The following paper is written in a female hand, and was no doubt communicated to my much-regretted friend by the lady whose early history it serves to illustrate2, the Countess D——. She is no more — she long since died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, as her letter sadly predicts, none survive to whom the publication of this narrative3 can prove ‘injurious, or even painful.’ Strange! two powerful and wealthy families, that in which she was born, and that into which she had married, have ceased to be — they are utterly4 extinct.
To those who know anything of the history of Irish families, as they were less than a century ago, the facts which immediately follow will at once suggest THE NAMES of the principal actors; and to others their publication would be useless — to us, possibly, if not probably, injurious. I have, therefore, altered such of the names as might, if stated, get us into difficulty; others, belonging to minor7 characters in the strange story, I have left untouched.
My dear friend — You have asked me to furnish you with a detail of the strange events which marked my early history, and I have, without hesitation9, applied10 myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, a kind consideration for my feelings will prevent your giving publicity11 to the statement; and conscious that, when I am no more, there will not survive one to whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even painful.
My mother died when I was quite an infant, and of her I have no recollection, even the faintest. By her death, my education and habits were left solely13 to the guidance of my surviving parent; and, as far as a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an active anxiety evinced by his procuring14 for me the best masters to perfect me in those accomplishments15 which my station and wealth might seem to require, could avail, he amply discharged the task.
My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment of me, though uniformly kind, flowed less from affection and tenderness than from a sense of obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke17 to him except at meal-times, and then his manner was silent and abrupt18; his leisure hours, which were many, were passed either in his study or in solitary19 walks; in short, he seemed to take no further interest in my happiness or improvement than a conscientious20 regard to the discharge of his own duty would seem to claim.
Shortly before my birth a circumstance had occurred which had contributed much to form and to confirm my father’s secluded21 habits — it was the fact that a suspicion of MURDER had fallen upon his younger brother, though not sufficiently22 definite to lead to an indictment23, yet strong enough to ruin him in public opinion.
This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the family name, my father felt deeply and bitterly, and not the less so that he himself was thoroughly25 convinced of his brother’s innocence26. The sincerity27 and strength of this impression he shortly afterwards proved in a manner which produced the dark events which follow. Before, however, I enter upon the statement of them, I ought to relate the circumstances which had awakened29 the suspicion; inasmuch as they are in themselves somewhat curious, and, in their effects, most intimately connected with my after-history.
My uncle, Sir Arthur T——n, was a gay and extravagant31 man, and, among other vices32, was ruinously addicted34 to gaming; this unfortunate propensity35, even after his fortune had suffered so severely36 as to render inevitable37 a reduction in his expenses by no means inconsiderable, nevertheless continued to actuate him, nearly to the exclusion38 of all other pursuits; he was, however, a proud, or rather a vain man, and could not bear to make the diminution39 of his income a matter of gratulation and triumph to those with whom he had hitherto competed, and the consequence was, that he frequented no longer the expensive haunts of dissipation, and retired40 from the gay world, leaving his coterie41 to discover his reasons as best they might.
He did not, however, forego his favourite vice33, for, though he could not worship his great divinity in the costly42 temples where it was formerly43 his wont44 to take his stand, yet he found it very possible to bring about him a sufficient number of the votaries45 of chance to answer all his ends. The consequence was, that Carrickleigh, which was the name of my uncle’s residence, was never without one or more of such visitors as I have described.
It happened that upon one occasion he was visited by one Hugh Tisdall, a gentleman of loose habits, but of considerable wealth, and who had, in early youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Continent; the period of his visit was winter, and, consequently, the house was nearly deserted46 excepting by its regular inmates47; it was therefore highly acceptable, particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor’s tastes accorded exactly with his own.
Both parties seemed determined48 to avail themselves of their suitability during the brief stay which Mr. Tisdall had promised; the consequence was, that they shut themselves up in Sir Arthur’s private room for nearly all the day and the greater part of the night, during the space of nearly a week, at the end of which the servant having one morning, as usual, knocked at Mr. Tisdall’s bedroom door repeatedly, received no answer, and, upon attempting to enter, found that it was locked; this appeared suspicious, and, the inmates of the house having been alarmed, the door was forced open, and, on proceeding49 to the bed, they found the body of its occupant perfectly50 lifeless, and hanging half-way out, the head downwards51, and near the floor. One deep wound had been inflicted52 upon the temple, apparently53 with some blunt instrument which had penetrated54 the brain; and another blow, less effective, probably the first aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the scalp, but leaving the skull55 untouched. The door had been double-locked upon the INSIDE, in evidence of which the key still lay where it had been placed in the lock.
The window, though not secured on the interior, was closed — a circumstance not a little puzzling, as it afforded the only other mode of escape from the room; it looked out, too, upon a kind of courtyard, round which the old buildings stood, formerly accessible by a narrow doorway56 and passage lying in the oldest side of the quadrangle, but which had since been built up, so as to preclude57 all ingress or egress58; the room was also upon the second story, and the height of the window considerable. Near the bed were found a pair of razors belonging to the murdered man, one of them upon the ground, and both of them open. The weapon which had inflicted the mortal wound was not to be found in the room, nor were any footsteps or other traces of the murderer discoverable.
At the suggestion of Sir Arthur himself, a coroner was instantly summoned to attend, and an inquest was held; nothing, however, in any degree conclusive59 was elicited60; the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room were carefully examined, in order to ascertain62 whether they contained a trap-door or other concealed64 mode of entrance — but no such thing appeared.
Such was the minuteness of investigation65 employed, that, although the grate had contained a large fire during the night, they proceeded to examine even the very chimney, in order to discover whether escape by it were possible; but this attempt, too, was fruitless, for the chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a perfectly perpendicular66 line from the hearth67 to a height of nearly fourteen feet above the roof, affording in its interior scarcely the possibility of ascent68, the flue being smoothly69 plastered, and sloping towards the top like an inverted70 funnel71, promising72, too, even if the summit were attained73, owing to its great height, but a precarious74 descent upon the sharp and steep-ridged roof; the ashes, too, which lay in the grate, and the soot76, as far as it could be seen, were undisturbed, a circumstance almost conclusive of the question.
Sir Arthur was of course examined; his evidence was given with clearness and unreserve, which seemed calculated to silence all suspicion. He stated that, up to the day and night immediately preceding the catastrophe77, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, at their last sitting, he had not only won back his original loss, but upwards78 of four thousand pounds in addition; in evidence of which he produced an acknowledgment of debt to that amount in the handwriting of the deceased, and bearing the date of the fatal night. He had mentioned the circumstance to his lady, and in presence of some of the domestics; which statement was supported by THEIR respective evidence.
One of the jury shrewdly observed, that the circumstance of Mr. Tisdall’s having sustained so heavy a loss might have suggested to some ill-minded persons accidentally hearing it, the plan of robbing him, after having murdered him in such a manner as might make it appear that he had committed suicide; a supposition which was strongly supported by the razors having been found thus displaced, and removed from their case. Two persons had probably been engaged in the attempt, one watching by the sleeping man, and ready to strike him in case of his awakening79 suddenly, while the other was procuring the razors and employed in inflicting80 the fatal gash81, so as to make it appear to have been the act of the murdered man himself. It was said that while the juror was making this suggestion Sir Arthur changed colour.
Nothing, however, like legal evidence appeared against him, and the consequence was that the verdict was found against a person or persons unknown; and for some time the matter was suffered to rest, until, after about five months, my father received a letter from a person signing himself Andrew Collis, and representing himself to be the cousin of the deceased. This letter stated that Sir Arthur was likely to incur82 not merely suspicion, but personal risk, unless he could account for certain circumstances connected with the recent murder, and contained a copy of a letter written by the deceased, and bearing date, the day of the week, and of the month, upon the night of which the deed of blood had been perpetrated. Tisdall’s note ran as follows:
‘DEAR COLLIS,
‘I have had sharp work with Sir Arthur; he tried some of his stale tricks, but soon found that I was Yorkshire too: it would not do — you understand me. We went to the work like good ones, head, heart and soul; and, in fact, since I came here, I have lost no time. I am rather fagged, but I am sure to be well paid for my hardship; I never want sleep so long as I can have the music of a dice-box, and wherewithal to pay the piper. As I told you, he tried some of his queer turns, but I foiled him like a man, and, in return, gave him more than he could relish84 of the genuine DEAD KNOWLEDGE.
‘In short, I have plucked the old baronet as never baronet was plucked before; I have scarce left him the stump85 of a quill86; I have got promissory notes in his hand to the amount of — if you like round numbers, say, thirty thousand pounds, safely deposited in my portable strong-box, alias87 double-clasped pocket-book. I leave this ruinous old rat-hole early on tomorrow, for two reasons — first, I do not want to play with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security, that is, his money, or his money’s worth, would warrant; and, secondly88, because I am safer a hundred miles from Sir Arthur than in the house with him. Look you, my worthy89, I tell you this between ourselves — I may be wrong, but, by G — I am as sure as that I am now living, that Sir A—— attempted to poison me last night; so much for old friendship on both sides.
‘When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, my friend leant his forehead upon his hands, and you’ll laugh when I tell you that his head literally91 smoked like a hot dumpling. I do not know whether his agitation92 was produced by the plan which he had against me, or by his having lost so heavily — though it must be allowed that he had reason to be a little funked, whichever way his thoughts went; but he pulled the bell, and ordered two bottles of champagne93. While the fellow was bringing them he drew out a promissory note to the full amount, which he signed, and, as the man came in with the bottles and glasses, he desired him to be off; he filled out a glass for me, and, while he thought my eyes were off, for I was putting up his note at the time, he dropped something slyly into it, no doubt to sweeten it; but I saw it all, and, when he handed it to me, I said, with an emphasis which he might or might not understand:
‘ “There is some sediment94 in this; I’ll not drink it.”
‘ “Is there?” said he, and at the same time snatched it from my hand and threw it into the fire. What do you think of that? have I not a tender chicken to manage? Win or lose, I will not play beyond five thousand to-night, and tomorrow sees me safe out of the reach of Sir Arthur’s champagne. So, all things considered, I think you must allow that you are not the last who have found a knowing boy in
‘Yours to command,
‘HUGH TISDALL.’
Of the authenticity95 of this document I never heard my father express a doubt; and I am satisfied that, owing to his strong conviction in favour of his brother, he would not have admitted it without sufficient inquiry96, inasmuch as it tended to confirm the suspicions which already existed to his prejudice.
Now, the only point in this letter which made strongly against my uncle, was the mention of the ‘double-clasped pocket-book’ as the receptacle of the papers likely to involve him, for this pocket-book was not forthcoming, nor anywhere to be found, nor had any papers referring to his gaming transactions been found upon the dead man. However, whatever might have been the original intention of this Collis, neither my uncle nor my father ever heard more of him; but he published the letter in Faulkner’s newspaper, which was shortly afterwards made the vehicle of a much more mysterious attack. The passage in that periodical to which I allude98, occurred about four years afterwards, and while the fatal occurrence was still fresh in public recollection. It commenced by a rambling99 preface, stating that ‘a CERTAIN PERSON whom CERTAIN persons thought to be dead, was not so, but living, and in full possession of his memory, and moreover ready and able to make GREAT delinquents100 tremble.’ It then went on to describe the murder, without, however, mentioning names; and in doing so, it entered into minute and circumstantial particulars of which none but an EYE-WITNESS could have been possessed101, and by implications almost too unequivocal to be regarded in the light of insinuation, to involve the ‘TITLED GAMBLER’ in the guilt102 of the transaction.
My father at once urged Sir Arthur to proceed against the paper in an action of libel; but he would not hear of it, nor consent to my father’s taking any legal steps whatever in the matter. My father, however, wrote in a threatening tone to Faulkner, demanding a surrender of the author of the obnoxious103 article. The answer to this application is still in my possession, and is penned in an apologetic tone: it states that the manuscript had been handed in, paid for, and inserted as an advertisement, without sufficient inquiry, or any knowledge as to whom it referred.
No step, however, was taken to clear my uncle’s character in the judgment104 of the public; and as he immediately sold a small property, the application of the proceeds of which was known to none, he was said to have disposed of it to enable himself to buy off the threatened information. However the truth might have been, it is certain that no charges respecting the mysterious murder were afterwards publicly made against my uncle, and, as far as external disturbances105 were concerned, he enjoyed henceforward perfect security and quiet.
A deep and lasting106 impression, however, had been made upon the public mind, and Sir Arthur T——n was no longer visited or noticed by the gentry107 and aristocracy of the county, whose attention and courtesies he had hitherto received. He accordingly affected108 to despise these enjoyments109 which he could not procure110, and shunned111 even that society which he might have commanded.
This is all that I need recapitulate112 of my uncle’s history, and I now recur113 to my own. Although my father had never, within my recollection, visited, or been visited by, my uncle, each being of sedentary, procrastinating114, and secluded habits, and their respective residences being very far apart — the one lying in the county of Galway, the other in that of Cork115 — he was strongly attached to his brother, and evinced his affection by an active correspondence, and by deeply and proudly resenting that neglect which had marked Sir Arthur as unfit to mix in society.
When I was about eighteen years of age, my father, whose health had been gradually declining, died, leaving me in heart wretched and desolate117, and, owing to his previous seclusion118, with few acquaintances, and almost no friends.
The provisions of his will were curious, and when I had sufficiently come to myself to listen to or comprehend them, surprised me not a little: all his vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of my body, for ever; and, in default of such heirs, it was to go after my death to my uncle, Sir Arthur, without any entail119.
At the same time, the will appointed him my guardian121, desiring that I might be received within his house, and reside with his family, and under his care, during the term of my minority; and in consideration of the increased expense consequent upon such an arrangement, a handsome annuity122 was allotted123 to him during the term of my proposed residence.
The object of this last provision I at once understood: my father desired, by making it the direct, apparent interest of Sir Arthur that I should die without issue, while at the same time he placed me wholly in his power, to prove to the world how great and unshaken was his confidence in his brother’s innocence and honour, and also to afford him an opportunity of showing that this mark of confidence was not unworthily bestowed124.
It was a strange, perhaps an idle scheme; but as I had been always brought up in the habit of considering my uncle as a deeply-injured man, and had been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard him as the very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasiness respecting the arrangement than that likely to result to a timid girl, of secluded habits, from the immediate5 prospect126 of taking up her abode127 for the first time in her life among total strangers. Previous to leaving my home, which I felt I should do with a heavy heart, I received a most tender and affectionate letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything could do so, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes familiar and dear from my earliest childhood, and in some degree to reconcile me to the measure.
It was during a fine autumn that I approached the old domain129 of Carrickleigh. I shall not soon forget the impression of sadness and of gloom which all that I saw produced upon my mind; the sunbeams were falling with a rich and melancholy130 tint131 upon the fine old trees, which stood in lordly groups, casting their long, sweeping132 shadows over rock and sward. There was an air of neglect and decay about the spot, which amounted almost to desolation; the symptoms of this increased in number as we approached the building itself, near which the ground had been originally more artificially and carefully cultivated than elsewhere, and whose neglect consequently more immediately and strikingly betrayed itself.
As we proceeded, the road wound near the beds of what had been formally two fish-ponds, which were now nothing more than stagnant133 swamps, overgrown with rank weeds, and here and there encroached upon by the straggling underwood; the avenue itself was much broken, and in many places the stones were almost concealed by grass and nettles134; the loose stone walls which had here and there intersected the broad park were, in many places, broken down, so as no longer to answer their original purpose as fences; piers135 were now and then to be seen, but the gates were gone; and, to add to the general air of dilapidation136, some huge trunks were lying scattered137 through the venerable old trees, either the work of the winter storms, or perhaps the victims of some extensive but desultory138 scheme of denudation139, which the projector140 had not capital or perseverance141 to carry into full effect.
After the carriage had travelled a mile of this avenue, we reached the summit of rather an abrupt eminence142, one of the many which added to the picturesqueness143, if not to the convenience of this rude passage. From the top of this ridge75 the grey walls of Carrickleigh were visible, rising at a small distance in front, and darkened by the hoary144 wood which crowded around them. It was a quadrangular building of considerable extent, and the front which lay towards us, and in which the great entrance was placed, bore unequivocal marks of antiquity145; the time-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the ruinous and deserted appearance of the whole place, and the associations which connected it with a dark page in the history of my family, combined to depress spirits already predisposed for the reception of sombre and dejecting impressions.
When the carriage drew up in the grass-grown court yard before the hall-door, two lazy-looking men, whose appearance well accorded with that of the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the obstreperous146 barking of a great chained dog, ran out from some half-ruinous out-houses, and took charge of the horses; the hall-door stood open, and I entered a gloomy and imperfectly lighted apartment, and found no one within. However, I had not long to wait in this awkward predicament, for before my luggage had been deposited in the house, indeed, before I had well removed my cloak and other wraps, so as to enable me to look around, a young girl ran lightly into the hall, and kissing me heartily147, and somewhat boisterously148, exclaimed:
‘My dear cousin, my dear Margaret — I am so delighted — so out of breath. We did not expect you till ten o’clock; my father is somewhere about the place, he must be close at hand. James — Corney — run out and tell your master — my brother is seldom at home, at least at any reasonable hour — you must be so tired — so fatigued149 — let me show you to your room — see that Lady Margaret’s luggage is all brought up — you must lie down and rest yourself — Deborah, bring some coffee — up these stairs; we are so delighted to see you — you cannot think how lonely I have been — how steep these stairs are, are not they? I am so glad you are come — I could hardly bring myself to believe that you were really coming — how good of you, dear Lady Margaret.’
There was real good-nature and delight in my cousin’s greeting, and a kind of constitutional confidence of manner which placed me at once at ease, and made me feel immediately upon terms of intimacy150 with her. The room into which she ushered151 me, although partaking in the general air of decay which pervaded152 the mansion153 and all about it, had nevertheless been fitted up with evident attention to comfort, and even with some dingy154 attempt at luxury; but what pleased me most was that it opened, by a second door, upon a lobby which communicated with my fair cousin’s apartment; a circumstance which divested155 the room, in my eyes, of the air of solitude156 and sadness which would otherwise have characterised it, to a degree almost painful to one so dejected in spirits as I was.
After such arrangements as I found necessary were completed, we both went down to the parlour, a large wainscoted room, hung round with grim old portraits, and, as I was not sorry to see, containing in its ample grate a large and cheerful fire. Here my cousin had leisure to talk more at her ease; and from her I learned something of the manners and the habits of the two remaining members of her family, whom I had not yet seen.
On my arrival I had known nothing of the family among whom I was come to reside, except that it consisted of three individuals, my uncle, and his son and daughter, Lady T——n having been long dead. In addition to this very scanty157 stock of information, I shortly learned from my communicative companion that my uncle was, as I had suspected, completely retired in his habits, and besides that, having been so far back as she could well recollect12, always rather strict, as reformed rakes frequently become, he had latterly been growing more gloomily and sternly religious than heretofore.
Her account of her brother was far less favourable159, though she did not say anything directly to his disadvantage. From all that I could gather from her, I was led to suppose that he was a specimen160 of the idle, coarse-mannered, profligate161, low-minded ‘squirearchy’— a result which might naturally have flowed from the circumstance of his being, as it were, outlawed162 from society, and driven for companionship to grades below his own — enjoying, too, the dangerous prerogative164 of spending much money.
However, you may easily suppose that I found nothing in my cousin’s communication fully61 to bear me out in so very decided165 a conclusion.
I awaited the arrival of my uncle, which was every moment to be expected, with feelings half of alarm, half of curiosity — a sensation which I have often since experienced, though to a less degree, when upon the point of standing166 for the first time in the presence of one of whom I have long been in the habit of hearing or thinking with interest.
It was, therefore, with some little perturbation that I heard, first a slight bustle167 at the outer door, then a slow step traverse the hall, and finally witnessed the door open, and my uncle enter the room. He was a striking-looking man; from peculiarities168 both of person and of garb169, the whole effect of his appearance amounted to extreme singularity. He was tall, and when young his figure must have been strikingly elegant; as it was, however, its effect was marred170 by a very decided stoop. His dress was of a sober colour, and in fashion anterior171 to anything which I could remember. It was, however, handsome, and by no means carelessly put on; but what completed the singularity of his appearance was his uncut, white hair, which hung in long, but not at all neglected curls, even so far as his shoulders, and which combined with his regularly classic features, and fine dark eyes, to bestow125 upon him an air of venerable dignity and pride, which I have never seen equalled elsewhere. I rose as he entered, and met him about the middle of the room; he kissed my cheek and both my hands, saying:
‘You are most welcome, dear child, as welcome as the command of this poor place and all that it contains can make you. I am most rejoiced to see you — truly rejoiced. I trust that you are not much fatigued — pray be seated again.’ He led me to my chair, and continued: ‘I am glad to perceive you have made acquaintance with Emily already; I see, in your being thus brought together, the foundation of a lasting friendship. You are both innocent, and both young. God bless you — God bless you, and make you all that I could wish.’
He raised his eyes, and remained for a few moments silent, as if in secret prayer. I felt that it was impossible that this man, with feelings so quick, so warm, so tender, could be the wretch116 that public opinion had represented him to be. I was more than ever convinced of his innocence.
His manner was, or appeared to me, most fascinating; there was a mingled172 kindness and courtesy in it which seemed to speak benevolence173 itself. It was a manner which I felt cold art could never have taught; it owed most of its charm to its appearing to emanate174 directly from the heart; it must be a genuine index of the owner’s mind. So I thought.
My uncle having given me fully to understand that I was most welcome, and might command whatever was his own, pressed me to take some refreshment175; and on my refusing, he observed that previously176 to bidding me good-night, he had one duty further to perform, one in whose observance he was convinced I would cheerfully acquiesce177.
He then proceeded to read a chapter from the Bible; after which he took his leave with the same affectionate kindness with which he had greeted me, having repeated his desire that I should consider everything in his house as altogether at my disposal. It is needless to say that I was much pleased with my uncle — it was impossible to avoid being so; and I could not help saying to myself, if such a man as this is not safe from the assaults of slander178, who is? I felt much happier than I had done since my father’s death, and enjoyed that night the first refreshing179 sleep which had visited me since that event.
My curiosity respecting my male cousin did not long remain unsatisfied — he appeared the next day at dinner. His manners, though not so coarse as I had expected, were exceedingly disagreeable; there was an assurance and a forwardness for which I was not prepared; there was less of the vulgarity of manner, and almost more of that of the mind, than I had anticipated. I felt quite uncomfortable in his presence; there was just that confidence in his look and tone which would read encouragement even in mere83 toleration; and I felt more disgusted and annoyed at the coarse and extravagant compliments which he was pleased from time to time to pay me, than perhaps the extent of the atrocity180 might fully have warranted. It was, however, one consolation181 that he did not often appear, being much engrossed182 by pursuits about which I neither knew nor cared anything; but when he did appear, his attentions, either with a view to his amusement or to some more serious advantage, were so obviously and perseveringly184 directed to me, that young and inexperienced as I was, even I could not be ignorant of his preference. I felt more provoked by this odious185 persecution186 than I can express, and discouraged him with so much vigour187, that I employed even rudeness to convince him that his assiduities were unwelcome; but all in vain.
This had gone on for nearly a twelve-month, to my infinite annoyance188, when one day as I was sitting at some needle-work with my companion Emily, as was my habit, in the parlour, the door opened, and my cousin Edward entered the room. There was something, I thought, odd in his manner — a kind of struggle between shame and impudence189 — a kind of flurry and ambiguity190 which made him appear, if possible, more than ordinarily disagreeable.
‘Your servant, ladies,’ he said, seating himself at the same time; ‘sorry to spoil your tete-a-tete, but never mind, I’ll only take Emily’s place for a minute or two; and then we part for a while, fair cousin. Emily, my father wants you in the corner turret191. No shilly-shally; he’s in a hurry.’ She hesitated. ‘Be off — tramp, march!’ he exclaimed, in a tone which the poor girl dared not disobey.
She left the room, and Edward followed her to the door. He stood there for a minute or two, as if reflecting what he should say, perhaps satisfying himself that no one was within hearing in the hall.
At length he turned about, having closed the door, as if carelessly, with his foot; and advancing slowly, as if in deep thought, he took his seat at the side of the table opposite to mine.
There was a brief interval192 of silence, after which he said:
‘I imagine that you have a shrewd suspicion of the object of my early visit; but I suppose I must go into particulars. Must I?’
‘I have no conception,’ I replied, ‘what your object may be.’
‘Well, well,’ said he, becoming more at his ease as he proceeded, ‘it may be told in a few words. You know that it is totally impossible — quite out of the question — that an offhand193 young fellow like me, and a good-looking girl like yourself, could meet continually, as you and I have done, without an attachment194 — a liking195 growing up on one side or other; in short, I think I have let you know as plain as if I spoke it, that I have been in love with you almost from the first time I saw you.’
He paused; but I was too much horrified196 to speak. He interpreted my silence favourably197.
‘I can tell you,’ he continued, ‘I’m reckoned rather hard to please, and very hard to HIT. I can’t say when I was taken with a girl before; so you see fortune reserved me ——’
Here the odious wretch wound his arm round my waist. The action at once restored me to utterance198, and with the most indignant vehemence199 I released myself from his hold, and at the same time said:
‘I have not been insensible, sir, of your most disagreeable attentions — they have long been a source of much annoyance to me; and you must be aware that I have marked my disapprobation — my disgust — as unequivocally as I possibly could, without actual indelicacy.’
I paused, almost out of breath from the rapidity with which I had spoken; and without giving him time to renew the conversation, I hastily quitted the room, leaving him in a paroxysm of rage and mortification201. As I ascended202 the stairs, I heard him open the parlour-door with violence, and take two or three rapid strides in the direction in which I was moving. I was now much frightened, and ran the whole way until I reached my room; and having locked the door, I listened breathlessly, but heard no sound. This relieved me for the present; but so much had I been overcome by the agitation and annoyance attendant upon the scene which I had just gone through, that when my cousin Emily knocked at my door, I was weeping in strong hysterics.
You will readily conceive my distress203, when you reflect upon my strong dislike to my cousin Edward, combined with my youth and extreme inexperience. Any proposal of such a nature must have agitated204 me; but that it should have come from the man whom of all others I most loathed205 and abhorred206, and to whom I had, as clearly as manner could do it, expressed the state of my feelings, was almost too overwhelming to be borne. It was a calamity207, too, in which I could not claim the sympathy of my cousin Emily, which had always been extended to me in my minor grievances208. Still I hoped that it might not be unattended with good; for I thought that one inevitable and most welcome consequence would result from this painful eclaircissment, in the discontinuance of my cousin’s odious persecution.
When I arose next morning, it was with the fervent209 hope that I might never again behold210 the face, or even hear the name, of my cousin Edward; but such a consummation, though devoutly211 to be wished, was hardly likely to occur. The painful impressions of yesterday were too vivid to be at once erased212; and I could not help feeling some dim foreboding of coming annoyance and evil.
To expect on my cousin’s part anything like delicacy200 or consideration for me, was out of the question. I saw that he had set his heart upon my property, and that he was not likely easily to forego such an acquisition — possessing what might have been considered opportunities and facilities almost to compel my compliance213.
I now keenly felt the unreasonableness214 of my father’s conduct in placing me to reside with a family of all whose members, with one exception, he was wholly ignorant, and I bitterly felt the helplessness of my situation. I determined, however, in case of my cousin’s persevering183 in his addresses, to lay all the particulars before my uncle, although he had never in kindness or intimacy gone a step beyond our first interview, and to throw myself upon his hospitality and his sense of honour for protection against a repetition of such scenes.
My cousin’s conduct may appear to have been an inadequate215 cause for such serious uneasiness; but my alarm was caused neither by his acts nor words, but entirely216 by his manner, which was strange and even intimidating217 to excess. At the beginning of the yesterday’s interview there was a sort of bullying218 swagger in his air, which towards the end gave place to the brutal220 vehemence of an undisguised ruffian — a transition which had tempted90 me into a belief that he might seek even forcibly to extort221 from me a consent to his wishes, or by means still more horrible, of which I scarcely dared to trust myself to think, to possess himself of my property.
I was early next day summoned to attend my uncle in his private room, which lay in a corner turret of the old building; and thither222 I accordingly went, wondering all the way what this unusual measure might prelude223. When I entered the room, he did not rise in his usual courteous224 way to greet me, but simply pointed120 to a chair opposite to his own. This boded225 nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, silently waiting until he should open the conversation.
‘Lady Margaret,’ at length he said, in a tone of greater sternness than I thought him capable of using, ‘I have hitherto spoken to you as a friend, but I have not forgotten that I am also your guardian, and that my authority as such gives me a right to control your conduct. I shall put a question to you, and I expect and will demand a plain, direct answer. Have I rightly been informed that you have contemptuously rejected the suit and hand of my son Edward?’
I stammered226 forth97 with a good deal of trepidation227:
‘I believe — that is, I have, sir, rejected my cousin’s proposals; and my coldness and discouragement might have convinced him that I had determined to do so.’
‘Madam,’ replied he, with suppressed, but, as it appeared to me, intense anger, ‘I have lived long enough to know that COLDNESS and discouragement, and such terms, form the common cant158 of a worthless coquette. You know to the full, as well as I, that COLDNESS AND DISCOURAGEMENT may be so exhibited as to convince their object that he is neither distasteful or indifferent to the person who wears this manner. You know, too, none better, that an affected neglect, when skilfully228 managed, is amongst the most formidable of the engines which artful beauty can employ. I tell you, madam, that having, without one word spoken in discouragement, permitted my son’s most marked attentions for a twelvemonth or more, you have no right to dismiss him with no further explanation than demurely229 telling him that you had always looked coldly upon him; and neither your wealth nor your LADYSHIP’ (there was an emphasis of scorn on the word, which would have become Sir Giles Overreach himself) ‘can warrant you in treating with contempt the affectionate regard of an honest heart.’
I was too much shocked at this undisguised attempt to bully219 me into an acquiescence230 in the interested and unprincipled plan for their own aggrandisement, which I now perceived my uncle and his son to have deliberately231 entered into, at once to find strength or collectedness to frame an answer to what he had said. At length I replied, with some firmness:
‘In all that you have just now said, sir, you have grossly misstated my conduct and motives232. Your information must have been most incorrect as far as it regards my conduct towards my cousin; my manner towards him could have conveyed nothing but dislike; and if anything could have added to the strong aversion which I have long felt towards him, it would be his attempting thus to trick and frighten me into a marriage which he knows to be revolting to me, and which is sought by him only as a means for securing to himself whatever property is mine.’
As I said this, I fixed233 my eyes upon those of my uncle, but he was too old in the world’s ways to falter234 beneath the gaze of more searching eyes than mine; he simply said:
‘Are you acquainted with the provisions of your father’s will?’
I answered in the affirmative; and he continued:
‘Then you must be aware that if my son Edward were — which God forbid — the unprincipled, reckless man you pretend to think him’—(here he spoke very slowly, as if he intended that every word which escaped him should be registered in my memory, while at the same time the expression of his countenance235 underwent a gradual but horrible change, and the eyes which he fixed upon me became so darkly vivid, that I almost lost sight of everything else)—‘if he were what you have described him, think you, girl, he could find no briefer means than wedding contracts to gain his ends? ’twas but to gripe your slender neck until the breath had stopped, and lands, and lakes, and all were his.’
I stood staring at him for many minutes after he had ceased to speak, fascinated by the terrible serpent-like gaze, until he continued with a welcome change of countenance:
‘I will not speak again to you upon this — topic until one month has passed. You shall have time to consider the relative advantages of the two courses which are open to you. I should be sorry to hurry you to a decision. I am satisfied with having stated my feelings upon the subject, and pointed out to you the path of duty. Remember this day month — not one word sooner.’
He then rose, and I left the room, much agitated and exhausted236.
This interview, all the circumstances attending it, but most particularly the formidable expression of my uncle’s countenance while he talked, though hypothetically, of murder, combined to arouse all my worst suspicions of him. I dreaded237 to look upon the face that had so recently worn the appalling238 livery of guilt and malignity239. I regarded it with the mingled fear and loathing240 with which one looks upon an object which has tortured them in a nightmare.
In a few days after the interview, the particulars of which I have just related, I found a note upon my toilet-table, and on opening it I read as follows:
‘MY DEAR LADY MARGARET,
‘You will be perhaps surprised to see a strange face in your room to-day. I have dismissed your Irish maid, and secured a French one to wait upon you — a step rendered necessary by my proposing shortly to visit the Continent, with all my family.
‘Your faithful guardian,
‘ARTHUR T—— N.’
On inquiry, I found that my faithful attendant was actually gone, and far on her way to the town of Galway; and in her stead there appeared a tall, raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose sullen241 and presuming manners seemed to imply that her vocation242 had never before been that of a lady’s-maid. I could not help regarding her as a creature of my uncle’s, and therefore to be dreaded, even had she been in no other way suspicious.
Days and weeks passed away without any, even a momentary243 doubt upon my part, as to the course to be pursued by me. The allotted period had at length elapsed; the day arrived on which I was to communicate my decision to my uncle. Although my resolution had never for a moment wavered, I could not shake of the dread24 of the approaching colloquy244; and my heart sunk within me as I heard the expected summons.
I had not seen my cousin Edward since the occurrence of the grand eclaircissment; he must have studiously avoided me — I suppose from policy, it could not have been from delicacy. I was prepared for a terrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as I should make known my determination; and I not unreasonably245 feared that some act of violence or of intimidation246 would next be resorted to.
Filled with these dreary247 forebodings, I fearfully opened the study door, and the next minute I stood in my uncle’s presence. He received me with a politeness which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable anticipation248 respecting the answer which I was to give; and after some slight delay, he began by saying:
‘It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring this conversation as soon as possible to an issue. You will excuse me, then, my dear niece, for speaking with an abruptness249 which, under other circumstances, would be unpardonable. You have, I am certain, given the subject of our last interview fair and serious consideration; and I trust that you are now prepared with candour to lay your answer before me. A few words will suffice — we perfectly understand one another.’
He paused, and I, though feeling that I stood upon a mine which might in an instant explode, nevertheless answered with perfect composure:
‘I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did upon the last occasion, and I reiterate250 the declaration which I then made, that I never can nor will, while life and reason remain, consent to a union with my cousin Edward.’
This announcement wrought251 no apparent change in Sir Arthur, except that he became deadly, almost lividly pale. He seemed lost in dark thought for a minute, and then with a slight effort said:
‘You have answered me honestly and directly; and you say your resolution is unchangeable. Well, would it had been otherwise — would it had been otherwise — but be it as it is — I am satisfied.’
He gave me his hand — it was cold and damp as death; under an assumed calmness, it was evident that he was fearfully agitated. He continued to hold my hand with an almost painful pressure, while, as if unconsciously, seeming to forget my presence, he muttered:
‘Strange, strange, strange, indeed! fatuity252, helpless fatuity!’ there was here a long pause. ‘Madness INDEED to strain a cable that is rotten to the very heart — it must break — and then — all goes.’
There was again a pause of some minutes, after which, suddenly changing his voice and manner to one of wakeful alacrity253, he exclaimed:
‘Margaret, my son Edward shall plague you no more. He leaves this country on to-morrow for France — he shall speak no more upon this subject — never, never more — whatever events depended upon your answer must now take their own course; but, as for this fruitless proposal, it has been tried enough; it can be repeated no more.’
At these words he coldly suffered my hand to drop, as if to express his total abandonment of all his projected schemes of alliance; and certainly the action, with the accompanying words, produced upon my mind a more solemn and depressing effect than I believed possible to have been caused by the course which I had determined to pursue; it struck upon my heart with an awe163 and heaviness which WILL accompany the accomplishment16 of an important and irrevocable act, even though no doubt or scruple254 remains255 to make it possible that the agent should wish it undone256.
‘Well,’ said my uncle, after a little time, ‘we now cease to speak upon this topic, never to resume it again. Remember you shall have no farther uneasiness from Edward; he leaves Ireland for France on to-morrow; this will be a relief to you. May I depend upon your HONOUR that no word touching257 the subject of this interview shall ever escape you?’
I gave him the desired assurance; he said:
‘It is well — I am satisfied — we have nothing more, I believe, to say upon either side, and my presence must be a restraint upon you, I shall therefore bid you farewell.’
I then left the apartment, scarcely knowing what to think of the strange interview which had just taken place.
On the next day my uncle took occasion to tell me that Edward had actually sailed, if his intention had not been interfered258 with by adverse259 circumstances; and two days subsequently he actually produced a letter from his son, written, as it said, ON BOARD, and despatched while the ship was getting under weigh. This was a great satisfaction to me, and as being likely to prove so, it was no doubt communicated to me by Sir Arthur.
During all this trying period, I had found infinite consolation in the society and sympathy of my dear cousin Emily. I never in after-life formed a friendship so close, so fervent, and upon which, in all its progress, I could look back with feelings of such unalloyed pleasure, upon whose termination I must ever dwell with so deep, yet so unembittered regret. In cheerful converse261 with her I soon recovered my spirits considerably262, and passed my time agreeably enough, although still in the strictest seclusion.
Matters went on sufficiently smooth, although I could not help sometimes feeling a momentary, but horrible uncertainty263 respecting my uncle’s character; which was not altogether unwarranted by the circumstances of the two trying interviews whose particulars I have just detailed264. The unpleasant impression which these conferences were calculated to leave upon my mind, was fast wearing away, when there occurred a circumstance, slight indeed in itself, but calculated irresistibly265 to awaken30 all my worst suspicions, and to overwhelm me again with anxiety and terror.
I had one day left the house with my cousin Emily, in order to take a ramble266 of considerable length, for the purpose of sketching267 some favourite views, and we had walked about half a mile when I perceived that we had forgotten our drawing materials, the absence of which would have defeated the object of our walk. Laughing at our own thoughtlessness, we returned to the house, and leaving Emily without, I ran upstairs to procure the drawing-books and pencils, which lay in my bedroom.
As I ran up the stairs I was met by the tall, ill-looking Frenchwoman, evidently a good deal flurried.
‘Que veut, madame?’ said she, with a more decided effort to be polite than I had ever known her make before.
‘No, no — no matter,’ said I, hastily running by her in the direction of my room.
‘Madame,’ cried she, in a high key, ‘restez ici, s’il vous plait; votre chambre n’est pas faite — your room is not ready for your reception yet.’
I continued to move on without heeding268 her. She was some way behind me, and feeling that she could not otherwise prevent my entrance, for I was now upon the very lobby, she made a desperate attempt to seize hold of my person: she succeeded in grasping the end of my shawl, which she drew from my shoulders; but slipping at the same time upon the polished oak floor, she fell at full length upon the boards.
A little frightened as well as angry at the rudeness of this strange woman, I hastily pushed open the door of my room, at which I now stood, in order to escape from her; but great was my amazement269 on entering to find the apartment preoccupied270.
The window was open, and beside it stood two male figures; they appeared to be examining the fastenings of the casement271, and their backs were turned towards the door. One of them was my uncle; they both turned on my entrance, as if startled. The stranger was booted and cloaked, and wore a heavy broad-leafed hat over his brows. He turned but for a moment, and averted272 his face; but I had seen enough to convince me that he was no other than my cousin Edward. My uncle had some iron instrument in his hand, which he hastily concealed behind his back; and coming towards me, said something as if in an explanatory tone; but I was too much shocked and confounded to understand what it might be. He said something about ‘REPAIRS— window — frames — cold, and safety.’
I did not wait, however, to ask or to receive explanations, but hastily left the room. As I went down the stairs I thought I heard the voice of the Frenchwoman in all the shrill273 volubility of excuse, which was met, however, by suppressed but vehement274 imprecations, or what seemed to me to be such, in which the voice of my cousin Edward distinctly mingled.
I joined my cousin Emily quite out of breath. I need not say that my head was too full of other things to think much of drawing for that day. I imparted to her frankly275 the cause of my alarms, but at the same time as gently as I could; and with tears she promised vigilance, and devotion, and love. I never had reason for a moment to repent276 the unreserved confidence which I then reposed277 in her. She was no less surprised than I at the unexpected appearance of Edward, whose departure for France neither of us had for a moment doubted, but which was now proved by his actual presence to be nothing more than an imposture278, practised, I feared, for no good end.
The situation in which I had found my uncle had removed completely all my doubts as to his designs. I magnified suspicions into certainties, and dreaded night after night that I should be murdered in my bed. The nervousness produced by sleepless279 nights and days of anxious fears increased the horrors of my situation to such a degree, that I at length wrote a letter to a Mr. Jefferies, an old and faithful friend of my father’s, and perfectly acquainted with all his affairs, praying him, for God’s sake, to relieve me from my present terrible situation, and communicating without reserve the nature and grounds of my suspicions.
This letter I kept sealed and directed for two or three days always about my person, for discovery would have been ruinous, in expectation of an opportunity which might be safely trusted, whereby to have it placed in the post-office. As neither Emily nor I were permitted to pass beyond the precincts of the demesne280 itself, which was surrounded by high walls formed of dry stone, the difficulty of procuring such an opportunity was greatly enhanced.
At this time Emily had a short conversation with her father, which she reported to me instantly.
After some indifferent matter, he had asked her whether she and I were upon good terms, and whether I was unreserved in my disposition281. She answered in the affirmative; and he then inquired whether I had been much surprised to find him in my chamber282 on the other day. She answered that I had been both surprised and amused.
‘And what did she think of George Wilson’s appearance?’
‘Who?’ inquired she.
‘Oh, the architect,’ he answered, ‘who is to contract for the repairs of the house; he is accounted a handsome fellow.’
‘She could not see his face,’ said Emily, ‘and she was in such a hurry to escape that she scarcely noticed him.’
Sir Arthur appeared satisfied, and the conversation ended.
This slight conversation, repeated accurately283 to me by Emily, had the effect of confirming, if indeed anything was required to do so, all that I had before believed as to Edward’s actual presence; and I naturally became, if possible, more anxious than ever to despatch260 the letter to Mr. Jefferies. An opportunity at length occurred.
As Emily and I were walking one day near the gate of the demesne, a lad from the village happened to be passing down the avenue from the house; the spot was secluded, and as this person was not connected by service with those whose observation I dreaded, I committed the letter to his keeping, with strict injunctions that he should put it without delay into the receiver of the town post-office; at the same time I added a suitable gratuity284, and the man having made many protestations of punctuality, was soon out of sight.
He was hardly gone when I began to doubt my discretion285 in having trusted this person; but I had no better or safer means of despatching the letter, and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such wanton dishonesty as an inclination286 to tamper287 with it; but I could not be quite satisfied of its safety until I had received an answer, which could not arrive for a few days. Before I did, however, an event occurred which a little surprised me.
I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, reading by myself, when I heard a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ said I; and my uncle entered the room.
‘Will you excuse me?’ said he. ‘I sought you in the parlour, and thence I have come here. I desired to say a word with you. I trust that you have hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towards his ward28 should be.’
I dared not withhold288 my consent.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘I trust that you have not found me harsh or unjust, and that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have sought to make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be.’
I assented289 again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew a folded paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis, he said:
‘Did you write that letter?’
The sudden and tearful alteration290 of his voice, manner, and face, but, more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at once recognised, so confounded and terrified me, that I felt almost choking.
I could not utter a word.
‘Did you write that letter?’ he repeated with slow and intense emphasis.’ You did, liar128 and hypocrite! You dared to write this foul291 and infamous292 libel; but it shall be your last. Men will universally believe you mad, if I choose to call for an inquiry. I can make you appear so. The suspicions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations and alarms of moping lunacy. I have defeated your first attempt, madam; and by the holy God, if ever you make another, chains, straw, darkness, and the keeper’s whip shall be your lasting portion!’
With these astounding293 words he left the room, leaving me almost fainting.
I was now almost reduced to despair; my last cast had failed; I had no course left but that of eloping secretly from the castle, and placing myself under the protection of the nearest magistrate294. I felt if this were not done, and speedily, that I should be MURDERED.
No one, from mere description, can have an idea of the unmitigated horror of my situation — a helpless, weak, inexperienced girl, placed under the power and wholly at the mercy of evil men, and feeling that she had it not in her power to escape for a moment from the malignant295 influences under which she was probably fated to fall; and with a consciousness that if violence, if murder were designed, her dying shriek296 would be lost in void space; no human being would be near to aid her, no human interposition could deliver her.
I had seen Edward but once during his visit, and as I did not meet with him again, I began to think that he must have taken his departure — a conviction which was to a certain degree satisfactory, as I regarded his absence as indicating the removal of immediate danger.
Emily also arrived circuitously297 at the same conclusion, and not without good grounds, for she managed indirectly298 to learn that Edward’s black horse had actually been for a day and part of a night in the castle stables, just at the time of her brother’s supposed visit. The horse had gone, and, as she argued, the rider must have departed with it.
This point being so far settled, I felt a little less uncomfortable: when being one day alone in my bedroom, I happened to look out from the window, and, to my unutterable horror, I beheld299, peering through an opposite casement, my cousin Edward’s face. Had I seen the evil one himself in bodily shape, I could not have experienced a more sickening revulsion.
I was too much appalled300 to move at once from the window, but I did so soon enough to avoid his eye. He was looking fixedly301 into the narrow quadrangle upon which the window opened. I shrank back unperceived, to pass the rest of the day in terror and despair. I went to my room early that night, but I was too miserable302 to sleep.
At about twelve o’clock, feeling very nervous, I determined to call my cousin Emily, who slept, you will remember, in the next room, which communicated with mine by a second door. By this private entrance I found my way into her chamber, and without difficulty persuaded her to return to my room and sleep with me. We accordingly lay down together, she undressed, and I with my clothes on, for I was every moment walking up and down the room, and felt too nervous and miserable to think of rest or comfort.
Emily was soon fast asleep, and I lay awake, fervently303 longing6 for the first pale gleam of morning, reckoning every stroke of the old clock with an impatience304 which made every hour appear like six.
It must have been about one o’clock when I thought I heard a slight noise at the partition-door between Emily’s room and mine, as if caused by somebody’s turning the key in the lock. I held my breath, and the same sound was repeated at the second door of my room — that which opened upon the lobby — the sound was here distinctly caused by the revolution of the bolt in the lock, and it was followed by a slight pressure upon the door itself, as if to ascertain the security of the lock.
The person, whoever it might be, was probably satisfied, for I heard the old boards of the lobby creak and strain, as if under the weight of somebody moving cautiously over them. My sense of hearing became unnaturally305, almost painfully acute. I suppose the imagination added distinctness to sounds vague in themselves. I thought that I could actually hear the breathing of the person who was slowly returning down the lobby. At the head of the staircase there appeared to occur a pause; and I could distinctly hear two or three sentences hastily whispered; the steps then descended306 the stairs with apparently less caution. I now ventured to walk quickly and lightly to the lobby-door, and attempted to open it; it was indeed fast locked upon the outside, as was also the other.
I now felt that the dreadful hour was come; but one desperate expedient307 remained — it was to awaken Emily, and by our united strength to attempt to force the partition-door, which was slighter than the other, and through this to pass to the lower part of the house, whence it might be possible to escape to the grounds, and forth to the village.
I returned to the bedside and shook Emily, but in vain. Nothing that I could do availed to produce from her more than a few incoherent words — it was a death-like sleep. She had certainly drank of some narcotic308, as had I probably also, spite of all the caution with which I had examined everything presented to us to eat or drink.
I now attempted, with as little noise as possible, to force first one door, then the other — but all in vain. I believe no strength could have effected my object, for both doors opened inwards. I therefore collected whatever movables I could carry thither, and piled them against the doors, so as to assist me in whatever attempts I should make to resist the entrance of those without. I then returned to the bed and endeavoured again, but fruitlessly, to awaken my cousin. It was not sleep, it was torpor309, lethargy, death. I knelt down and prayed with an agony of earnestness; and then seating myself upon the bed, I awaited my fate with a kind of terrible tranquillity310.
I heard a faint clanking sound from the narrow court which I have already mentioned, as if caused by the scraping of some iron instrument against stones or rubbish. I at first determined not to disturb the calmness which I now felt, by uselessly watching the proceedings311 of those who sought my life; but as the sounds continued, the horrible curiosity which I felt overcame every other emotion, and I determined, at all hazards, to gratify it. I therefore crawled upon my knees to the window, so as to let the smallest portion of my head appear above the sill.
The moon was shining with an uncertain radiance upon the antique grey buildings, and obliquely312 upon the narrow court beneath, one side of which was therefore clearly illuminated313, while the other was lost in obscurity, the sharp outlines of the old gables, with their nodding clusters of ivy314, being at first alone visible.
Whoever or whatever occasioned the noise which had excited my curiosity, was concealed under the shadow of the dark side of the quadrangle. I placed my hand over my eyes to shade them from the moonlight, which was so bright as to be almost dazzling, and, peering into the darkness, I first dimly, but afterwards gradually, almost with full distinctness, beheld the form of a man engaged in digging what appeared to be a rude hole close under the wall. Some implements315, probably a shovel316 and pickaxe, lay beside him, and to these he every now and then applied himself as the nature of the ground required. He pursued his task rapidly, and with as little noise as possible.
‘So,’ thought I, as, shovelful317 after shovelful, the dislodged rubbish mounted into a heap, ‘they are digging the grave in which, before two hours pass, I must lie, a cold, mangled318 corpse319. I am THEIRS— I cannot escape.’
I felt as if my reason was leaving me. I started to my feet, and in mere despair I applied myself again to each of the two doors alternately. I strained every nerve and sinew, but I might as well have attempted, with my single strength, to force the building itself from its foundation. I threw myself madly upon the ground, and clasped my hands over my eyes as if to shut out the horrible images which crowded upon me.
The paroxysm passed away. I prayed once more, with the bitter, agonised fervour of one who feels that the hour of death is present and inevitable. When I arose, I went once more to the window and looked out, just in time to see a shadowy figure glide320 stealthily along the wall. The task was finished. The catastrophe of the tragedy must soon be accomplished321.
I determined now to defend my life to the last; and that I might be able to do so with some effect, I searched the room for something which might serve as a weapon; but either through accident, or from an anticipation of such a possibility, everything which might have been made available for such a purpose had been carefully removed. I must then die tamely and without an effort to defend myself.
A thought suddenly struck me — might it not be possible to escape through the door, which the assassin must open in order to enter the room? I resolved to make the attempt. I felt assured that the door through which ingress to the room would be effected, was that which opened upon the lobby. It was the more direct way, besides being, for obvious reasons, less liable to interruption than the other. I resolved, then, to place myself behind a projection322 of the wall, whose shadow would serve fully to conceal63 me, and when the door should be opened, and before they should have discovered the identity of the occupant of the bed, to creep noiselessly from the room, and then to trust to Providence323 for escape.
In order to facilitate this scheme, I removed all the lumber324 which I had heaped against the door; and I had nearly completed my arrangements, when I perceived the room suddenly darkened by the close approach of some shadowy object to the window. On turning my eyes in that direction, I observed at the top of the casement, as if suspended from above, first the feet, then the legs, then the body, and at length the whole figure of a man present himself. It was Edward T—— n.
He appeared to be guiding his descent so as to bring his feet upon the centre of the stone block which occupied the lower part of the window; and, having secured his footing upon this, he kneeled down and began to gaze into the room. As the moon was gleaming into the chamber, and the bed-curtains were drawn325, he was able to distinguish the bed itself and its contents. He appeared satisfied with his scrutiny326, for he looked up and made a sign with his hand, upon which the rope by which his descent had been effected was slackened from above, and he proceeded to disengage it from his waist; this accomplished, he applied his hands to the window-frame, which must have been ingeniously contrived327 for the purpose, for, with apparently no resistance, the whole frame, containing casement and all, slipped from its position in the wall, and was by him lowered into the room.
The cold night wind waved the bed-curtains, and he paused for a moment — all was still again — and he stepped in upon the floor of the room. He held in his hand what appeared to be a steel instrument, shaped something like a hammer, but larger and sharper at the extremities328. This he held rather behind him, while, with three long, tip-toe strides, he brought himself to the bedside.
I felt that the discovery must now be made, and held my breath in momentary expectation of the execration329 in which he would vent8 his surprise and disappointment. I closed my eyes — there was a pause, but it was a short one. I heard two dull blows, given in rapid succession: a quivering sigh, and the long-drawn, heavy breathing of the sleeper330 was for ever suspended. I unclosed my eyes, and saw the murderer fling the quilt across the head of his victim: he then, with the instrument of death still in his hand, proceeded to the lobby-door, upon which he tapped sharply twice or thrice. A quick step was then heard approaching, and a voice whispered something from without. Edward answered, with a kind of chuckle331, ‘Her ladyship is past complaining; unlock the door, in the devil’s name, unless you’re afraid to come in, and help me to lift the body out of the window.’
The key was turned in the lock — the door opened — and my uncle entered the room.
I have told you already that I had placed myself under the shade of a projection of the wall, close to the door. I had instinctively332 shrunk down, cowering333 towards the ground on the entrance of Edward through the window. When my uncle entered the room he and his son both stood so very close to me that his hand was every moment upon the point of touching my face. I held my breath, and remained motionless as death.
‘You had no interruption from the next room?’ said my uncle.
‘No,’ was the brief reply.
‘Secure the jewels, Ned; the French harpy must not lay her claws upon them. You’re a steady hand, by G——! not much blood — eh?’
‘Not twenty drops,’ replied his son, ‘and those on the quilt.’
‘I’m glad it’s over,’ whispered my uncle again. ‘We must lift the — the THING through the window, and lay the rubbish over it.’
They then turned to the bedside, and, winding334 the bed-clothes round the body, carried it between them slowly to the window, and, exchanging a few brief words with some one below, they shoved it over the window-sill, and I heard it fall heavily on the ground underneath335.
‘I’ll take the jewels,’ said my uncle; ‘there are two caskets in the lower drawer.’
He proceeded, with an accuracy which, had I been more at ease, would have furnished me with matter of astonishment336, to lay his hand upon the very spot where my jewels lay; and having possessed himself of them, he called to his son:
‘Is the rope made fast above?’
‘I’m not a fool — to be sure it is,’ replied he.
They then lowered themselves from the window. I now rose lightly and cautiously, scarcely daring to breathe, from my place of concealment337, and was creeping towards the door, when I heard my cousin’s voice, in a sharp whisper, exclaim: ‘Scramble up again! G— d d —— n you, you’ve forgot to lock the room-door!’ and I perceived, by the straining of the rope which hung from above, that the mandate338 was instantly obeyed.
Not a second was to be lost. I passed through the door, which was only closed, and moved as rapidly as I could, consistently with stillness, along the lobby. Before I had gone many yards, I heard the door through which I had just passed double-locked on the inside. I glided339 down the stairs in terror, lest, at every corner, I should meet the murderer or one of his accomplices341.
I reached the hall, and listened for a moment to ascertain whether all was silent around; no sound was audible. The parlour windows opened on the park, and through one of them I might, I thought, easily effect my escape. Accordingly, I hastily entered; but, to my consternation342, a candle was burning in the room, and by its light I saw a figure seated at the dinner-table, upon which lay glasses, bottles, and the other accompaniments of a drinking-party. Two or three chairs were placed about the table irregularly, as if hastily abandoned by their occupants.
A single glance satisfied me that the figure was that of my French attendant. She was fast asleep, having probably drank deeply. There was something malignant and ghastly in the calmness of this bad woman’s features, dimly illuminated as they were by the flickering343 blaze of the candle. A knife lay upon the table, and the terrible thought struck me — ‘Should I kill this sleeping accomplice340 in the guilt of the murderer, and thus secure my retreat?’
Nothing could be easier — it was but to draw the blade across her throat — the work of a second. An instant’s pause, however, corrected me. ‘No,’ thought I, ‘the God who has conducted me thus far through the valley of the shadow of death, will not abandon me now. I will fall into their hands, or I will escape hence, but it shall be free from the stain of blood. His will be done.’
I felt a confidence arising from this reflection, an assurance of protection which I cannot describe. There was no other means of escape, so I advanced, with a firm step and collected mind, to the window. I noiselessly withdrew the bars and unclosed the shutters344 — I pushed open the casement, and, without waiting to look behind me, I ran with my utmost speed, scarcely feeling the ground under me, down the avenue, taking care to keep upon the grass which bordered it.
I did not for a moment slack my speed, and I had now gained the centre point between the park-gate and the mansion-house. Here the avenue made a wider circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed my way across the smooth sward round which the pathway wound, intending, at the opposite side of the flat, at a point which I distinguished345 by a group of old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, which was from thence tolerably direct to the gate.
I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way across this broad flat, when the rapid treading of a horse’s hoofs346 struck upon my ear. My heart swelled347 in my bosom348 as though I would smother349. The clattering350 of galloping352 hoofs approached — I was pursued — they were now upon the sward on which I was running — there was not a bush or a bramble to shelter me — and, as if to render escape altogether desperate, the moon, which had hitherto been obscured, at this moment shone forth with a broad clear light, which made every object distinctly visible.
The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my knees bending under me, with the sensation which torments353 one in dreams. I reeled — I stumbled — I fell — and at the same instant the cause of my alarm wheeled past me at full gallop351. It was one of the young fillies which pastured loose about the park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened me with terror. I scrambled354 to my feet, and rushed on with weak but rapid steps, my sportive companion still galloping round and round me with many a frisk and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached the avenue-gate and crossed the stile, I scarce knew how.
I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, until my progress was arrested by the hoarse355 voice of a sentinel, who cried: ‘Who goes there?’ I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the direction of the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier’s feet. When I came to myself; I was sitting in a miserable hovel, surrounded by strange faces, all bespeaking356 curiosity and compassion357.
Many soldiers were in it also: indeed, as I afterwards found, it was employed as a guard-room by a detachment of troops quartered for that night in the town. In a few words I informed their officer of the circumstances which had occurred, describing also the appearance of the persons engaged in the murder; and he, without loss of time, proceeded to the mansion-house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his men. But the villains358 had discovered their mistake, and had effected their escape before the arrival of the military.
The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the neighbourhood upon the next day. She was tried and condemned359 upon the ensuing assizes; and previous to her execution, confessed that ‘SHE HAD A HAND IN MAKING HUGH TISDAL’S BED.’ She had been a housekeeper360 in the castle at the time, and a kind of chere amie of my uncle’s. She was, in reality, able to speak English like a native, but had exclusively used the French language, I suppose to facilitate her disguise. She died the same hardened wretch which she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she alleged361, that her doing so might involve Sir Arthur T——n, the great author of her guilt and misery362, and whom she now regarded with unmitigated detestation.
With the particulars of Sir Arthur’s and his son’s escape, as far as they are known, you are acquainted. You are also in possession of their after fate — the terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after long delays of many years, finally overtook and crushed them. Wonderful and inscrutable are the dealings of God with His creatures.
Deep and fervent as must always be my gratitude363 to heaven for my deliverance, effected by a chain of providential occurrences, the failing of a single link of which must have ensured my destruction, I was long before I could look back upon it with other feelings than those of bitterness, almost of agony.
The only being that had ever really loved me, my nearest and dearest friend, ever ready to sympathise, to counsel, and to assist — the gayest, the gentlest, the warmest heart — the only creature on earth that cared for me — HER life had been the price of my deliverance; and I then uttered the wish, which no event of my long and sorrowful life has taught me to recall, that she had been spared, and that, in her stead, I were mouldering364 in the grave, forgotten and at rest.
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 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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3 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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4 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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5 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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6 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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7 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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8 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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9 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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10 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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11 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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12 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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13 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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14 procuring | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的现在分词 );拉皮条 | |
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15 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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16 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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17 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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18 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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19 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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20 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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21 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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22 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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23 indictment | |
n.起诉;诉状 | |
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24 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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25 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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26 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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27 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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28 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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29 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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30 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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31 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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32 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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33 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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34 addicted | |
adj.沉溺于....的,对...上瘾的 | |
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35 propensity | |
n.倾向;习性 | |
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36 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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37 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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38 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
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39 diminution | |
n.减少;变小 | |
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40 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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41 coterie | |
n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体,小圈子 | |
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42 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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43 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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44 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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45 votaries | |
n.信徒( votary的名词复数 );追随者;(天主教)修士;修女 | |
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46 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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47 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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48 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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49 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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50 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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51 downwards | |
adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
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52 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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54 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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56 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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57 preclude | |
vt.阻止,排除,防止;妨碍 | |
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58 egress | |
n.出去;出口 | |
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59 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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60 elicited | |
引出,探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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62 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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63 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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64 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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65 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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66 perpendicular | |
adj.垂直的,直立的;n.垂直线,垂直的位置 | |
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67 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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68 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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69 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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70 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71 funnel | |
n.漏斗;烟囱;v.汇集 | |
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72 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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73 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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74 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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75 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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76 soot | |
n.煤烟,烟尘;vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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77 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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78 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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79 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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80 inflicting | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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81 gash | |
v.深切,划开;n.(深长的)切(伤)口;裂缝 | |
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82 incur | |
vt.招致,蒙受,遭遇 | |
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83 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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84 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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85 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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86 quill | |
n.羽毛管;v.给(织物或衣服)作皱褶 | |
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87 alias | |
n.化名;别名;adv.又名 | |
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88 secondly | |
adv.第二,其次 | |
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89 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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90 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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91 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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92 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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93 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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94 sediment | |
n.沉淀,沉渣,沉积(物) | |
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95 authenticity | |
n.真实性 | |
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96 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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97 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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98 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
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99 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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100 delinquents | |
n.(尤指青少年)有过失的人,违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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101 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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102 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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103 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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104 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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105 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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106 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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107 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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108 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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109 enjoyments | |
愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 ); 令人愉快的事物; 享有; 享受 | |
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110 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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111 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112 recapitulate | |
v.节述要旨,择要说明 | |
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113 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
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114 procrastinating | |
拖延,耽搁( procrastinate的现在分词 ); 拖拉 | |
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115 cork | |
n.软木,软木塞 | |
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116 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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117 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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118 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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119 entail | |
vt.使承担,使成为必要,需要 | |
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120 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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121 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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122 annuity | |
n.年金;养老金 | |
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123 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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126 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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127 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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128 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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129 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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130 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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131 tint | |
n.淡色,浅色;染发剂;vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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132 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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133 stagnant | |
adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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134 nettles | |
n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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135 piers | |
n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 );(常设有娱乐场所的)突堤;柱子;墙墩 | |
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136 dilapidation | |
n.倒塌;毁坏 | |
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137 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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138 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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139 denudation | |
n.剥下;裸露;滥伐;剥蚀 | |
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140 projector | |
n.投影机,放映机,幻灯机 | |
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141 perseverance | |
n.坚持不懈,不屈不挠 | |
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142 eminence | |
n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
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143 picturesqueness | |
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144 hoary | |
adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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145 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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146 obstreperous | |
adj.喧闹的,不守秩序的 | |
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147 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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148 boisterously | |
adv.喧闹地,吵闹地 | |
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149 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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150 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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151 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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154 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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155 divested | |
v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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156 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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157 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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158 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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159 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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160 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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161 profligate | |
adj.行为不检的;n.放荡的人,浪子,肆意挥霍者 | |
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162 outlawed | |
宣布…为不合法(outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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163 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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164 prerogative | |
n.特权 | |
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165 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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166 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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167 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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168 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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169 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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170 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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171 anterior | |
adj.较早的;在前的 | |
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172 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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173 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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174 emanate | |
v.发自,来自,出自 | |
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175 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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176 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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177 acquiesce | |
vi.默许,顺从,同意 | |
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178 slander | |
n./v.诽谤,污蔑 | |
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179 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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180 atrocity | |
n.残暴,暴行 | |
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181 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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182 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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183 persevering | |
a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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184 perseveringly | |
坚定地 | |
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185 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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186 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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187 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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188 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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189 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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190 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
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191 turret | |
n.塔楼,角塔 | |
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192 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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193 offhand | |
adj.临时,无准备的;随便,马虎的 | |
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194 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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195 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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196 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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197 favourably | |
adv. 善意地,赞成地 =favorably | |
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198 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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199 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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200 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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201 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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202 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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204 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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205 loathed | |
v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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206 abhorred | |
v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 );(厌恶地)回避;拒绝;淘汰 | |
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207 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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208 grievances | |
n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 );苦衷;不满;牢骚 | |
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209 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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210 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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211 devoutly | |
adv.虔诚地,虔敬地,衷心地 | |
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212 erased | |
v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;清除 | |
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213 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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214 unreasonableness | |
无理性; 横逆 | |
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215 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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216 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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217 intimidating | |
vt.恐吓,威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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218 bullying | |
v.恐吓,威逼( bully的现在分词 );豪;跋扈 | |
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219 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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220 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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221 extort | |
v.勒索,敲诈,强要 | |
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222 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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223 prelude | |
n.序言,前兆,序曲 | |
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224 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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225 boded | |
v.预示,预告,预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 );等待,停留( bide的过去分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待 | |
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226 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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228 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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229 demurely | |
adv.装成端庄地,认真地 | |
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230 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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231 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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232 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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233 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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234 falter | |
vi.(嗓音)颤抖,结巴地说;犹豫;蹒跚 | |
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235 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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236 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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237 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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238 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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239 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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240 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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241 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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242 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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243 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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244 colloquy | |
n.谈话,自由讨论 | |
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245 unreasonably | |
adv. 不合理地 | |
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246 intimidation | |
n.恐吓,威胁 | |
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247 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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248 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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249 abruptness | |
n. 突然,唐突 | |
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250 reiterate | |
v.重申,反复地说 | |
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251 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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252 fatuity | |
n.愚蠢,愚昧 | |
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253 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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254 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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255 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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256 undone | |
a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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257 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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258 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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259 adverse | |
adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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260 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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261 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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262 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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263 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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264 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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265 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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266 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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267 sketching | |
n.草图 | |
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268 heeding | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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269 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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270 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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271 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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272 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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273 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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274 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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275 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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276 repent | |
v.悔悟,悔改,忏悔,后悔 | |
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277 reposed | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278 imposture | |
n.冒名顶替,欺骗 | |
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279 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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280 demesne | |
n.领域,私有土地 | |
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281 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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282 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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283 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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284 gratuity | |
n.赏钱,小费 | |
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285 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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286 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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287 tamper | |
v.干预,玩弄,贿赂,窜改,削弱,损害 | |
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288 withhold | |
v.拒绝,不给;使停止,阻挡 | |
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289 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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291 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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292 infamous | |
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
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293 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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294 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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295 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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296 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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297 circuitously | |
曲折地 | |
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298 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
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299 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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300 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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301 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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302 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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303 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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304 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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305 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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306 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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307 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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308 narcotic | |
n.麻醉药,镇静剂;adj.麻醉的,催眠的 | |
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309 torpor | |
n.迟钝;麻木;(动物的)冬眠 | |
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310 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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311 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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312 obliquely | |
adv.斜; 倾斜; 间接; 不光明正大 | |
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313 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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314 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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315 implements | |
n.工具( implement的名词复数 );家具;手段;[法律]履行(契约等)v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 );执行;贯彻;使生效 | |
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316 shovel | |
n.铁锨,铲子,一铲之量;v.铲,铲出 | |
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317 shovelful | |
n.一铁铲 | |
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318 mangled | |
vt.乱砍(mangle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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319 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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320 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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321 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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322 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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323 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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324 lumber | |
n.木材,木料;v.以破旧东西堆满;伐木;笨重移动 | |
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325 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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326 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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327 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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328 extremities | |
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
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329 execration | |
n.诅咒,念咒,憎恶 | |
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330 sleeper | |
n.睡眠者,卧车,卧铺 | |
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331 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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332 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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333 cowering | |
v.畏缩,抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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334 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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335 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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336 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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337 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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338 mandate | |
n.托管地;命令,指示 | |
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339 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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340 accomplice | |
n.从犯,帮凶,同谋 | |
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341 accomplices | |
从犯,帮凶,同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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342 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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343 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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344 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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345 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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346 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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347 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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348 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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349 smother | |
vt./vi.使窒息;抑制;闷死;n.浓烟;窒息 | |
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350 clattering | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的现在分词形式) | |
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351 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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352 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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353 torments | |
(肉体或精神上的)折磨,痛苦( torment的名词复数 ); 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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354 scrambled | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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355 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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356 bespeaking | |
v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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357 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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358 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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359 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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360 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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361 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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362 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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363 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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364 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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