay.
3 This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate20 a statement of Mr. O’Connell’s, which occurs in his evidence given before the House of Commons, wherein he affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood ‘ARE democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.’— See digest of the evidence upon the state of Ireland, given before the House of Commons.
There do, indeed, still exist some fragments of the ancient Catholic families of Ireland; but, alas21! what VERY fragments! They linger like the remnants of her aboriginal22 forests, reft indeed of their strength and greatness, but proud even in decay. Every winter thins their ranks, and strews23 the ground with the wreck of their loftiest branches; they are at best but tolerated in the land which gave them birth — objects of curiosity, perhaps of pity, to one class, but of veneration to another.
The O’Connors, of Castle Connor, were an ancient Irish family. The name recurs25 frequently in our history, and is generally to be found in a prominent place whenever periods of tumult26 or of peril27 called forth28 the courage and the enterprise of this country. After the accession of William III., the storm of confiscation16 which swept over the land made woeful havoc30 in their broad domains31. Some fragments of property, however, did remain to them, and with it the building which had for ages formed the family residence.
About the year 17 — my uncle, a Catholic priest, became acquainted with the inmates33 of Castle Connor, and after a time introduced me, then a lad of about fifteen, full of spirits, and little dreaming that a profession so grave as his should ever become mine.
The family at that time consisted of but two members, a widow lady and her only son, a young man aged35 about eighteen. In our early days the progress from acquaintance to intimacy36, and from intimacy to friendship is proverbially rapid; and young O’Connor and I became, in less than a month, close and confidential37 companions — an intercourse38 which ripened39 gradually into an attachment40 ardent41, deep, and devoted42 — such as I believe young hearts only are capable of forming.
He had been left early fatherless, and the representative and heir of his family. His mother’s affection for him was intense in proportion as there existed no other object to divide it — indeed — such love as that she bore him I have never seen elsewhere. Her love was better bestowed43 than that of mothers generally is, for young O’Connor, not without some of the faults, had certainly many of the most engaging qualities of youth. He had all the frankness and gaiety which attract, and the generosity44 of heart which confirms friendship; indeed, I never saw a person so universally popular; his very faults seemed to recommend him; he was wild, extravagant45, thoughtless, and fearlessly adventurous46 — defects of character which, among the peasantry of Ireland, are honoured as virtues48. The combination of these qualities, and the position which O’Connor occupied as representative of an ancient Irish Catholic family — a peculiarly interesting one to me, one of the old faith — endeared him to me so much that I have never felt the pangs50 of parting more keenly than when it became necessary, for the finishing of his education, that he should go abroad.
Three years had passed away before I saw him again. During the interval51, however, I had frequently heard from him, so that absence had not abated52 the warmth of our attachment. Who could tell of the rejoicings that marked the evening of his return? The horses were removed from the chaise at the distance of a mile from the castle, while it and its contents were borne rapidly onward53 almost by the pressure of the multitude, like a log upon a torrent54. Bonfires blared far and near — bagpipes55 roared and fiddles56 squeaked57; and, amid the thundering shouts of thousands, the carriage drew up before the castle.
In an instant young O’Connor was upon the ground, crying, ‘Thank you, boys — thank you, boys;’ while a thousand hands were stretched out from all sides to grasp even a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of ‘God bless your honour — long may you reign58!’ and ‘Make room there, boys! clear the road for the masther!’ he reached the threshold of the castle, where stood his mother weeping for joy.
Oh! who could describe that embrace, or the enthusiasm with which it was witnessed? ‘God bless him to you, my lady — glory to ye both!’ and ‘Oh, but he is a fine young gentleman, God bless him!’ resounded59 on all sides, while hats flew up in volleys that darkened the moon; and when at length, amid the broad delighted grins of the thronging61 domestics, whose sense of decorum precluded62 any more boisterous63 evidence of joy, they reached the parlour, then giving way to the fulness of her joy the widowed mother kissed and blessed him and wept in turn. Well might any parent be proud to claim as son the handsome stripling who now represented the Castle Connor family; but to her his beauty had a peculiar49 charm, for it bore a striking resemblance to that of her husband, the last O’Connor.
I know not whether partiality blinded me, or that I did no more than justice to my friend in believing that I had never seen so handsome a young man. I am inclined to think the latter. He was rather tall, very slightly and elegantly made; his face was oval, and his features decidedly Spanish in cast and complexion65, but with far more vivacity66 of expression than generally belongs to the beauty of that nation. The extreme delicacy67 of his features and the varied68 animation69 of his countenance70 made him appear even younger than his years — an illusion which the total absence of everything studied in his manners seemed to confirm. Time had wrought71 no small change in me, alike in mind and spirits; but in the case of O’Connor it seemed to have lost its power to alter. His gaiety was undamped, his generosity unchilled; and though the space which had intervened between our parting and reunion was but brief, yet at the period of life at which we were, even a shorter interval than that of three years has frequently served to form or DEform72 a character.
Weeks had passed away since the return of O’Connor, and scarce a day had elapsed without my seeing him, when the neighbourhood was thrown into an unusual state of excitement by the announcement of a race-ball to be celebrated73 at the assembly-room of the town of T— — distant scarcely two miles from Castle Connor.
Young O’Connor, as I had expected, determined74 at once to attend it; and having directed in vain all the powers of his rhetoric75 to persuade his mother to accompany him, he turned the whole battery of his logic76 upon me, who, at that time, felt a reluctance77 stronger than that of mere78 apathy79 to mixing in any of these scenes of noisy pleasure for which for many reasons I felt myself unfitted. He was so urgent and persevering80, however, that I could not refuse; and I found myself reluctantly obliged to make up my mind to attend him upon the important night to the spacious82 but ill-finished building, which the fashion and beauty of the county were pleased to term an assembly-room.
When we entered the apartment, we found a select few, surrounded by a crowd of spectators, busily performing a minuet, with all the congees83 and flourishes which belonged to that courtly dance; and my companion, infected by the contagion84 of example, was soon, as I had anticipated, waving his chapeau bras, and gracefully85 bowing before one of the prettiest girls in the room. I had neither skill nor spirits to qualify me to follow his example; and as the fulness of the room rendered it easy to do so without its appearing singular, I determined to be merely a spectator of the scene which surrounded me, without taking an active part in its amusements.
The room was indeed very much crowded, so that its various groups, formed as design or accident had thrown the parties together, afforded no small fund of entertainment to the contemplative observer. There were the dancers, all gaiety and good-humour; a little further off were the tables at which sat the card-players, some plying87 their vocation88 with deep and silent anxiety — for in those days gaming often ran very high in such places — and others disputing with all the vociferous89 pertinacity90 of undisguised ill-temper. There, again, were the sallow, blue-nosed, grey-eyed dealers91 in whispered scandal; and, in short, there is scarcely a group or combination to be met with in the court of kings which might not have found a humble92 parallel in the assembly-room of T——.
I was allowed to indulge in undisturbed contemplation, for I suppose I was not known to more than five or six in the room. I thus had leisure not only to observe the different classes into which the company had divided itself, but to amuse myself by speculating as to the rank and character of many of the individual actors in the drama.
Among many who have long since passed from my memory, one person for some time engaged my attention, and that person, for many reasons, I shall not soon forget. He was a tall, square-shouldered man, who stood in a careless attitude, leaning with his back to the wall; he seemed to have secluded93 himself from the busy multitudes which moved noisily and gaily94 around him, and nobody seemed to observe or to converse15 with him. He was fashionably dressed, but perhaps rather extravagantly95; his face was full and heavy, expressive96 of sullenness98 and stupidity, and marked with the lines of strong vulgarity; his age might be somewhere between forty and fifty. Such as I have endeavoured to describe him, he remained motionless, his arms doggedly99 folded across his broad chest, and turning his sullen97 eyes from corner to corner of the room, as if eager to detect some object on which to vent47 his ill-humour.
It is strange, and yet it is true, that one sometimes finds even in the most commonplace countenance an undefinable something, which fascinates the attention, and forces it to recur24 again and again, while it is impossible to tell whether the peculiarity100 which thus attracts us lies in feature or in expression. or in both combined, and why it is that our observation should be engrossed101 by an object which, when analysed, seems to possess no claim to interest or even to notice. This unaccountable feeling I have often experienced, and I believe I am not singular. but never in so remarkable102 a degree as upon this occasion. My friend O’Connor, having disposed of his fair partner, was crossing the room for the purpose of joining me, in doing which I was surprised to see him exchange a familiar, almost a cordial, greeting with the object of my curiosity. I say I was surprised, for independent of his very questionable103 appearance, it struck me as strange that though so constantly associated with O’Connor, and, as I thought, personally acquainted with all his intimates, I had never before even seen this individual. I did not fail immediately to ask him who this gentleman was. I thought he seemed slightly embarrassed, but after a moment’s pause he laughingly said that his friend over the way was too mysterious a personage to have his name announced in so giddy a scene as the present; but that on the morrow he would furnish me with all the information which I could desire. There was, I thought, in his affected105 jocularity a real awkwardness which appeared to me unaccountable, and consequently increased my curiosity; its gratification, however, I was obliged to defer106. At length, wearied with witnessing amusements in which I could not sympathise, I left the room, and did not see O’Connor until late in the next day.
I had ridden down towards the castle for the purpose of visiting the O’Connors, and had nearly reached the avenue leading to the mansion107, when I met my friend. He was also mounted; and having answered my inquiries108 respecting his mother, he easily persuaded me to accompany him in his ramble109. We had chatted as usual for some time, when, after a pause, O’Connor said:
‘By the way, Purcell, you expressed some curiosity respecting the tall, handsome fellow to whom I spoke110 last night.’
‘I certainly did question you about a TALL gentleman, but was not aware of his claims to beauty,’ replied I.
‘Well, that is as it may be,’ said he; ‘the ladies think him handsome, and their opinion upon that score is more valuable than yours or mine. Do you know,’ he continued, ‘I sometimes feel half sorry that I ever made the fellow’s acquaintance: he is quite a marked man here, and they tell stories of him that are anything but reputable, though I am sure without foundation. I think I know enough about him to warrant me in saying so.’
‘May I ask his name?’ inquired I.
‘Oh! did not I tell you his name?’ rejoined he. ‘You should have heard that first; he and his name are equally well known. You will recognise the individual at once when I tell you that his name is — Fitzgerald.’
‘Fitzgerald!’ I repeated. ‘Fitzgerald! — can it be Fitzgerald the duellist112?’
‘Upon my word you have hit it,’ replied he, laughing; ‘but you have accompanied the discovery with a look of horror more tragic113 than appropriate. He is not the monster you take him for — he has a good deal of old Irish pride; his temper is hasty, and he has been unfortunately thrown in the way of men who have not made allowance for these things. I am convinced that in every case in which Fitzgerald has fought, if the truth could be discovered, he would be found to have acted throughout upon the defensive114. No man is mad enough to risk his own life, except when the doing so is an alternative to submitting tamely to what he considers an insult. I am certain that no man ever engaged in a duel111 under the consciousness that he had acted an intentionally115 aggressive part.’
‘When did you make his acquaintance?’ said I.
‘About two years ago,’ he replied. ‘I met him in France, and you know when one is abroad it is an ungracious task to reject the advances of one’s countryman, otherwise I think I should have avoided his society — less upon my own account than because I am sure the acquaintance would be a source of continual though groundless uneasiness to my mother. I know, therefore, that you will not unnecessarily mention its existence to her.’
I gave him the desired assurance, and added:
‘May I ask you. O’Connor, if, indeed, it be a fair question, whether this Fitzgerald at any time attempted to engage you in anything like gaming?’
This question was suggested by my having frequently heard Fitzgerald mentioned as a noted116 gambler, and sometimes even as a blackleg. O’Connor seemed, I thought, slightly embarrassed. He answered:
‘No, no — I cannot say that he ever attempted anything of the kind. I certainly have played with him, but never lost to any serious amount; nor can I recollect6 that he ever solicited117 me — indeed he knows that I have a strong objection to deep play. YOU must be aware that my finances could not bear much pruning118 down. I never lost more to him at a sitting than about five pounds, which you know is nothing. No, you wrong him if you imagine that he attached himself to me merely for the sake of such contemptible119 winnings as those which a broken-down Irish gentleman could afford him. Come, Purcell, you are too hard upon him — you judge only by report; you must see him, and decide for yourself. — Suppose we call upon him now; he is at the inn, in the High Street, not a mile off.’
I declined the proposal drily.
‘Your caution is too easily alarmed,’ said he. ‘I do not wish you to make this man your bosom120 friend: I merely desire that you should see and speak to him, and if you form any acquaintance with him, it must be of that slight nature which can be dropped or continued at pleasure.’
From the time that O’Connor had announced the fact that his friend was no other than the notorious Fitzgerald, a foreboding of something calamitous121 had come upon me, and it now occurred to me that if any unpleasantness were to be feared as likely to result to O’Connor from their connection, I might find my attempts to extricate122 him much facilitated by my being acquainted, however slightly, with Fitzgerald. I know not whether the idea was reasonable — it was certainly natural; and I told O’Connor that upon second thoughts I would ride down with him to the town, and wait upon Mr. Fitzgerald.
We found him at home; and chatted with him for a considerable time. To my surprise his manners were perfectly123 those of a gentleman, and his conversation, if not peculiarly engaging, was certainly amusing. The politeness of his demeanour, and the easy fluency124 with which he told his stories and his anecdotes126, many of them curious, and all more or less entertaining, accounted to my mind at once for the facility with which he had improved his acquaintance with O’Connor; and when he pressed upon us an invitation to sup with him that night, I had almost joined O’Connor in accepting it. I determined, however, against doing so, for I had no wish to be on terms of familiarity with Mr. Fitzgerald; and I knew that one evening spent together as he proposed would go further towards establishing an intimacy between us than fifty morning visits could do. When I arose to depart, it was with feelings almost favourable127 to Fitzgerald; indeed I was more than half ashamed to acknowledge to my companion how complete a revolution in my opinion respecting his friend half an hour’s conversation with him had wrought. His appearance certainly WAS against him; but then, under the influence of his manner, one lost sight of much of its ungainliness, and of nearly all its vulgarity; and, on the whole, I felt convinced that report had done him grievous wrong, inasmuch as anybody, by an observance of the common courtesies of society, might easily avoid coming into personal collision with a gentleman so studiously polite as Fitzgerald. At parting, O’Connor requested me to call upon him the next day, as he intended to make trial of the merits of a pair of greyhounds, which he had thoughts of purchasing; adding, that if he could escape in anything like tolerable time from Fitzgerald’s supper-party, he would take the field soon after ten on the next morning. At the appointed hour, or perhaps a little later, I dismounted at Castle Connor; and, on entering the hall, I observed a gentleman issuing from O’Connor’s private room. I recognised him, as he approached, as a Mr. M’Donough, and, being but slightly acquainted with him, was about to pass him with a bow, when he stopped me. There was something in his manner which struck me as odd; he seemed a good deal flurried if not agitated128, and said, in a hurried tone:
‘This is a very foolish business, Mr. Purcell. You have some influence with my friend O’Connor; I hope you can induce him to adopt some more moderate line of conduct than that he has decided64 upon. If you will allow me, I will return for a moment with you, and talk over the matter again with O’Connor.’
As M’Donough uttered these words, I felt that sudden sinking of the heart which accompanies the immediate104 anticipation129 of something dreaded130 and dreadful. I was instantly convinced that O’Connor had quarrelled with Fitzgerald, and I knew that if such were the case, nothing short of a miracle could extricate him from the consequences. I signed to M’Donough to lead the way, and we entered the little study together. O’Connor was standing131 with his back to the fire; on the table lay the breakfast-things in the disorder132 in which a hurried meal had left them; and on another smaller table, placed near the hearth133, lay pen, ink, and paper. As soon as O’Connor saw me, he came forward and shook me cordially by the hand.
‘My dear Purcell,’ said he, ‘you are the very man I wanted. I have got into an ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to get me out of it.’
‘You have had no dispute with that man — that Fitzgerald, I hope,’ said I, giving utterance134 to the conjecture135 whose truth I most dreaded.
‘Faith, I cannot say exactly what passed between us,’ said he, ‘inasmuch as I was at the time nearly half seas over; but of this much I am certain, that we exchanged angry words last night. I lost my temper most confoundedly; but, as well as I can recollect, he appeared perfectly cool and collected. What he said was, therefore, deliberately136 said, and on that account must be resented.’
‘My dear O’Connor, are you mad?’ I exclaimed. ‘Why will you seek to drive to a deadly issue a few hasty words, uttered under the influence of wine, and forgotten almost as soon as uttered? A quarrel with Fitzgerald it is twenty chances to one would terminate fatally to you.’
‘It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS such an accomplished137 shot,’ said he, ‘that I become liable to the most injurious and intolerable suspicions if I submit to anything from him which could be construed138 into an affront139; and for that reason Fitzgerald is the very last man to whom I would concede an inch in a case of honour.’
‘I do not require you to make any, the slightest sacrifice of what you term your honour,’ I replied; ‘but if you have actually written a challenge to Fitzgerald, as I suspect you have done, I conjure140 you to reconsider the matter before you despatch141 it. From all that I have heard you say, Fitzgerald has more to complain of in the altercation142 which has taken place than you. You owe it to your only surviving parent not to thrust yourself thus wantonly upon — I will say it, the most appalling143 danger. Nobody, my dear O’Connor, can have a doubt of your courage; and if at any time, which God forbid, you shall be called upon thus to risk your life, you should have it in your power to enter the field under the consciousness that you have acted throughout temperately144 and like a man, and not, as I fear you now would do, having rashly and most causelessly endangered your own life and that of your friend.’
‘I believe, Purcell, your are right,’ said he. ‘I believe I HAVE viewed the matter in too decided a light; my note, I think, scarcely allows him an honourable145 alternative, and that is certainly going a step too far — further than I intended. Mr. M’Donough, I’ll thank you to hand me the note.’
He broke the seal, and, casting his eye hastily over it, he continued:
‘It is, indeed, a monument of folly146. I am very glad, Purcell, you happened to come in, otherwise it would have reached its destination by this time.’
He threw it into the fire; and, after a moment’s pause, resumed:
‘You must not mistake me, however. I am perfectly satisfied as to the propriety147, nay148, the necessity, of communicating with Fitzgerald. The difficulty is in what tone I should address him. I cannot say that the man directly affronted149 me — I cannot recollect any one expression which I could lay hold upon as offensive — but his language was ambiguous, and admitted frequently of the most insulting construction, and his manner throughout was insupportably domineering. I know it impressed me with the idea that he presumed upon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, and that would be utterly150 unendurable’
‘I would now recommend, as I have already done,’ said M’Donough, ‘that if you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in such a strain as to leave him at perfect liberty, without a compromise of honour, in a friendly way, to satisfy your doubts as to his conduct.’
I seconded the proposal warmly, and O’Connor, in a few minutes, finished a note, which he desired us to read. It was to this effect:
‘O’Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling that some expressions employed by Mr. Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a construction offensive to him, and injurious to his character, requests to know whether Mr. Fitzgerald intended to convey such a meaning.
‘Castle Connor, Thursday morning.’
This note was consigned151 to the care of Mr. M’Donough, who forthwith departed to execute his mission. The sound of his horse’s hoofs152, as he rode rapidly away, struck heavily at my heart; but I found some satisfaction in the reflection that M’Donough appeared as averse154 from extreme measures as I was myself, for I well knew, with respect to the final result of the affair, that as much depended upon the tone adopted by the SECOND, as upon the nature of the written communication.
I have seldom passed a more anxious hour than that which intervened between the departure and the return of that gentleman. Every instant I imagined I heard the tramp of a horse approaching, and every time that a door opened I fancied it was to give entrance to the eagerly expected courier. At length I did hear the hollow and rapid tread of a horse’s hoof153 upon the avenue. It approached — it stopped — a hurried step traversed the hall — the room door opened, and M’Donough entered.
‘You have made great haste,’ said O’Connor; ‘did you find him at home?’
‘I did,’ replied M’Donough, ‘and made the greater haste as Fitzgerald did not let me know the contents of his reply.’
At the same time he handed a note to O’Connor, who instantly broke the seal. The words were as follow:
‘Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything which has fallen from him should have appeared to Mr. O’Connor to be intended to convey a reflection upon his honour (none such having been meant), and begs leave to disavow any wish to quarrel unnecessarily with Mr. O’Connor.
‘T—— Inn, Thursday morning.’
I cannot describe how much I felt relieved on reading the above communication. I took O’Connor’s hand and pressed it warmly, but my emotions were deeper and stronger than I cared to show, for I was convinced that he had escaped a most imminent155 danger. Nobody whose notions upon the subject are derived156 from the duelling of modern times, in which matters are conducted without any very sanguinary determination upon either side, and with equal want of skill and coolness by both parties, can form a just estimate of the danger incurred157 by one who ventured to encounter a duellist of the old school. Perfect coolness in the field, and a steadiness and accuracy (which to the unpractised appeared almost miraculous) in the use of the pistol, formed the characteristics of this class; and in addition to this there generally existed a kind of professional pride, which prompted the duellist, in default of any more malignant159 feeling, from motives of mere vanity, to seek the life of his antagonist160. Fitzgerald’s career had been a remarkably161 successful one, and I knew that out of thirteen duels162 which he had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he had KILLED his man. In those days one never heard of the parties leaving the field, as not unfrequently now occurs, without blood having been spilt; and the odds163 were, of course, in all cases tremendously against a young and unpractised man, when matched with an experienced antagonist. My impression respecting the magnitude of the danger which my friend had incurred was therefore by no means unwarranted.
I now questioned O’Connor more accurately164 respecting the circumstances of his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose from some dispute respecting the application of a rule of piquet, at which game they had been playing, each interpreting it favourably165 to himself, and O’Connor, having lost considerably166, was in no mood to conduct an argument with temper — an altercation ensued, and that of rather a pungent167 nature, and the result was that he left Fitzgerald’s room rather abruptly168, determined to demand an explanation in the most peremptory169 tone. For this purpose he had sent for M’Donough, and had commissioned him to deliver the note, which my arrival had fortunately intercepted170.
As it was now past noon, O’Connor made me promise to remain with him to dinner; and we sat down a party of three, all in high spirits at the termination of our anxieties. It is necessary to mention, for the purpose of accounting172 for what follows, that Mrs. O’Connor, or, as she was more euphoniously173 styled, the lady of Castle Connor, was precluded by ill-health from taking her place at the dinner-table, and, indeed, seldom left her room before four o’clock.4 We were sitting after dinner sipping174 our claret, and talking, and laughing, and enjoying ourselves exceedingly, when a servant, stepping into the room, informed his master that a gentleman wanted to speak with him.
4 It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred very nearly at noon.
‘Request him, with my compliments, to walk in,’ said O’Connor; and in a few moments a gentleman entered the room.
His appearance was anything but prepossessing. He was a little above the middle size, spare, and raw-boned; his face very red, his features sharp and bluish, and his age might be about sixty. His attire175 savoured a good deal of the SHABBY-GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much of tarnished176 and faded pretension177 about them, did not fit him, and had not improbably fluttered in the stalls of Plunket Street. We had risen on his entrance, and O’Connor had twice requested of him to take a chair at the table, without his hearing, or at least noticing, the invitation; while with a slow pace, and with an air of mingled178 importance and effrontery179, he advanced into the centre of the apartment, and regarding our small party with a supercilious180 air, he said:
‘I take the liberty of introducing myself — I am Captain M’Creagh, formerly181 of the — infantry182. My business here is with a Mr. O’Connor, and the sooner it is despatched the better.’
‘I am the gentleman you name,’ said O’Connor; ‘and as you appear impatient, we had better proceed to your commission without delay.’
‘Then, Mr. O’Connor, you will please to read that note,’ said the captain, placing a sealed paper in his hand.
O’Connor read it through, and then observed:
‘This is very extraordinary indeed. This note appears to me perfectly unaccountable.’
‘You are very young, Mr. O’Connor,’ said the captain, with vulgar familiarity; ‘but, without much experience in these matters, I think you might have anticipated something like this. You know the old saying, “Second thoughts are best;” and so they are like to prove, by G—!’
‘You will have no objection, Captain M’Creagh, on the part of your friend, to my reading this note to these gentlemen; they are both confidential friends of mine, and one of them has already acted for me in this business.’
‘I can have no objection,’ replied the captain, ‘to your doing what you please with your own. I have nothing more to do with that note once I put it safe into your hand; and when that is once done, it is all one to me, if you read it to half the world — that’s YOUR concern, and no affair of mine.’
O’Connor then read the following:
‘Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that upon re-perusing Mr. O’Connor’s communication of this morning carefully, with an experienced friend, he is forced to consider himself as challenged. His friend, Captain M’Creagh, has been empowered by him to make all the necessary arrangements.
‘T—— Inn, Thursday.’
I can hardly describe the astonishment183 with which I heard this note. I turned to the captain, and said:
‘Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all this?’
‘Not the slightest, I’ll assure you, sir.’ said he, coolly; ‘the case is a very clear one, and I think my friend has pretty well made up his mind upon it. May I request your answer?’ he continued, turning to O’Connor; ‘time is precious, you know.’
O’Connor expressed his willingness to comply with the suggestion, and in a few minutes had folded and directed the following rejoinder:
‘Mr. O’Connor having received a satisfactory explanation from Mr. Fitzgerald, of the language used by that gentleman, feels that there no longer exists any grounds for misunderstanding, and wishes further to state, that the note of which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was not intended as a challenge.’
With this note the captain departed; and as we did not doubt that the message which he had delivered had been suggested by some unintentional misconstruction of O’Connor’s first billet, we felt assured that the conclusion of his last note would set the matter at rest. In this belief, however, we were mistaken; before we had left the table, and in an incredibly short time, the captain returned. He entered the room with a countenance evidently tasked to avoid expressing the satisfaction which a consciousness of the nature of his mission had conferred; but in spite of all his efforts to look gravely unconcerned, there was a twinkle in the small grey eye, and an almost imperceptible motion in the corner of the mouth, which sufficiently184 betrayed his internal glee, as he placed a note in the hand of O’Connor. As the young man cast his eye over it, he coloured deeply, and turning to M’Donough, he said:
‘You will have the goodness to make all the necessary arrangements for a meeting. Something has occurred to render one between me and Mr. Fitzgerald inevitable185. Understand me literally186, when I say that it is now totally impossible that this affair should be amicably187 arranged. You will have the goodness, M’Donough, to let me know as soon as all the particulars are arranged. Purcell,’ he continued, ‘will you have the kindness to accompany me?’ and having bowed to M’Creagh, we left the room.
As I closed the door after me, I heard the captain laugh, and thought I could distinguish the words —‘By —— I knew Fitzgerald would bring him to his way of thinking before he stopped.’
I followed O’Connor into his study, and on entering, the door being closed, he showed me the communication which had determined him upon hostilities188. Its language was grossly impertinent, and it concluded by actually threatening to ‘POST’ him, in case he further attempted ‘to be OFF.’ I cannot describe the agony of indignation in which O’Connor writhed189 under this insult. He said repeatedly that ‘he was a degraded and dishohoured man,’ that ‘he was dragged into the field,’ that ‘there was ignominy in the very thought that such a letter should have been directed to him.’ It was in vain that I reasoned against this impression; the conviction that he had been disgraced had taken possession of his mind. He said again and again that nothing but his DEATH could remove the stain which his indecision had cast upon the name of his family. I hurried to the hall, on hearing M’Donough and the captain passing, and reached the door just in time to hear the latter say, as he mounted his horse:
‘All the rest can be arranged on the spot; and so farewell, Mr. M’Donough — we’ll meet at Philippi, you know;’ and with this classical allusion190, which was accompanied with a grin and a bow, and probably served many such occasions, the captain took his departure.
M’Donough briefly191 stated the few particulars which had been arranged. The parties were to meet at the stand-house, in the race-ground, which lay at about an equal distance between Castle Connor and the town of T——. The hour appointed was half-past five on the next morning, at which time the twilight192 would be sufficiently advanced to afford a distinct view; and the weapons to be employed were PISTOLS— M’Creagh having claimed, on the part of his friend, all the advantages of the CHALLENGED party, and having, consequently, insisted upon the choice of ‘TOOLS,’ as he expressed himself; and it was further stipulated193 that the utmost secrecy194 should be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur158 great risk from the violence of the peasantry, in case the affair took wind. These conditions were, of course, agreed upon by O’Connor, and M’Donough left the castle, having appointed four o’clock upon the next morning as the hour of his return, by which time it would be his business to provide everything necessary for the meeting. On his departure, O’Connor requested me to remain with him upon that evening, saying that ‘he could not bear to be alone with his mother.’ It was to me a most painful request, but at the same time one which I could not think of refusing. I felt, however, that the difficulty at least of the task which I had to perform would be in some measure mitigated196 by the arrival of two relations of O’Connor upon that evening.
‘It is very fortunate,’ said O’Connor, whose thoughts had been running upon the same subject, ‘that the O’Gradys will be with us to-night; their gaiety and good-humour will relieve us from a heavy task. I trust that nothing may occur to prevent their coming.’ Fervently197 concurring198 in the same wish, I accompanied O’Connor into the parlour, there to await the arrival of his mother.
God grant that I may never spend such another evening! The O’Gradys DID come, but their high and noisy spirits, so far from relieving me, did but give additional gloom to the despondency, I might say the despair, which filled my heart with misery199 — the terrible forebodings which I could not for an instant silence, turned their laughter into discord200, and seemed to mock the smiles and jests of the unconscious party. When I turned my eyes upon the mother, I thought I never had seen her look so proudly and so lovingly upon her son before — it cut me to the heart — oh, how cruelly I was deceiving her! I was a hundred times on the very point of starting up, and, at all hazards, declaring to her how matters were; but other feelings subdued202 my better emotions. Oh, what monsters are we made of by the fashions of the world! how are our kindlier and nobler feelings warped203 or destroyed by their baleful influences! I felt that it would not be HONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE204, to betray O’Connor’s secret. I sacrificed a higher and a nobler duty than I have since been called upon to perform, to the dastardly fear of bearing the unmerited censure205 of a world from which I was about to retire. O Fashion! thou gaudy206 idol207, whose feet are red with the blood of human sacrifice, would I had always felt towards thee as I now do!
O’Connor was not dejected; on the contrary, he joined with loud and lively alacrity208 in the hilarity209 of the little party; but I could see in the flush of his cheek, and in the unusual brightness of his eye, all the excitement of fever — he was making an effort almost beyond his strength, but he succeeded — and when his mother rose to leave the room, it was with the impression that her son was the gayest and most light-hearted of the company. Twice or thrice she had risen with the intention of retiring, but O’Connor, with an eagerness which I alone could understand, had persuaded her to remain until the usual hour of her departure had long passed; and when at length she arose, declaring that she could not possibly stay longer, I alone could comprehend the desolate change which passed over his manner; and when I saw them part, it was with the sickening conviction that those two beings, so dear to one another, so loved, so cherished, should meet no more.
O’Connor briefly informed his cousins of the position in which he was placed, requesting them at the same time to accompany him to the field, and this having been settled, we separated, each to his own apartment. I had wished to sit up with O’Connor, who had matters to arrange sufficient to employ him until the hour appointed for M’Donough’s visit; but he would not hear of it, and I was forced, though sorely against my will, to leave him without a companion. I went to my room, and, in a state of excitement which I cannot describe, I paced for hours up and down its narrow precincts. I could not — who could? — analyse the strange, contradictory210, torturing feelings which, while I recoiled211 in shrinking horror from the scene which the morning was to bring, yet forced me to wish the intervening time annihilated212; each hour that the clock told seemed to vibrate and tinkle213 through every nerve; my agitation214 was dreadful; fancy conjured215 up the forms of those who filled my thoughts with more than the vividness of reality; things seemed to glide216 through the dusky shadows of the room. I saw the dreaded form of Fitzgerald — I heard the hated laugh of the captain — and again the features of O’Connor would appear before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale and writhed in death, the gouts of gore217 clotted218 in the mouth, and the eye-balls glared and staring. Scared with the visions which seemed to throng60 with unceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw open the window and looked out upon the quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in the direction of the town; a heavy cloud was lowering darkly about it, and I, in impious frenzy219, prayed to God that it might burst in avenging220 fires upon the murderous wretch221 who lay beneath. At length, sick and giddy with excess of excitement, I threw myself upon the bed without removing my clothes, and endeavoured to compose myself so far as to remain quiet until the hour for our assembling should arrive.
A few minutes before four o’clock I stole noiselessly downstairs, and made my way to the small study already mentioned. A candle was burning within; and, when I opened the door, O’Connor was reading a book, which, on seeing me, he hastily closed, colouring slightly as he did so. We exchanged a cordial but mournful greeting; and after a slight pause he said, laying his hand upon the volume which he had shut a moment before:
‘Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I cannot say that I have much hope as to the issue of this morning’s rencounter. I shall avoid half the danger. If I must fall, I am determined I shall not go down to the grave with his blood upon my hands. I have resolved not to fire at Fitzgerald — that is, to fire in such a direction as to assure myself against hitting him. Do not say a word of this to the O’Gradys. Your doing so would only produce fruitless altercation; they could not understand my motives. I feel convinced that I shall not leave the field alive. If I must die today, I shall avoid an awful aggravation222 of wretchedness. Purcell,’ he continued, after a little space, ‘I was so weak as to feel almost ashamed of the manner in which I was occupied as you entered the room. Yes, I— I who will be, before this evening, a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to have spent my last moment of reflection in prayer. God pardon me! God pardon me!’ he repeated.
I took his hand and pressed it, but I could not speak. I sought for words of comfort, but they would not come. To have uttered one cheering sentence I must have contradicted every impression of my own mind. I felt too much awed223 to attempt it. Shortly afterwards, M’Donough arrived. No wretched patient ever underwent a more thrilling revulsion at the first sight of the case of surgical224 instruments under which he had to suffer, than did I upon beholding225 a certain oblong flat mahogany box, bound with brass226, and of about two feet in length, laid upon the table in the hall. O’Connor, thanking him for his punctuality, requested him to come into his study for a moment, when, with a melancholy227 collectedness, he proceeded to make arrangements for our witnessing his will. The document was a brief one, and the whole matter was just arranged, when the two O’Gradys crept softly into the room.
‘So! last will and testament,’ said the elder. ‘Why, you have a very BLUE notion of these matters. I tell you, you need not be uneasy. I remember very well, when young Ryan of Ballykealey met M’Neil the duellist, bets ran twenty to one against him. I stole away from school, and had a peep at the fun as well as the best of them. They fired together. Ryan received the ball through the collar of his coat, and M’Neil in the temple; he spun228 like a top: it was a most unexpected thing, and disappointed his friends damnably. It was admitted, however, to have been very pretty shooting upon both sides. To be sure,’ he continued, pointing to the will, ‘you are in the right to keep upon the safe side of fortune; but then, there is no occasion to be altogether so devilish down in the mouth as you appear to be.’
‘You will allow,’ said O’Connor, ‘that the chances are heavily against me.’
‘Why, let me see,’ he replied, ‘not so hollow a thin,, either. Let me see, we’ll say about four to one against you; you may chance to throw doublets like him I told you of, and then what becomes of the odds I’d like to know? But let things go as they will, I’ll give and take four to one, in pounds and tens of pounds. There, M’Donough, there’s a GET for you; b — t me, if it is not. Poh! the fellow is stolen away,’ he continued, observing that the object of his proposal had left the room; ‘but d —— it, Purcell, you are fond of a SOFT THING, too, in a quiet way — I’m sure you are — so curse me if I do not make you the same offer-is it a go?’
I was too much disgusted to make any reply, but I believe my looks expressed my feelings sufficiently, for in a moment he said:
‘Well, I see there is nothing to be done, so we may as well be stirring. M’Donough, myself, and my brother will saddle the horses in a jiffy, while you and Purcell settle anything which remains to be arranged.’
So saying, he left the room with as much alacrity as if it were to prepare for a fox-hunt. Selfish, heartless fool! I have often since heard him spoken of as A CURSED GOOD-NATURED DOG and a D—— GOOD FELLOW; but such eulogies229 as these are not calculated to mitigate195 the abhorrence230 with which his conduct upon that morning inspired me.
The chill mists of night were still hovering231 on the landscape as our party left the castle. It was a raw, comfortless morning — a kind of drizzling232 fog hung heavily over the scene, dimming the light of the sun, which had now risen, into a pale and even a grey glimmer233. As the appointed hour was fast approaching, it was proposed that we should enter the race-ground at a point close to the stand-house — a measure which would save us a ride of nearly two miles, over a broken road; at which distance there was an open entrance into the race-ground. Here, accordingly, we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the care of a country fellow who happened to be stirring at that early hour, we proceeded up a narrow lane, over a side wall of which we were to climb into the open ground where stood the now deserted234 building, under which the meeting was to take place. Our progress was intercepted by the unexpected appearance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet235 cloak which is the picturesque characteristic of the female peasantry of the south, was moving slowly down the avenue to meet us, uttering that peculiarly wild and piteous lamentation236 well known by the name of ‘the Irish cry,’ accompanied throughout by all the customary gesticulation of passionate237 grief. This rencounter was more awkward than we had at first anticipated; for, upon a nearer approach, the person proved to be no other than an old attached dependent of the family, and who had herself nursed O’Connor. She quickened her pace as we advanced almost to a run; and, throwing her arms round O’Connor’s neck, she poured forth such a torrent of lamentation, reproach, and endearment238, as showed that she was aware of the nature of our purpose, whence and by what means I knew not. It was in vain that he sought to satisfy her by evasion239, and gently to extricate himself from her embrace. She knelt upon the ground, and clasped her arms round his legs, uttering all the while such touching240 supplications, such cutting and passionate expressions of woe29, as went to my very heart.
At length, with much difficulty, we passed this most painful interruption; and, crossing the boundary wall, were placed beyond her reach. The O’Gradys damned her for a troublesome hag, and passed on with O’Connor, but I remained behind for a moment. The poor woman looked hopelessly at the high wall which separated her from him she had loved from infancy241, and to be with whom at that minute she would have given worlds, she took her seat upon a solitary242 stone under the opposite wall, and there, in a low, subdued key, she continued to utter her sorrow in words so desolate, yet expressing such a tenderness of devotion as wrung243 my heart.
‘My poor woman,’ I said, laying my hand gently upon her shoulder, ‘you will make yourself ill; the morning is very cold, and your cloak is but a thin defence against the damp and chill. Pray return home and take this; it may be useful to you.’
So saying, I dropped a purse, with what money I had about me, into her lap, but it lay there unheeded; she did not hear me.
‘Oh I my child, my child, my darlin’,’ she sobbed244, ‘are you gone from me? are you gone from me? Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen, you’ll never come back alive to me again. The crathur that slept on my bosom — the lovin’ crathur that I was so proud of — they’ll kill him, they’ll kill him. Oh, voh! voh!’
The affecting tone, the feeling, the abandonment with which all this was uttered, none can conceive who have not heard the lamentations of the Irish peasantry. It brought tears to my eyes. I saw that no consolation245 of mine could soothe246 her grief, so I turned and departed; but as I rapidly traversed the level sward which separated me from my companions, now considerably in advance, I could still hear the wailings of the solitary mourner.
As we approached the stand-house, it was evident that our antagonists247 had already arrived. Our path lay by the side of a high fence constructed of loose stones, and on turning a sharp angle at its extremity248, we found ourselves close to the appointed spot, and within a few yards of a crowd of persons, some mounted and some on foot, evidently awaiting our arrival. The affair had unaccountably taken wind, as the number of the expectants clearly showed; but for this there was now no remedy.
As our little party advanced we were met and saluted249 by several acquaintances, whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, had brought to the place. Fitzgerald and the Captain had arrived, and having dismounted, were standing upon the sod. The former, as we approached, bowed slightly and sullenly250 — while the latter, evidently in high good humour, made his most courteous251 obeisance252. No time was to be lost; and the two seconds immediately withdrew to a slight distance, for the purpose of completing the last minute arrangements. It was a brief but horrible interval — each returned to his principal to communicate the result, which was soon caught up and repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the crowd. I felt a strange and insurmountable reluctance to hear the sickening particulars detailed253; and as I stood irresolute254 at some distance from the principal parties, a top-booted squireen, with a hunting whip in his hand, bustling255 up to a companion of his, exclaimed:
“Not fire together! — did you ever hear the like? If Fitzgerald gets the first shot all is over. M’Donough sold the pass, by — — and that is the long and the short of it.’
The parties now moved down a little to a small level space, suited to the purpose; and the captain, addressing M’Donough, said:
‘Mr. M’Donough, you’ll now have the goodness to toss for choice of ground; as the light comes from the east the line must of course run north and south. Will you be so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece, while I call?’
A coin was instantly chucked into the air. The captain cried, ‘Harp.’ The HEAD was uppermost, and M’Donough immediately made choice of the southern point at which to place his friend — a position which it will be easily seen had the advantage of turning his back upon the light — no trifling256 superiority of location. The captain turned with a kind of laugh, and said:
‘By — — sir, you are as cunning as a dead pig; but you forgot one thing. My friend is a left-handed gunner, though never a bit the worse for that; so you see there is no odds as far as the choice of light goes.’
He then proceeded to measure nine paces in a direction running north and south, and the principals took their ground.
‘I must be troublesome to you once again, Mr. M’Donough. One toss more, and everything is complete. We must settle who is to have the FIRST SLAP.’
A piece of money was again thrown into the air; again the captain lost the toss and M’Donough proceeded to load the pistols. I happened to stand near Fitzgerald, and I overheard the captain, with a chuckle257, say something to him in which the word ‘cravat’ was repeated. It instantly occurred to me that the captain’s attention was directed to a bright-coloured muffler which O’Connor wore round his neck, and which would afford his antagonist a distinct and favourable mark. I instantly urged him to remove it, and at length, with difficulty, succeeded. He seemed perfectly careless as to any precaution. Everything was now ready; the pistol was placed in O’Connor’s hand, and he only awaited the word from the captain.
M’Creagh then said:
‘Mr. M’Donough, is your principal ready?’
M’Donough replied in the affirmative; and, after a slight pause, the captain, as had been arranged, uttered the words:
‘Ready — fire.’
O’Connor fired, but so wide of the mark that some one in the crowd exclaimed:
‘Fired in the air.’
‘Who says he fired in the air?’ thundered Fitzgerald. ‘By —— he lies, whoever he is.’ There was a silence. ‘But even if he was fool enough to fire in the air, it is not in HIS power to put an end to the quarrel by THAT. D—— my soul, if I am come here to be played with like a child, and by the Almighty258 —— you shall hear more of this, each and everyone of you, before I’m satisfied.’
A kind of low murmur260, or rather groan261, was now raised, and a slight motion was observable in the crowd, as if to intercept171 Fitzgerald’s passage to his horse. M’Creagh, drawing the horse close to the spot where Fitzgerald stood, threatened, with the most awful imprecations, ‘to blow the brains out of the first man who should dare to press on them.’
O’Connor now interfered262, requesting the crowd to forbear, and some degree of order was restored. He then said, ‘that in firing as he did, he had no intention whatever of waiving263 his right of firing upon Fitzgerald, and of depriving that gentleman of his right of prosecuting264 the affair to the utmost — that if any person present imagined that he intended to fire in the air, he begged to set him right; since, so far from seeking to exort an unwilling265 reconciliation266, he was determined that no power on earth should induce him to concede one inch of ground to Mr. Fitzgerald.’
This announcement was received with a shout by the crowd, who now resumed their places at either side of the plot of ground which had been measured. The principals took their places once more, and M’Creagh proceeded, with the nicest and most anxious care, to load the pistols; and this task being accomplished, Fitzgerald whispered something in the Captain’s ear, who instantly drew his friend’s horse so as to place him within a step of his rider, and then tightened267 the girths. This accomplished, Fitzgerald proceeded deliberately to remove his coat, which he threw across his horse in front of the saddle; and then, with the assistance of M’Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up to the shoulder, so as to leave the whole of his muscular arm perfectly naked. A cry of ‘Coward, coward! butcher, butcher!’ arose from the crowd. Fitzgerald paused.
‘Do you object, Mr. M’Donough? and upon what grounds, if you please?’ said he.
‘Certainly he does not,’ replied O’Connor; and, turning to M’Donough, he added, ‘pray let there be no unnecessary delay.’
‘There is no objection, then,’ said Fitzgerald.
‘I object,’ said the younger of the O’Gradys, ‘if nobody else will.’
‘ And who the devil are you, that DARES to object?’ shouted Fitzgerald; ‘and what d — d presumption268 prompts you to DARE to wag your tongue here?’
‘I am Mr. O’Grady, of Castle Blake,’ replied the young man, now much enraged269; ‘and by — — you shall answer for your language to me.’
‘Shall I, by ——? Shall I?’ cried he, with a laugh of brutal270 scorn; ‘the more the merrier, d — n the doubt of it — so now hold your tongue, for I promise you you shall have business enough of your own to think about, and that before long.’
There was an appalling ferocity in his tone and manner which no words could convey. He seemed transformed; he was actually like a man possessed271. Was it possible, I thought, that I beheld272 the courteous gentleman, the gay, good-humoured retailer273 of amusing anecdote125 with whom, scarce two days ago, I had laughed and chatted, in the blasphemous274 and murderous ruffian who glared and stormed before me!
O’Connor interposed, and requested that time should not be unnecessarily lost.
‘You have not got a second coat on?’ inquired the Captain. ‘I beg pardon, but my duty to my friend requires that I should ascertain275 the point.’
O’Connor replied in the negative. The Captain expressed himself as satisfied, adding, in what he meant to be a complimentary276 strain, ‘that he knew Mr. O’Connor would scorn to employ padding or any unfair mode of protection.’
There was now a breathless silence. O’Connor stood perfectly motionless; and, excepting the death-like paleness of his features, he exhibited no sign of agitation. His eye was steady — his lip did not tremble — his attitude was calm. The Captain, having re-examined the priming of the pistols, placed one of them in the hand of Fitzgerald. — M’Donough inquired whether the parties were prepared, and having been answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to give the word, ‘Ready.’ Fitzgerald raised his hand, but almost instantly lowered it again. The crowd had pressed too much forward as it appeared, and his eye had been unsteadied by the flapping of the skirt of a frieze277 riding-coat worn by one of the spectators.
‘In the name of my principal,’ said the Captain, ‘I must and do insist upon these gentlemen moving back a little. We ask but little; fair play, and no favour.’
The crowd moved as requested. M’Donough repeated his former question, and was answered as before. There was a breathless silence. Fitzgerald fixed278 his eye upon O’Connor. The appointed signal, ‘Ready, fire!’ was given. There was a pause while one might slowly reckon three — Fitzgerald fired — and O’Connor fell helplessly upon the ground.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said M’Creagrh; ‘for, by — — you have done for him.’
So saying, he threw himself upon his horse, and was instantly followed at a hard gallop279 by Fitzgerald.
‘Cold-blooded murder, if ever murder was committed,’ said O’Grady. ‘He shall hang for it; d — n me, but he shall.’
A hopeless attempt was made to overtake the fugitives280; but they were better mounted than any of their pursuers, and escaped with ease. Curses and actual yells of execration281 followed their course; and as, in crossing the brow of a neighbouring hill, they turned round in the saddle to observe if they were pursued, every gesture which could express fury and defiance282 was exhausted283 by the enraged and defeated multitude.
‘Clear the way, boys,’ said young O’Grady, who with me was kneeling beside O’Connor, while we supported him in our arms; ‘do not press so close, and be d — d; can’t you let the fresh air to him; don’t you see he’s dying?’
On opening his waistcoat we easily detected the wound: it was a little below the chest — a small blue mark, from which oozed284 a single heavy drop of blood.
‘He is bleeding but little — that is a comfort at all events,’ said one of the gentlemen who surrounded the wounded man.
Another suggested the expediency285 of his being removed homeward with as little delay as possible, and recommended, for this purpose, that a door should be removed from its hinges, and the patient, laid upon this, should be conveyed from the field. Upon this rude bier my poor friend was carried from that fatal ground towards Castle Connor. I walked close by his side, and observed every motion of his. He seldom opened his eyes, and was perfectly still, excepting a nervous WORKING of the fingers, and a slight, almost imperceptible twitching286 of the features, which took place, however, only at intervals287. The first word he uttered was spoken as we approached the entrance of the castle itself, when he said; repeatedly, ‘The back way, the back way.’ He feared lest his mother should meet him abruptly and without preparation; but although this fear was groundless, since she never left her room until late in the day, yet it was thought advisable, and, indeed, necessary, to caution all the servants most strongly against breathing a hint to their mistress of the events which had befallen.
Two or three gentlemen had ridden from the field one after another, promising288 that they should overtake our party before it reached the castle, bringing with them medical aid from one quarter or another; and we determined that Mrs. O’Connor should not know anything of the occurrence until the opinion of some professional man should have determined the extent of the injury which her son had sustained — a course of conduct which would at least have the effect of relieving her from the horrors of suspense289. When O’Connor found himself in his own room, and laid upon his own bed, he appeared much revived — so much so, that I could not help admitting a strong hope that all might yet be well.
‘After all, Purcell,’ said he, with a melancholy smile, and speaking with evident difficulty, ‘I believe I have got off with a trifling wound. I am sure it cannot be fatal I feel so little pain — almost none.’
I cautioned him against fatiguing290 himself by endeavouring to speak; and he remained quiet for a little time. At length he said:
‘Purcell, I trust this lesson shall not have been given in vain. God has been very merciful to me; I feel — I have an internal confidence that I am not wounded mortally. Had I been fatally wounded — had I been killed upon the spot, only think on it’— and he closed his eyes as if the very thought made him dizzy —‘struck down into the grave, unprepared as I am, in the very blossom of my sins, without a moment of repentance291 or of reflection; I must have been lost — lost for ever and ever.’
I prevailed upon him, with some difficulty, to abstain292 from such agitating293 reflections, and at length induced him to court such repose294 as his condition admitted of, by remaining perfectly silent, and as much as possible without motion.
O’Connor and I only were in the room; he had lain for some time in tolerable quiet, when I thought I distinguished295 the bustle296 attendant upon the arrival of some one at the castle, and went eagerly to the window, believing, or at least hoping, that the sounds might announce the approach of the medical man, whom we all longed most impatiently to see.
My conjecture was right; I had the satisfaction of seeing him dismount and prepare to enter the castle, when my observations were interrupted, and my attention was attracted by a smothered297, gurgling sound proceeding298 from the bed in which lay the wounded man. I instantly turned round, and in doing so the spectacle which met my eyes was sufficiently shocking.
I had left O’Connor lying in the bed, supported by pillows, perfectly calm, and with his eyes closed: he was now lying nearly in the same position, his eyes open and almost starting from their sockets299, with every feature pale and distorted as death, and vomiting300 blood in quantities that were frightful301. I rushed to the door and called for assistance; the paroxysm, though violent, was brief, and O’Connor sank into a swoon so deep and death-like, that I feared he should waken no more.
The surgeon, a little, fussy302 man, but I believe with some skill to justify303 his pretensions304, now entered the room, carrying his case of instruments, and followed by servants bearing basins and water and bandages of linen305. He relieved our doubts by instantly assuring us that ‘the patient’ was still living; and at the same time professed306 his determination to take advantage of the muscular relaxation307 which the faint had induced to examine the wound — adding that a patient was more easily ‘handled’ when in a swoon than under other circumstances.
After examining the wound in front where the ball had entered, he passed his hand round beneath the shoulder, and after a little pause he shook his head, observing that he feared very much that one of the vertebrae was fatally injured, but that he could not say decidedly until his patient should revive a little. ‘Though his language was very technical, and consequently to me nearly unintelligible308, I could perceive plainly by his manner that he considered the case as almost hopeless.
O’Connor gradually gave some signs of returning animation, and at length was so far restored as to be enabled to speak. After some few general questions as to how he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon, placing his hand upon his leg and pressing it slightly, asked him if he felt any pressure upon the limb? O’Connor answered in the negative — he pressed harder, and repeated the question; still the answer was the same, till at length, by repeated experiments, he ascertained309 that all that part of the body which lay behind the wound was paralysed, proving that the spine310 must have received some fatal injury.
‘Well, doctor,’ said O’Connor, after the examination of the wound was over; ‘well, I shall do, shan’t I?’
The physician was silent for a moment, and then, as if with an effort, he replied:
‘Indeed, my dear sir, it would not be honest to flatter you with much hope.’
‘Eh?’ said O’Connor with more alacrity than I had seen him exhibit since the morning; ‘surely I did not hear you aright; I spoke of my recovery — surely there is no doubt; there can be none — speak frankly311, doctor, for God’s sake — am I dying?’
The surgeon was evidently no stoic312, and his manner had extinguished in me every hope, even before he had uttered a word in reply.
‘You are — you are indeed dying. There is no hope; I should but deceive you if I held out any.’
As the surgeon uttered these terrible words, the hands which O’Connor had stretched towards him while awaiting his reply fell powerless by his side; his head sank forward; it seemed as if horror and despair had unstrung every nerve and sinew; he appeared to collapse313 and shrink together as a plant might under the influence of a withering314 spell.
It has often been my fate, since then, to visit the chambers315 of death and of suffering; I have witnessed fearful agonies of body and of soul; the mysterious shudderings of the departing spirit, and the heart-rending desolation of the survivors316; the severing81 of the tenderest ties, the piteous yearnings of unavailing love — of all these things the sad duties of my profession have made me a witness. But, generally speaking, I have observed in such scenes some thing to mitigate, if not the sorrows, at least the terrors, of death; the dying man seldom seems to feel the reality of his situation; a dull consciousness of approaching dissolution, a dim anticipation of unconsciousness and insensibility, are the feelings which most nearly border upon an appreciation317 of his state; the film of death seems to have overspread the mind’s eye, objects lose their distinctness, and float cloudily before it, and the apathy and apparent indifference318 with which men recognise the sure advances of immediate death, rob that awful hour of much of its terrors, and the death-bed of its otherwise inevitable agonies.
This is a merciful dispensation; but the rule has its exceptions — its terrible exceptions. When a man is brought in an instant, by some sudden accident, to the very verge319 of the fathomless320 pit of death, with all his recollections awake, and his perceptions keenly and vividly321 alive, without previous illness to subdue201 the tone of the mind as to dull its apprehensions322 — then, and then only, the death-bed is truly terrible.
Oh, what a contrast did O’Connor afford as he lay in all the abject323 helplessness of undisguised terror upon his death-bed, to the proud composure with which he had taken the field that morning. I had always before thought of death as of a quiet sleep stealing gradually upon exhausted nature, made welcome by suffering, or, at least, softened324 by resignation; I had never before stood by the side of one upon whom the hand of death had been thus suddenly laid; I had never seen the tyrant326 arrayed in his terror till then. Never before or since have I seen horror so intensely depicted327. It seemed actually as if O’Connor’s mind had been unsettled by the shock; the few words he uttered were marked with all the incoherence of distraction328; but it was not words that marked his despair most strongly, the appalling and heart-sickening groans329 that came from the terror-stricken and dying man must haunt me while I live; the expression, too, of hopeless, imploring330 agony with which he turned his eyes from object to object, I can never forget. At length, appearing suddenly to recollect himself, he said, with startling alertness, but in a voice so altered that I scarce could recognise the tones:
‘Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poor mother; she must know all, and then, quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bring him here; I must have a chance.’ He made a violent but fruitless effort to rise, and after a slight pause continued, with deep and urgent solemnity: ‘Doctor, how long shall I live? Don’t flatter me. Compliments at a death-bed are out of place; doctor, for God’s sake, as you would not have my soul perish with my body, do not mock a dying man; have I an hour to live?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the surgeon; ‘if you will but endeavour to keep yourself tranquil331; otherwise I cannot answer for a moment.’
‘Well, doctor,’ said the patient, ‘I will obey you; now, Purcell, my first and dearest friend, will you inform my poor mother of — of what you see, and return with your uncle; I know you will.’
I took the dear fellow’s hand and kissed it, it was the only answer I could give, and left the room. I asked the first female servant I chanced to meet, if her mistress were yet up, and was answered in the affirmative. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I requested her to lead me to her lady’s room, which she accordingly did; she entered first, I supposed to announce my name, and I followed closely; the poor mother said something, and held out her hands to welcome me; I strove for words; I could not speak, but nature found expression; I threw myself at her feet and covered her hands with kisses and tears. My manner was enough; with a quickness almost preternatural she understood it all; she simply said the words: ‘O’Connor is killed;’ she uttered no more.
How I left the room I know not; I rode madly to my uncle’s residence, and brought him back with me — all the rest is a blank. I remember standing by O’Connor’s bedside, and kissing the cold pallid332 forehead again and again; I remember the pale serenity333 of the beautiful features; I remember that I looked upon the dead face of my friend, and I remember no more.
For many months I lay writhing334 and raving335 in the frenzy of brain fever; a hundred times I stood tottering336 at the brink337 of death, and long after my restoration to bodily health was assured, it appeared doubtful whether I should ever be restored to reason. But God dealt very mercifully with me; His mighty259 hand rescued me from death and from madness when one or other appeared inevitable. As soon as I was permitted pen and ink, I wrote to the bereaved338 mother in a tone bordering upon frenzy. I accused myself of having made her childless; I called myself a murderer; I believed myself accursed; I could not find terms strong enough to express my abhorrence of my own conduct. But, oh! what an answer I received, so mild, so sweet, from the desolate, childless mother! its words spoke all that is beautiful in Christianity — it was forgiveness — it was resignation. I am convinced that to that letter, operating as it did upon a mind already predisposed, is owing my final determination to devote myself to that profession in which, for more than half a century, I have been a humble minister.
Years roll away, and we count them not as they pass, but their influence is not the less certain that it is silent; the deepest wounds are gradually healed, the keenest griefs are mitigated, and we, in character, feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become such altered beings, that but for some few indelible marks which past events must leave behind them, which time may soften325, but can never efface339; our very identity would be dubious340. Who has not felt all this at one time or other? Who has not mournfully felt it? This trite341, but natural train of reflection filled my mind as I approached the domain32 of Castle Connor some ten years after the occurrence of the events above narrated342. Everything looked the same as when I had left it; the old trees stood as graceful86 and as grand as ever; no plough had violated the soft green sward; no utilitarian343 hand had constrained344 the wanderings of the clear and sportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-covered rocks through which it gushed345, or the wild coppice that over-shadowed its sequestered346 nooks — but the eye that looked upon these things was altered, and memory was busy with other days, shrouding347 in sadness every beauty that met my sight.
As I approached the castle my emotions became so acutely painful that I had almost returned the way I came, without accomplishing the purpose for which I had gone thus far; and nothing but the conviction that my having been in the neighbourhood of Castle Connor without visiting its desolate mistress would render me justly liable to the severest censure, could overcome my reluctance to encountering the heavy task which was before me. I recognised the old servant who opened the door, but he did not know me. I was completely changed; suffering of body and mind had altered me in feature and in bearing, as much as in character. I asked the man whether his mistress ever saw visitors. He answered:
‘But seldom; perhaps, however, if she knew that an old friend wished to see her for a few minutes, she would gratify him so far.’
At the same time I placed my card in his hand, and requested him to deliver it to his mistress. He returned in a few moments, saying that his lady would be happy to see me in the parlour, and I accordingly followed him to the door, which he opened. I entered the room, and was in a moment at the side of my early friend and benefactress. I was too much agitated to speak; I could only hold the hands which she gave me, while, spite of every effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.
‘It was kind, very, very kind of you to come to see me,’ she said, with far more composure than I could have commanded; ‘I see it is very painful to you.’
I endeavoured to compose myself, and for a little time we remained silent; she was the first to speak:
‘You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell, when you observe the calmness with which I can speak of him who was dearest to me, who is gone; but my thoughts are always with him, and the recollections of his love’— her voice faltered348 a little —‘and the hope of meeting him hereafter enables me to bear existence.’
I said I know not what; something about resignation, I believe.
‘I hope I am resigned; God made me more: so,’ she said. ‘Oh, Mr. Purcell, I have often thought I loved my lost child TOO well. It was natural — he was my only child — he was ——’ She could not proceed for a few moments: ‘It was very natural that I should love him as I did; but it may have been sinful; I have often thought so. I doated upon him — I idolised him — I thought too little of other holier affections; and God may have taken him from me, only to teach me, by this severe lesson, that I owed to heaven a larger share of my heart than to anything earthly. I cannot think of him now without more solemn feelings than if he were with me. There is something holy in our thoughts of the dead; I feel it so.’ After a pause, she continued —‘Mr. Purcell, do you remember his features well? they were very beautiful.’ I assured her that I did. ‘Then you can tell me if you think this a faithful likeness349.’ She took from a drawer a case in which lay a miniature. I took it reverently350 from her hands; it was indeed very like — touchingly351 like. I told her so; and she seemed gratified.
As the evening was wearing fast, and I had far to go, I hastened to terminate my visit, as I had intended, by placing in her hand a letter from her son to me, written during his sojourn352 upon the Continent. I requested her to keep it; it was one in which he spoke much of her, and in terms of the tenderest affection. As she read its contents the heavy tears gathered in her eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page; she wiped them away, but they still flowed fast and silently. It was in vain that she tried to read it; her eyes were filled with tears: so she folded the letter, and placed it in her bosom. I rose to depart, and she also rose.
‘I will not ask you to delay your departure,’ said she; ‘your visit here must have been a painful one to you. I cannot find words to thank you for the letter as I would wish, or for all your kindness. It has given me a pleasure greater than I thought could have fallen to the lot of a creature so very desolate as I am; may God bless you for it!’ And thus we parted; I never saw Castle Connor or its solitary inmate34 more.
点击收听单词发音
1 legacy | |
n.遗产,遗赠;先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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2 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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3 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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4 scion | |
n.嫩芽,子孙 | |
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5 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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6 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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7 exertions | |
n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
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8 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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9 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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10 turret | |
n.塔楼,角塔 | |
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11 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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12 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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13 impoverished | |
adj.穷困的,无力的,用尽了的v.使(某人)贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 );使(某物)贫瘠或恶化 | |
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14 conversed | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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15 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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16 confiscation | |
n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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17 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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18 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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19 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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20 corroborate | |
v.支持,证实,确定 | |
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21 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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22 aboriginal | |
adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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23 strews | |
v.撒在…上( strew的第三人称单数 );散落于;点缀;撒满 | |
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24 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
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25 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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27 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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28 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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29 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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30 havoc | |
n.大破坏,浩劫,大混乱,大杂乱 | |
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31 domains | |
n.范围( domain的名词复数 );领域;版图;地产 | |
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32 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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33 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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34 inmate | |
n.被收容者;(房屋等的)居住人;住院人 | |
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35 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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36 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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37 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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38 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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39 ripened | |
v.成熟,使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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41 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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42 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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43 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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45 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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46 adventurous | |
adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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47 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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48 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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49 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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50 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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51 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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52 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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53 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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54 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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55 bagpipes | |
n.风笛;风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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56 fiddles | |
n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 );欺诈;(需要运用手指功夫的)细巧活动;当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 );篡改;骗取;修理或稍作改动 | |
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57 squeaked | |
v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 );吱吱叫;告密;充当告密者 | |
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58 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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59 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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60 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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61 thronging | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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62 precluded | |
v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 );排除;妨碍;使…行不通 | |
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63 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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64 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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65 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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66 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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67 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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68 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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69 animation | |
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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70 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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71 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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72 deform | |
vt.损坏…的形状;使变形,使变丑;vi.变形 | |
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73 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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74 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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75 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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76 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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77 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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78 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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79 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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80 persevering | |
a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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81 severing | |
v.切断,断绝( sever的现在分词 );断,裂 | |
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82 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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83 congees | |
v.告别,鞠躬( congee的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84 contagion | |
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
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85 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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86 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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87 plying | |
v.使用(工具)( ply的现在分词 );经常供应(食物、饮料);固定往来;经营生意 | |
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88 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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89 vociferous | |
adj.喧哗的,大叫大嚷的 | |
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90 pertinacity | |
n.执拗,顽固 | |
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91 dealers | |
n.商人( dealer的名词复数 );贩毒者;毒品贩子;发牌者 | |
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92 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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93 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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94 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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95 extravagantly | |
adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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96 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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97 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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98 sullenness | |
n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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99 doggedly | |
adv.顽强地,固执地 | |
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100 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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101 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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102 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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103 questionable | |
adj.可疑的,有问题的 | |
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104 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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105 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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106 defer | |
vt.推迟,拖延;vi.(to)遵从,听从,服从 | |
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107 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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108 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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109 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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110 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 | |
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111 duel | |
n./v.决斗;(双方的)斗争 | |
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112 duellist | |
n.决斗者;[体]重剑运动员 | |
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113 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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114 defensive | |
adj.防御的;防卫的;防守的 | |
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115 intentionally | |
ad.故意地,有意地 | |
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116 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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117 solicited | |
v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 );(指娼妇)拉客;索求;征求 | |
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118 pruning | |
n.修枝,剪枝,修剪v.修剪(树木等)( prune的现在分词 );精简某事物,除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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119 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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120 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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121 calamitous | |
adj.灾难的,悲惨的;多灾多难;惨重 | |
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122 extricate | |
v.拯救,救出;解脱 | |
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123 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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124 fluency | |
n.流畅,雄辩,善辩 | |
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125 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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126 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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127 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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128 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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129 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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130 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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131 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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132 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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133 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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134 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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135 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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136 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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137 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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138 construed | |
v.解释(陈述、行为等)( construe的过去式和过去分词 );翻译,作句法分析 | |
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139 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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140 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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141 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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142 altercation | |
n.争吵,争论 | |
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143 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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144 temperately | |
adv.节制地,适度地 | |
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145 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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146 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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147 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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148 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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149 affronted | |
adj.被侮辱的,被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 );相遇 | |
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150 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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151 consigned | |
v.把…置于(令人不快的境地)( consign的过去式和过去分词 );把…托付给;把…托人代售;丟弃 | |
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152 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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153 hoof | |
n.(马,牛等的)蹄 | |
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154 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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155 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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156 derived | |
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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157 incurred | |
[医]招致的,遭受的; incur的过去式 | |
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158 incur | |
vt.招致,蒙受,遭遇 | |
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159 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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160 antagonist | |
n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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161 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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162 duels | |
n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 );竞争,斗争 | |
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163 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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164 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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165 favourably | |
adv. 善意地,赞成地 =favorably | |
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166 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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167 pungent | |
adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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168 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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169 peremptory | |
adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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170 intercepted | |
拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 ); 截住; 截击; 拦阻 | |
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171 intercept | |
vt.拦截,截住,截击 | |
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172 accounting | |
n.会计,会计学,借贷对照表 | |
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173 euphoniously | |
adj.悦耳的 | |
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174 sipping | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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175 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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176 tarnished | |
(通常指金属)(使)失去光泽,(使)变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 ); 玷污,败坏 | |
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177 pretension | |
n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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178 mingled | |
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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179 effrontery | |
n.厚颜无耻 | |
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180 supercilious | |
adj.目中无人的,高傲的;adv.高傲地;n.高傲 | |
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181 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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182 infantry | |
n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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183 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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184 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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185 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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186 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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187 amicably | |
adv.友善地 | |
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188 hostilities | |
n.战争;敌意(hostility的复数);敌对状态;战事 | |
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189 writhed | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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191 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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192 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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193 stipulated | |
vt.& vi.规定;约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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194 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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195 mitigate | |
vt.(使)减轻,(使)缓和 | |
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196 mitigated | |
v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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198 concurring | |
同时发生的,并发的 | |
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199 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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200 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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201 subdue | |
vt.制服,使顺从,征服;抑制,克制 | |
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202 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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203 warped | |
adj.反常的;乖戾的;(变)弯曲的;变形的v.弄弯,变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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204 etiquette | |
n.礼仪,礼节;规矩 | |
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205 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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206 gaudy | |
adj.华而不实的;俗丽的 | |
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207 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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208 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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209 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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210 contradictory | |
adj.反驳的,反对的,抗辩的;n.正反对,矛盾对立 | |
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211 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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212 annihilated | |
v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
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213 tinkle | |
vi.叮当作响;n.叮当声 | |
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214 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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215 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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216 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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217 gore | |
n.凝血,血污;v.(动物)用角撞伤,用牙刺破;缝以补裆;顶 | |
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218 clotted | |
adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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219 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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220 avenging | |
adj.报仇的,复仇的v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 );为…报复 | |
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221 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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222 aggravation | |
n.烦恼,恼火 | |
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223 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224 surgical | |
adj.外科的,外科医生的,手术上的 | |
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225 beholding | |
v.看,注视( behold的现在分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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226 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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227 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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228 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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229 eulogies | |
n.颂词,颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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230 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
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231 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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232 drizzling | |
下蒙蒙细雨,下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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233 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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234 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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235 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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236 lamentation | |
n.悲叹,哀悼 | |
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237 passionate | |
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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238 endearment | |
n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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239 evasion | |
n.逃避,偷漏(税) | |
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240 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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241 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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242 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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243 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
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244 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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245 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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246 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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247 antagonists | |
对立[对抗] 者,对手,敌手( antagonist的名词复数 ); 对抗肌; 对抗药 | |
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248 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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249 saluted | |
v.欢迎,致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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250 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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251 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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252 obeisance | |
n.鞠躬,敬礼 | |
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253 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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254 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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255 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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256 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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257 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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258 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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259 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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260 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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261 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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262 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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263 waiving | |
v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 );搁置;推迟;放弃(权利、要求等) | |
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264 prosecuting | |
检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 ); 对某人提起公诉; 继续从事(某事物); 担任控方律师 | |
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265 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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266 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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267 tightened | |
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
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268 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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269 enraged | |
使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 ); 歜; 激愤 | |
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270 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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271 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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272 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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273 retailer | |
n.零售商(人) | |
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274 blasphemous | |
adj.亵渎神明的,不敬神的 | |
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275 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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276 complimentary | |
adj.赠送的,免费的,赞美的,恭维的 | |
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277 frieze | |
n.(墙上的)横饰带,雕带 | |
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278 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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279 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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280 fugitives | |
n.亡命者,逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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281 execration | |
n.诅咒,念咒,憎恶 | |
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282 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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283 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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284 oozed | |
v.(浓液等)慢慢地冒出,渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 );使(液体)缓缓流出;(浓液)渗出,慢慢流出 | |
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285 expediency | |
n.适宜;方便;合算;利己 | |
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286 twitching | |
n.颤搐 | |
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287 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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288 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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289 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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290 fatiguing | |
a.使人劳累的 | |
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291 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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292 abstain | |
v.自制,戒绝,弃权,避免 | |
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293 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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294 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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295 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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296 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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297 smothered | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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298 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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299 sockets | |
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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300 vomiting | |
吐 | |
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301 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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302 fussy | |
adj.为琐事担忧的,过分装饰的,爱挑剔的 | |
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303 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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304 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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305 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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306 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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307 relaxation | |
n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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308 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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309 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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310 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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311 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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312 stoic | |
n.坚忍克己之人,禁欲主义者 | |
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313 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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314 withering | |
使人畏缩的,使人害羞的,使人难堪的 | |
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315 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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316 survivors | |
幸存者,残存者,生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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317 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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318 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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319 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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320 fathomless | |
a.深不可测的 | |
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321 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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322 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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323 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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324 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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325 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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326 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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327 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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328 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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329 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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330 imploring | |
恳求的,哀求的 | |
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331 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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332 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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333 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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334 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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335 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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336 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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337 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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338 bereaved | |
adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去(希望、生命等)( bereave的过去式和过去分词);(尤指死亡)使丧失(亲人、朋友等);使孤寂;抢走(财物) | |
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339 efface | |
v.擦掉,抹去 | |
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340 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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341 trite | |
adj.陈腐的 | |
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342 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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343 utilitarian | |
adj.实用的,功利的 | |
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344 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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345 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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346 sequestered | |
adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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347 shrouding | |
n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 );保密 | |
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348 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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349 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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350 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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351 touchingly | |
adv.令人同情地,感人地,动人地 | |
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352 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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