He watched the slow return of light,
And sought the powers of sleep;
To spread a momentary2 calm
O’er his sad couch, and in the balm
Of bland3 oblivion’s dews his burning eyes to steep.”
WARTON.
The MS. found by Adeline, the preceding night, had several times occurred to her recollection in the course of the day, but she had then been either too much interested by the events of the moment, or too apprehensive5 of interruption, to attempt a perusal6 of it. She now took it from the drawer in which it had been deposited, and, intending only to look cursorily7 over the few first pages, sat down with it by her bed side.
She opened it with an eagerness of inquiry8, which the discoloured and almost obliterated9 ink but slowly gratified. The first words on the page were entirely10 lost, but those that appeared to commence the narrative11 were as follows:
“O! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance, or misfortune, may hereafter conduct to this spot — to ye I speak — to ye reveal the story of my wrongs, and ask ye to avenge12 them. Vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to believe it possible that what I now write may one day meet the eye of a fellow creature; that the words, which tell my sufferings, may one day draw pity from the feeling heart.
“Yet stay your tears — your pity now is useless: long since have the pangs14 of misery15 ceased; the voice of complaining is passed away. It is weakness to wish for compassion16 which cannot be felt till I shall sink in the repose17 of death, and taste, I hope, the happiness of eternity18!
“Know then, that on the night of the twelfth of October, in the year 1642, I was arrested on the road to Caux, and on the very spot where a column is erected19 to the memory of the immortal20 Henry, by four ruffians, who, after disabling my servant, bore me through wilds and woods to this abbey. Their demeanour was not that of common banditti, and I soon perceived they were employed by a superior power to perpetrate some dreadful purpose. Entreaties23 and bribes24 were vainly offered them to discover their employer and abandon their design: they would not reveal even the least circumstance of their intentions.
“But when, after a long journey, they arrived at this edifice25, their base employer was at once revealed, and his horrid26 scheme but too well understood. What a moment was that! All the thunders of Heaven seemed launched at this defenceless head! O fortitude27! nerve my heart to” —
Adeline’s light was now expiring in the socket28, and the paleness of the ink, so feebly shone upon, baffled her efforts to discriminate29 the letters: it was impossible to procure30 a light from below, without discovering that she was yet up; a circumstance, which would excite surprize and lead to explanations, such as she did not wish to enter upon. Thus compelled to suspend the inquiry, which so many attendant circumstances had rendered awfully31 interesting, she retired32 to her humble33 bed.
What she had read of the MS. awakened34 a dreadful interest in the fate of the writer, and called up terrific images to her mind. “In these apartments!” — said she, and she shuddered35 and closed her eyes. At length, she heard Madame La Motte enter her chamber36, and the phantoms37 of fear beginning to dissipate, left her to repose.
In the morning, she was awakened by Madame La Motte, and found, to her disappointment, that she had slept so much beyond her usual time, as to be unable to renew the perusal of the MS. — La Motte appeared uncommonly38 gloomy, and Madame wore an air of melancholy, which Adeline attributed to the concern she felt for her. Breakfast was scarcely over, when the sound of horses feet announced the arrival of a stranger; and Adeline, from the oriel recess39 of the hall, saw the Marquis alight. She retreated with precipitation, and, forgetting the request of La Motte, was hastening to her chamber; but the Marquis was already in the hall, and seeing her leaving it, turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La Motte called her back, and by a frown too intelligent, reminded her of her promise. She summoned all her spirits to her aid, but advanced, notwithstanding, in visible emotion, while the Marquis addressed her as usual, the same easy gaiety playing upon his countenance40 and directing his manner.
Adeline was surprized and shocked at this careless confidence, which, however, by awakening42 her pride, communicated to her an air of dignity that abashed43 him. He spoke44 with hesitation45, and frequently appeared abstracted from the subject of discourse46. At length arising, he begged Adeline would favour him with a few moments conversation. Monsieur and Madame La Motte were now leaving the room, when Adeline, turning to the Marquis, told him, “she would not hear any conversation, except in the presence of her friends.” But she said it in vain, for they were gone; and La Motte, as he withdrew, expressed by his looks how much an attempt to follow would displease47 him.
She sat for some time in silence, and trembling expectation. “I am sensible,” said the Marquis at length, “that the conduct to which the ardour of my passion lately betrayed me, has injured me in your opinion, and that you will not easily restore me to your esteem48; but, I trust, the offer which I now make you, both of my title and fortune, will sufficiently49 prove the sincerity50 of my attachment51, and atone52 for the transgression53 which love only prompted.”
After this specimen54 of common place verbosity55, which the Marquis seemed to consider as a prelude56 to triumph, he attempted to impress a kiss upon the hand of Adeline, who, withdrawing it hastily, said, “You are already, my Lord, acquainted with my sentiments upon this subject, and it is almost unnecessary for me now to repeat, that I cannot accept the honour you offer me.”
“Explain yourself, lovely Adeline! I am ignorant that till now, I ever made you this offer.”
“Most true, Sir,” said Adeline, “and you do well to remind me of this, since, after having heard your former proposal, I can listen for a moment to any other.” She rose to quit the room. “Stay, Madam,” said the Marquis, with a look, in which offended pride struggled to conceal57 itself; “do not suffer an extravagant58 resentment59 to operate against your true interests; recollect4 the dangers that surround you, and consider the value of an offer, which may afford you at least an honourable60 asylum61.”
“My misfortune, my Lord, whatever they are, I have never obtruded62 upon you; you will, therefore, excuse my observing, that your present mention of them conveys a much greater appearance of insult than compassion.” The Marquis, though with evident confusion, was going to reply; but Adeline would not be detained, and retired to her chamber. Destitute63 as she was, her heart revolted from the proposal of the Marquis, and she determined64 never to accept it. To her dislike of his general disposition65, and the aversion excited by his late offer, was added, indeed, the influence of a prior attachment, and of a remembrance, which she found it impossible to erase66 from her heart.
The Marquis stayed to dine, and, in consideration of La Motte, Adeline appeared at table, where the former gazed upon her with such frequent and silent earnestness, that her distress67 became insupportable, and when the cloth was drawn68, she instantly retired. Madame La Motte soon followed, and it was not till evening that she had an opportunity of returning to the MS. When Monsieur and Madame La Motte were in their chamber, and all was still, she drew forth69 the narrative, and, trimming her lamp, sat down to read as follows:
“The ruffians unbound me from my horse, and led me through the hall up the spiral staircase of the abbey: resistance was useless, but I looked around in the hope of seeing some person less obdurate70 than the men who brought me hither; some one who might be sensible to pity, and capable, at least, of civil treatment. I looked in vain; no person appeared: and this circumstance confirmed my worst apprehensions71. The secrecy72 of the business foretold73 a horrible conclusion. Having passed some chambers74, they stopped in one hung with old tapestry75. I inquired why we did not go on, and was told, I should soon know.
“At that moment, I expected to see the instrument of death uplifted, and silently recommended myself to God. But death was not then designed for me; they raised the arras, and discovered a door, which they then opened. Seizing my arms, they led me through a suite76 of dismal77 chambers beyond. Having reached the farthest of these, they again stopped: the horrid gloom of the place seemed congenial to murder, and inspired deadly thoughts. Again I looked round for the instrument of destruction, and again I was respited78. I supplicated79 to know what was designed me; it was now unnecessary to ask who was the author of the design. They were silent to my question, but at length told me, this chamber was my prison. Having said this, and set down a jug80 of water, they left the room, and I heard the door barred upon me.
“O sound of despair! O moment of unutterable anguish81! The pang13 of death itself is, surely, not superior to that I then suffered. Shut out from day, from friends, from life — for such I must foretell82 it — in the prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions83, and left to imagine horrors more terrible than any, perhaps, which certainty could give — I sink beneath the” —
Here several pages of the manuscript were decayed with damp and totally illegible84. With much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines: “Three days have now passed in solitude85 and silence: the horrors of death are ever before my eyes, let me endeavour to prepare for the dreadful change! When I awake in the morning I think I shall not live to see another night; and, when night returns, that I must never more unclose my eyes on morning. Why am I brought hither — why confined thus rigorously — but for death! Yet what action of my life has deserved this at the hand of a fellow creature? — Of —
“O my children! O friends far distant! I shall never see you more — never more receive the parting look of kindness — never bestow86 a parting blessing87! — Ye know not my wretched state — alas88! ye cannot know it by human means. Ye believe me happy, or ye would fly to my relief. I know that what I now write cannot avail me, yet there is comfort in pouring forth my griefs; and I bless that man, less savage89 than his fellows, who has supplied me these means of recording90 them. Alas! he knows full well, that from this indulgence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call no friends to succour me, nor reveal my danger ere it is too late. O! ye, who may hereafter read what I now write, give a tear to my sufferings: I have wept often for the distresses91 of my fellow creatures!”
Adeline paused. Here the wretched writer appealed directly to her heart; he spoke in the energy of truth, and, by a strong illusion of fancy, it seemed as if his past sufferings were at this moment present. She was for some time unable to proceed, and sat in musing92 sorrow. “In these very apartments,” said she, “this poor sufferer was confined — here he” — Adeline started, and thought she heard a sound; but the stillness of night was undisturbed. — “In these very chambers,” said she, “these lines were written — these lines, from which he then derived93 a comfort in believing they would hereafter be read by some pitying eye: this time is now come. Your miseries94, O injured being! are lamented95, where they were endured. Here, where you suffered, I weep for your sufferings!”
Her imagination was now strongly impressed, and to her distempered senses the suggestions of a bewildered mind appeared with the force of reality. Again she started and listened, and thought she heard “Here” distinctly repeated by a whisper immediately behind her. The terror of the thought, however, was but momentary, she knew it could not be; convinced that her fancy had deceived her, she took up the MS. and again began to read.
“For what am I reserved! Why this delay? If I am to die — why not quickly? Three weeks have I now passed within these walls, during which time, no look of pity has softened96 my afflictions; no voice, save my own, has met my ear. The countenances97 of the ruffians who attend me, are stern and inflexible98, and their silence is obstinate99. This stillness is dreadful! O! ye, who have known what it is to live in the depths of solitude, who have passed your dreary100 days without one sound to cheer you; ye, and ye only, can tell what now I feel; and ye may know how much I would endure to hear the accents of a human voice.
“O dire41 extremity101! O state of living death! What dreadful stillness! All around me is dead; and do I really exist, or am I but a statue? Is this a vision? Are these things real? Alas, I am bewildered! — this deathlike and perpetual silence — this dismal chamber — the dread21 of farther sufferings have disturbed my fancy. O for some friendly breast to lay my weary head on! some cordial accents to revive my soul!
“I write by stealth. He who furnished me with the means, I fear, has suffered for some symptoms of pity he may have discovered for me; I have not seen him for several days: perhaps he is inclined to help me, and for that reason is forbid to come. O that hope! but how vain. Never more must I quit these walls while life remains102. Another day is gone, and yet I live; at this time tomorrow night my sufferings may be sealed in death. I will continue my journal nightly, till the hand that writes shall be stopped by death: when the journal ceases, the reader will know I am no more. Perhaps, these are the last lines I shall ever write”
Adeline paused, while her tears fell fast. “Unhappy man!” she exclaimed, “and was there no pitying soul to save thee! Great God! thy ways are wonderful!” While she sat musing, her fancy, which now wandered in the regions of terror, gradually subdued103 reason. There was a glass before her upon the table, and she feared to raise her looks towards it, lest some other face than her own should meet her eyes: other dreadful ideas, and strange images of fantastic thought now crossed her mind.
A hollow sigh seemed to pass near her. “Holy Virgin104, protect me!” cried she, and threw a fearful glance round the room; “this is surely something more than fancy.” Her fears so far overcame her, that she was several times upon the point of calling up part of the family, but unwillingness105 to disturb them, and a dread of ridicule106, withheld107 her. She was also afraid to move and almost to breathe. As she listened to the wind, that murmured at the casements108 of her lonely chamber, she again thought she heard a sigh. Her imagination refused any longer the controul of reason, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whose exact form she could not distinguish, appeared to pass along an obscure part of the chamber: a dreadful chillness came over her, and she sat fixed109 in her chair. At length a deep sigh somewhat relieved her oppressed spirits, and her senses seemed to return.
All remaining quiet, after some time she began to question whether her fancy had not deceived her, and she so far conquered her terror as to desist from calling Madame La Motte: her mind was, however, so much disturbed, that she did not venture to trust herself that night again with the MS.; but, having spent some time in prayer, and in endeavouring to compose her spirits, she retired to bed.
When she awoke in the morning, the cheerful sun-beams played upon the casements, and dispelled110 the illusions of darkness: her mind, soothed111 and invigorated by sleep, rejected the mystic and turbulent promptings of imagination. She arose refreshed and thankful; but, upon going down to breakfast, this transient gleam of peace fled upon the appearance of the Marquis, whose frequent visits at the abbey, after what had passed, not only displeased112, but alarmed her. She saw that he was determined to persevere113 in addressing her, and the boldness and insensibility of this conduct, while it excited her indignation, increased her disgust. In pity to La Motte, she endeavoured to conceal these emotions, though she now thought that he required too much from her complaisance114, and began seriously to consider how she might avoid the necessity of continuing it. The Marquis behaved to her with the most respectful attention; but Adeline was silent and reserved, and seized the first opportunity of withdrawing.
As she passed up the spiral staircase, Peter entered the hall below, and, seeing Adeline, he stopped and looked earnestly at her: she did not observe him, but he called her softly, and she then saw him make a signal as if he had something to communicate. In the next instant La Motte opened the door of the vaulted115 room, and Peter hastily disappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating116 upon this signal, and the cautious manner in which Peter had given it.
But her thoughts soon returned to their wonted subjects. Three days were now passed, and she heard no intelligence of her father; she began to hope that he had relented from the violent measures hinted at by La Motte, and that he meant to pursue a milder plan: but when she considered his character, this appeared improbable, and she relapsed into her former fears. Her residence at the abbey was now become painful, from the perseverance117 of the Marquis, and the conduct which La Motte obliged her to adopt; yet she could not think without dread of quitting it to return to her father.
The image of Theodore often intruded118 upon her busy thoughts, and brought with it a pang, which his strange departure occasioned. She had a confused notion, that his fate was somehow connected with her own; and her struggles to prevent the remembrance of him, served only to shew how much her heart was his.
To divert her thoughts from these subjects, and gratify the curiosity so strongly excited on the preceding night, she now took up the MS. but was hindered from opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to tell her the Marquis was gone. They passed their morning together in work and general conversation; La Motte not appearing till dinner, when he said little, and Adeline less. She asked him, however, if he had heard from her father? “I have not heard from him,” said La Motte; but there is good reason, as I am informed by the Marquis, to believe he is not far off.”
Adeline was shocked, yet she was able to reply with becoming firmness. “I have already, Sir, involved you too much in my distress, and now see that resistance will destroy you, without serving me; I am, therefore, contented119 to return to my father, and thus spare you farther calamity120.”
“This is a rash determination,” replied La Motte, “and if you pursue it, I fear you will severely121 repent122. I speak to you as a friend, Adeline, and desire you will endeavour to listen to me without prejudice. The Marquis, I find, has offered you his hand. I know not which circumstance most excites my surprize, that a man of his rank and consequence should solicit123 a marriage with a person without fortune, or ostensible124 connections; or that a person so circumstanced should even for a moment reject the advantages thus offered her. You weep, Adeline, let me hope that you are convinced of the absurdity125 of this conduct, and will no longer trifle with your good fortune. The kindness I have shewn you must convince you of my regard, and that I have no motive126 for offering you this advice but your advantage. It is necessary, however, to say, that, should your father not insist upon your removal, I know not how long my circumstances may enable me to afford even the humble pittance127 you receive here. Still you are silent.”
The anguish which this speech excited, suppressed her utterance128, and she continued to weep. At length she said, Suffer me, Sir, to go back to my father; I should, indeed, make an ill return for the kindness you mention, could I wish to stay, after what you now tell me; and to accept the Marquis, I feel to be impossible.” The remembrance of Theodore arose to her mind, and she wept aloud.
La Motte sat for some time musing. “Strange infatuation,” said he; “is it possible that you can persist in this heroism129 of romance, and prefer a father so inhuman130 as yours, to the Marquis de Montalt! A destiny so full of danger to a life of splendour and delight!”
“Pardon me,” said Adeline, “a marriage with the Marquis would be splendid, but never happy. His character excites my aversion, and I entreat22, Sir, that he may no more be mentioned.”
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收听单词发音
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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2
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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3
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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4
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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5
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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6
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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7
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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8
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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9
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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10
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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11
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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12
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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13
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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14
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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15
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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16
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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17
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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18
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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19
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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20
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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21
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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24
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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25
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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26
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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27
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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28
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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29
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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30
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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31
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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32
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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33
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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34
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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35
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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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38
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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39
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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40
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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41
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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42
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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43
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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46
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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47
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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48
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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49
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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50
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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51
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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52
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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53
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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54
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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55
verbosity
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| n.冗长，赘言 | |
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56
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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57
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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58
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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59
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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60
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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61
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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62
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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64
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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65
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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66
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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67
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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68
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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71
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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72
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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73
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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75
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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76
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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77
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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respited
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| v.延期（respite的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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81
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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82
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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83
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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84
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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85
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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86
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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87
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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88
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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89
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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91
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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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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93
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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94
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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97
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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98
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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99
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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100
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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101
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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102
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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103
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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104
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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105
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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106
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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107
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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108
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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109
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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110
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
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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112
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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113
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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114
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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115
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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116
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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117
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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118
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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119
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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120
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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121
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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122
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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123
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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124
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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125
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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126
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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127
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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128
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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129
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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130
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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