More free from peril1 than the envious2 court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season’s difference, as the icy fang3
And churlish chiding4 of the winter’s wind.”
Shakespeare.
La Motte arranged his little plan of living. His mornings were usually spent in shooting, or fishing, and the dinner, thus provided by his industry; he relished5 with a keener appetite than had ever attended him at the luxurious6 tables of Paris. The afternoons he passed with his family: sometimes he would select a book from the few he had brought with him, and endeavour to fix his attention to the words his lips repeated:— but his mind suffered little abstraction from its own cares, and the sentiment he pronounced left no trace behind it. Sometimes he conversed7, but oftener sat in gloomy silence, musing8 upon the past, or anticipating the future.
At these moments, Adeline, with a sweetness almost irresistible9, endeavoured to enliven his spirits, and to withdraw him from himself. Seldom she succeeded, but when she did the grateful looks of Madame La Motte, and the benevolent10 feelings of her own bosom11, realized the chearfulness she had at at first only assumed. Adeline’s mind had the happy art, or, perhaps, it were more just to say, the happy nature, of accommodating itself to her situation. Her present condition, though forlorn, was not devoid12 of comfort, and this comfort was confirmed by her virtues13. So much she won upon the affections of her protectors, that Madame La Motte loved her as her child, and La Motte himself, though a man little susceptible14 of tenderness, could not be insensible to her solicitudes15. Whenever he relaxed from the sullenness16 of misery18, it was at the influence of Adeline.
Peter regularly brought a weekly supply of provisions from Auboine, and, on those occasions, always quitted the town by a route contrary to that leading to the abbey. Several weeks having passed without molestation19, La Motte dismissed all apprehension20 of pursuit, and at length became tolerably reconciled to the complection of his circumstances. As habit and effort strengthened the fortitude21 of Madame La Motte, the features of misfortune appeared to soften22. The forest, which at first seemed to her a frightful23 solitude24, had lost its terrific aspect; and that edifice25, whose half demolished26 walls and gloomy desolation had struck her mind with the force of melancholy27 and dismay, was now beheld28 as a domestic asylum29, and a safe refuge from the storms of power.
She was a sensible and highly accomplished30 woman, and it became her chief delight to form the rising graces of Adeline, who had, as has been already shown, a sweetness of disposition31, which made her quick to repay instruction with improvement, and indulgence with love. Never was Adeline so pleased as when she anticipated her wishes, and never so diligent32 as when she was employed in her business. The little affairs of the houshold she overlooked and managed with such admirable exactness, that Madame La Motte had neither anxiety, nor care, concerning them. And Adeline formed for herself in this barren situation, many amusements, that occasionally banished34 the remembrance of her misfortunes. La Motte’s books were her chief consolation35. With one of these she would frequently ramble36 into the forest, where the river, winding37 through a glade38, diffused39 coolness, and with its murmuring accents, invited repose41: there she would seat herself, and, resigned to the illusions of the page, pass many hours in oblivion of sorrow.
Here too, when her mind was tranquilized by the surrounding scenery, she wooed the gentle muse33, and indulged in ideal happiness. The delight of these moments she commemorated42 in the following address
To the Visions of Fancy.
Dear, wild illusions of creative mind! Whose varying hues43 arise to Fancy’s art, And by her magic force are swift combin’d In forms that please, and scenes that touch the heart:
Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume The pensive44 grace of sorrow drooping45 low; Or rise sublime46 on terror’s lofty plume47, And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe48; Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints49 ye spread, Bid scenes of pleasure steal upon my view, Love wave his purple pinions50 o’er my head, And wake the tender thought to passion true;
O! still — ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours, Still chase my real cares with your illusive52 powers.
Madame La Motte had frequently expressed curiosity concerning the events of Adeline’s life, and by what circumstances she had been thrown into a situation so perilous53 and mysterious as that in which La Motte had found her. Adeline had given a brief account of the manner in which she had been brought thither54, but had always with tears intreated to be spared for that time from a particular relation of her history. Her spirits were not then equal to retrospection, but now that they were soothed55 by quiet, and strengthened by confidence, she one day gave Madame La Motte the following narration56.
I am the only child, said Adeline, of Louis de St. Pierre, a chevalier of reputable family, but of small fortune, who for many years resided at Paris. Of my mother I have a faint remembrance: I lost her when I was only seven years old, and this was my first misfortune. At her death, my father gave up housekeeping, boarded me in a convent, and quitted Paris. Thus was I, at this early period of my life, abandoned to strangers. My father came sometimes to Paris; he then visited me, and I well remember the grief I used to feel when he bade me farewell. On these occasions, which rung my heart with grief, he appeared unmoved; so that I often thought he had little tenderness for me. But he was my father, and the only person to whom I could look up for protection and love.
In this convent I continued till I was twelve years old. A thousand times I had entreated57 my father to take me home, but at first motives58 of prudence59, and afterwards of avarice60, prevented him. I was now removed from this convent, and placed in another, where I learned my father intended I should take the veil. I will not attempt to express my surprize and grief on this occasion. Too long I had been immured61 in the walls of a cloister62, and too much had I seen of the sullen17 misery of its votaries63, not to feel horror and disgust at the prospect64 of being added to their number.
The Lady Abbess was a woman of rigid65 decorum and severe devotion; exact in the observance of every detail of form, and never forgave an offence against ceremony. It was her method, when she wanted to make converts to her order, to denounce and terrify rather than to persuade and allure66. Her’s were the arts of cunning practised upon fear, not those of sophistication upon reason. She employed numberless stratagems67 to gain me to her purpose, and they all wore the complection of her character. But in the life to which she would have devoted68 me, I saw too many forms of real terror, to be overcome by the influence of her ideal host, and was resolute69 in rejecting the veil. Here I passed several years of miserable70 resistance against cruelty and superstition71. My father I seldom saw; when I did, I entreated him to alter my destination, but he objected that his fortune was insufficient72 to support me in the world, and at length denounced vengeance73 on my head if I persisted in disobedience.
You, my dear Madam, can form little idea of the wretchedness of my situation, condemned75 to perpetual imprisonment76, and imprisonment of the most dreadful kind, or to the vengeance of a father, from whom I had no appeal. My resolution relaxed — for some time I paused upon the choice of evils — but at length the horrors of the monastic life rose so fully77 to my view, that fortitude gave way before them. Excluded from the cheerful intercourse78 of society — from the pleasant view of nature — almost from the light of day — condemned to silence — rigid formality — abstinence and penance79 — condemned to forego the delights of a world, which imagination painted in the gayest and most alluring80 colours, and whose hues were, perhaps, not the less captivating because they were only ideal:— such was the state, to which I was destined81. Again my resolution was invigorated: my father’s cruelty subdued82 tenderness, and roused indignation. “Since he can forget,” said I, “the affection of a parent, and condemn74 his child without remorse83 to wretchedness and despair — the bond of filial and parental84 duty no longer subsists85 between us — he has himself dissolved it, and I will yet struggle for liberty and life.”
Finding me unmoved by menace, the Lady Abbess had now recourse to more subtle measures: she condescended86 to smile, and even to flatter; but her’s was the distorted smile of cunning, not the gracious emblem87 of kindness; it provoked disgust, instead of inspiring affection. She painted the character of a vestal in the most beautiful tints of art — its holy innocence88 — its mild dignity — its sublime devotion. I sighed as she spoke89. This she regarded as a favourable90 symptom, and proceeded on her picture with more animation91. She described the serenity92 of a monastic life — its security from the seductive charms, restless passions, and sorrowful vicissitudes93 of the world — the rapturous delights of religion, and the sweet reciprocal affection of the sisterhood.
So highly she finished the piece, that the lurking94 lines of cunning would, to an inexperienced eye, have escaped detection. Mine was too sorrowfully informed. Too often had I witnessed the secret tear and bursting sigh of vain regret, the sullen pinings of discontent, and the mute anguish95 of despair. My silence and my manner assured her of my incredulity, and it was with difficulty that she preserved a decent composure.
My father, as may be imagined, was highly incensed96 at my perseverance97, which he called obstinacy98, but, what will not be so easily believed, he soon after relented, and appointed a day to take me from the convent. O! judge of my feelings when I received this intelligence. The joy it occasioned awakened99 all my gratitude100; I forgot the former cruelty of my father, and that the present indulgence was less the effect of his kindness than of my resolution. I wept that I could not indulge his every wish.
What days of blissful expectation were those that preceded my departure! The world, from which I had been hitherto secluded101 — the world, in which my fancy had been so often delighted to roam — whose paths were strewn with fadeless roses — whose every scene smiled in beauty and invited to delight — where all the people were good, and all the good happy — Ah! then that world was bursting upon my view. Let me catch the rapturous remembrance before it vanish! It is like the passing lights of autumn, that gleam for a moment on a hill, and then leave it to darkness. I counted the days and hours that with-held me from this fairy land. It was in the convent only that people were deceitful and cruel: it was there only that misery dwelt. I was quitting it all! How I pitied the poor nuns102 that were to be left behind. I would have given half that world I prized so much, had it been mine, to have taken them out with me.
The long wished for day at last arrived. My father came, and for a moment my joy was lost in the sorrow of bidding farewell to my poor companions, for whom I had never felt such warmth of kindness as at this instant. I was soon beyond the gates of the convent. I looked around me, and viewed the vast vault103 of heaven no longer bounded by monastic walls, and the green earth extended in hill and dale to the round verge104 of the horizon! My heart danced with delight, tears swelled105 in my eyes, and for some moments I was unable to speak. My thoughts rose to Heaven in sentiments of gratitude to the Giver of all good!
At length, I returned to my father; dear Sir, said I, how I thank you for my deliverance, and how I wish I could do every thing to oblige you.
Return, then, to your convent, said he, in a harsh accent. I shuddered106; his look and manner jarred the tone of my feelings; they struck discord107 upon my heart, which had before responded only to harmony. The ardour of joy was in a moment repressed, and every object around me was saddened with the gloom of disappointment. It was not that I suspected my father would take me back to the convent; but that his feelings seemed so very dissonant108 to the joy and gratitude, which I had but a moment before felt and expressed to him. — Pardon, Madam, a relation of these trivial circumstances; the strong vicissitudes of feeling which they impressed upon my heart, make me think them important, when they are, perhaps, only disgusting.
“No, my dear,” said Madame La Motte, “they are interesting to me; they illustrate109 little traits of character, which I love to observe. You are worthy110 of all my regards, and from this moment I give my tenderest pity to your misfortunes, and my affection to your goodness.”
These words melted the heart of Adeline; she kissed the hand which Madame held out, and remained a few minutes silent. At length she said, “May I deserve this goodness! and may I ever be thankful to God, who, in giving me such a friend, has raised me to comfort and hope!
“My father’s house was situated111 a few leagues on the other side of Paris, and in our way to it, we passed through that city. What a novel scene! Where were now the solemn faces, the demure112 manners I had been accustomed to see in the convent? Every countenance113 was here animated114, either by business or pleasure; every step was airy, and every smile was gay. All the people appeared like friends; they looked and smiled at me; I smiled again, and wished to have told them how pleased I was. How delightful115, said I, to live surrounded by friends!
“What crowded streets! What magnificent hotels! What splendid equipages! I scarcely observed that the streets were narrow, or the way dangerous. What bustle116, what tumult117, what delight! I could never be sufficiently118 thankful that I was removed from the convent. Again, I was going to express my gratitude to my father, but his looks forbad me, and I was silent. I am too diffuse40; even the faint forms which memory reflects of passed delight are grateful to the heart. The shadow of pleasure is still gazed upon with a melancholy enjoyment119, though the substance is fled beyond our reach.”
“Having quitted Paris, which I left with many sighs, and gazed upon till the towers of every church dissolved in distance from my view; we entered upon a gloomy and unfrequented road. It was evening when we reached a wild heath; I looked round in search of a human dwelling120, but could find none; and not a human being was to be seen. I experienced something of what I used to feel in the convent; my heart had not been so sad since I left it. Of my father, who still sat in silence, I inquired if we were near home; he answered in the affirmative. Night came on, however, before we reached the place of our destination; it was a lone51 house on the waste; but I need not describe it to you, Madam. When the carriage stopped, two men appeared at the door, and assisted us to alight; so gloomy were their countenances121, and so few their words, I almost fancied myself again in the convent. Certain it is, I had not seen such melancholy faces since I quitted it. Is this a part of the world I have so fondly contemplated122? said I.
“The interior appearance of the house was desolate123 and mean; I was surprised that my father had chosen such a place for his habitation, and also that no woman was to be seen; but I knew that inquiry124 would only produce a reproof125, and was, therefore, silent. At supper, the two men I had before seen sat down with us; they said little, but seemed to observe me much. I was confused and displeased126, which, my father noticing, frowned at them with a look, which convinced me he meant more than I comprehended. When the cloth was drawn127, my father took my hand and conducted me to the door of my chamber128; having sat down the candle, and wished me good night, he left me to my own solitary129 thoughts.
“How different were they from those I had indulged a few hours before! then expectation, hope, delight, danced before me; now melancholy and disappointment chilled the ardour of my mind, and discoloured my future prospect. The appearance of every thing around conduced to depress me. On the floor lay a small bed without curtains, or hangings; two old chairs and a table were all the remaining furniture in the room. I went to the window, with an intention of looking out upon the surrounding scene, and found it was grated. I was shocked at this circumstance, and, comparing it with the lonely situation, and the strange appearance of the house, together with the countenances and behaviour of the men who had supped with us, I was lost in a labyrinth130 of conjecture131.
“At length I laid down to sleep; but the anxiety of my mind prevented repose; gloomy unpleasing images flitted before my fancy, and I fell into a sort of waking dream: I thought that I was in a lonely forest with my father; his looks were severe, and his gestures menacing: he upbraided132 me for leaving the convent, and while he spoke, drew from his pocket a mirror, which he held before my face; I looked in it and saw, (my blood now thrills as I repeat it) I saw myself wounded, and bleeding profusely133. Then I thought myself in the house again; and suddenly heard these words, in accents so distinct, that for some time after I awoke, I could scarcely believe them ideal, ‘Depart this house, destruction hovers134 here.’
“I was awakened by a footstep on the stairs; it was my father retiring to his chamber; the lateness of the hour surprised me, for it was past midnight.
“On the following morning, the party of the preceding evening assembled at breakfast, and were as gloomy and silent as before. The table was spread by a boy of my father’s; but the cook and the house-maid, whatever they might be, were invisible.”
“The next morning, I was surprized, on attempting to leave my chamber, to find the door locked; I waited a considerable time before I ventured to call; when I did, no answer was returned; I then went to the window, and called more loudly, but my own voice was still the only sound I heard. Near an hour I passed in a state of surprise and terror not to be described: at length, I heard a person coming up stairs, and I renewed the call; I was answered, that my father had that morning set off for Paris, whence he would return in a few days; in the meanwhile he had ordered me to be confined in my chamber. On my expressing surprise and apprehension at this circumstance, I was assured I had nothing to fear, and that I should live as well as if I was at liberty.”
“The latter part of this speech seemed to contain an odd kind of comfort; I made little reply, but submitted to necessity. Once more I was abandoned to sorrowful reflection; what a day was the one I now passed! alone, and agitated135 with grief and apprehension. I endeavoured to conjecture the cause of this harsh treatment; and, at length concluded it was designed by my father, as a punishment for my former disobedience. But why abandon me to the power of strangers, to men, whose countenances bore the stamp of villany so strongly as to impress even my inexperienced mind with terror! Surmise136 involved me only deeper in perplexity, yet I found it impossible to forbear pursuing the subject; and the day was divided between lamentation137 and conjecture. Night at length came, and such a night! Darkness brought new terrors: I looked round the chamber for some means of fastening my door on the inside, but could perceive none; at last I contrived138 to place the back of a chair in an oblique139 direction, so as to render it secure.
“I had scarcely done this, and laid down upon my bed in my cloaths, not to sleep, but to watch, when I heard a rap at the door of the house, which was opened and shut so quickly, that the person who had knocked, seemed only to deliver a letter or message. Soon after, I heard voices at intervals140 in a room below stairs, sometimes speaking very low, and sometimes rising, all together, as if in dispute. Something more excusable than curiosity made me endeavour to distinguish what was said, but in vain; now and then a word or two reached me, and once I heard my name repeated, but no more.”
“Thus passed the hours till midnight, when all became still. I had laid for some time in a state between fear and hope, when I heard the lock of my door gently moved backward and forward; I started up, and listened; for a moment it was still, then the noise returned, and I heard a whispering without; my spirits died away, but I was yet sensible. Presently an effort was made at the door, as if to force it; I shrieked141 aloud, and immediately heard the voices of the men I had seen at my father’s table: they called loudly for the door to be opened, and on my returning no answer, uttered dreadful execrations. I had just strength sufficient to move to the window, in the desperate hope of escaping thence; but my feeble efforts could not even shake the bars. O! how can I recollect142 these moments of horror, and be sufficiently thankful that I am now in safety and comfort!
“They remained some time at the door, then they quitted it, and went down stairs. How my heart revived at every step of their departure; I fell upon my knees, thanked God that he had preserved me this time, and implored143 his farther protection. I was rising from this short prayer, when suddenly I heard a noise in a different part of the room, and, on looking round, I perceived the door of a small closet open, and two men enter the chamber.
“They seized me, and I sunk senseless in their arms; how long I remained in this condition I know not, but on reviving, I perceived myself again alone, and heard several voices from below stairs. I had presence of mind to run to the door of the closet, my only chance of escape; but it was locked! I then recollected144 it was possible, that the ruffians might have forgot to turn the key of the chamber door, which was held by the chair; but here, also, I was disappointed. I clasped my hands in an agony of despair, and stood for some time immoveable.
“A violent noise from below rouzed me, and soon after I heard people ascending145 the stairs: I now gave myself up for lost. The steps approached, the door of the closet was again unlocked. I stood calmly, and again saw the men enter the chamber; I neither spoke, nor resisted: the faculties146 of my soul were wrought147 up beyond the power of feeling; as a violent blow on the body stuns148 for awhile the sense of pain. They led me down stairs; the door of a room below was thrown open, and I beheld a stranger; it was then that my senses returned; I shrieked, and resisted, but was forced along. It is unnecessary to say that this stranger was Monsieur La Motte, or to add, that I shall for ever bless him as my deliverer.”
Adeline ceased to speak; Madame La Motte remained silent. There were some circumstances in Adeline’s narrative149, which raised all her curiosity. She asked if Adeline believed her father to be a party in this mysterious affair. Adeline, though it was impossible to doubt that he had been principally and materially concerned in some part of it, thought, or said she thought, he was innocent of any intention against her life. “Yet, what motive,” said Madame La Motte, could there be for a degree of cruelty so apparently150 unprofitable?” Here the inquiry ended; and Adeline confessed she had pursued it, till her mind shrunk from all farther research.
The sympathy which such uncommon151 misfortune excited, Madame La Motte now expressed without reserve, and this expression of it, strengthened the tye of mutual152 friendship. Adeline felt her spirits relieved by the disclosure she had made to Madame La Motte; and the latter acknowledged the value of the confidence, by an increase of affectionate attentions.
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1
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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solicitudes
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| n.关心，挂念，渴望( solicitude的名词复数 ) | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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melancholy
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beheld
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| 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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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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diligent
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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42
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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44
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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47
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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48
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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49
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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50
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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52
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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53
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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54
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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55
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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56
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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57
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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59
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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60
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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61
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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63
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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65
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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66
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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67
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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68
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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69
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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70
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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71
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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72
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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73
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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74
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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75
condemned
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| 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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76
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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79
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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80
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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81
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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82
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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84
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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85
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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87
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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88
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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89
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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90
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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91
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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92
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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93
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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94
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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95
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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96
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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97
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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98
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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99
awakened
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| 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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100
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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101
secluded
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| 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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102
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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103
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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104
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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105
swelled
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| 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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106
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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107
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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108
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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109
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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110
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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111
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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112
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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113
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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114
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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115
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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116
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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117
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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118
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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119
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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120
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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121
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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122
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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123
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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124
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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125
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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126
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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129
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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130
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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131
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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132
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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134
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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135
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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136
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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137
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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138
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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139
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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140
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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141
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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143
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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146
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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147
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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148
stuns
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| v.击晕( stun的第三人称单数 )；使大吃一惊；给（某人）以深刻印象；使深深感动 | |
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149
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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150
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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151
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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152
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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