“No,” I said gravely, if with a smile, “you cannot be expected to understand.”
His clean-shaven lip quivered ever so little before he said, as if wickedly amused —
“But haven’t you heard just now? I was thanked by that young lady for understanding so well.”
I looked at him rather hard. Was there a hidden and inexplicable11 sneer12 in this retort? No. It was not that. It might have been resentment13. Yes. But what had he to resent? He looked as though he had not slept very well of late. I could almost feel on me the weight of his unrefreshed, motionless stare, the stare of a man who lies unwinking in the dark, angrily passive in the toils15 of disastrous16 thoughts. Now, when I know how true it was, I can honestly affirm that this was the effect he produced on me. It was painful in a curiously17 indefinite way — for, of course, the definition comes to me now while I sit writing in the fullness of my knowledge. But this is what the effect was at that time of absolute ignorance. This new sort of uneasiness which he seemed to be forcing upon me I attempted to put down by assuming a conversational18, easy familiarity.
“That extremely charming and essentially19 admirable young girl (I am — as you see — old enough to be frank in my expressions) was referring to her own feelings. Surely you must have understood that much?”
He made such a brusque movement that he even tottered20 a little.
“Must understand this! Not expected to understand that! I may have other things to do. And the girl is charming and admirable. Well — and if she is! I suppose I can see that for myself.”
This sally would have been insulting if his voice had not been practically extinct, dried up in his throat; and the rustling21 effort of his speech too painful to give real offence.
I remained silent, checked between the obvious fact and the subtle impression. It was open to me to leave him there and then; but the sense of having been entrusted with a mission, the suggestion of Miss Haldin’s last glance, was strong upon me. After a moment of reflection I said —
“Shall we walk together a little?”
He shrugged22 his shoulders so violently that he tottered again. I saw it out of the corner of my eye as I moved on, with him at my elbow. He had fallen back a little and was practically out of my sight, unless I turned my head to look at him. I did not wish to indispose him still further by an appearance of marked curiosity. It might have been distasteful to such a young and secret refugee from under the pestilential shadow hiding the true, kindly23 face of his land. And the shadow, the attendant of his countrymen, stretching across the middle of Europe, was lying on him too, darkening his figure to my mental vision. “Without doubt,” I said to myself, “he seems a sombre, even a desperate revolutionist; but he is young, he may be unselfish and humane24, capable of compassion25, of . . . .”
I heard him clear gratingly his parched26 throat, and became all attention.
“This is beyond everything,” were his first words. “It is beyond everything! I find you here, for no reason that I can understand, in possession of something I cannot be expected to understand! A confidant! A foreigner! Talking about an admirable Russian girl. Is the admirable girl a fool, I begin to wonder? What are you at? What is your object?”
He was barely audible, as if his throat had no more resonance27 than a dry rag, a piece of tinder. It was so pitiful that I found it extremely easy to control my indignation.
“When you have lived a little longer, Mr. Razumov, you will discover that no woman is an absolute fool. I am not a feminist28, like that illustrious author, Peter Ivanovitch, who, to say the truth, is not a little suspect to me . . . .”
He interrupted me, in a surprising note of whispering astonishment29.
“Suspect to you! Peter Ivanovitch suspect to you! To you! . . .”
“Yes, in a certain aspect he is,” I said, dismissing my remark lightly. “As I was saying, Mr. Razumov, when you have lived long enough, you will learn to discriminate30 between the noble trustfulness of a nature foreign to every meanness and the flattered credulity of some women; though even the credulous31, silly as they may be, unhappy as they are sure to be, are never absolute fools. It is my belief that no woman is ever completely deceived. Those that are lost leap into the abyss with their eyes open, if all the truth were known.”
“Upon my word,” he cried at my elbow, “what is it to me whether women are fools or lunatics? I really don’t care what you think of them. I— I am not interested in them. I let them be. I am not a young man in a novel. How do you know that I want to learn anything about women? . . . What is the meaning of all this?”
“The object, you mean, of this conversation, which I admit I have forced upon you in a measure.”
“Forced! Object!” he repeated, still keeping half a pace or so behind me. “You wanted to talk about women, apparently32. That’s a subject. But I don’t care for it. I have never. . . . In fact, I have had other subjects to think about.”
“I am concerned here with one woman only — a young girl — the sister of your dead friend — Miss Haldin. Surely you can think a little of her. What I meant from the first was that there is a situation which you cannot be expected to understand.”
I listened to his unsteady footfalls by my side for the space of several strides.
“I think that it may prepare the ground for your next interview with Miss Haldin if I tell you of it. I imagine that she might have had something of the kind in her mind when she left us together. I believe myself authorized33 to speak. The peculiar34 situation I have alluded35 to has arisen in the first grief and distress36 of Victor Haldin’s execution. There was something peculiar in the circumstances of his arrest. You no doubt know the whole truth . . . .”
I felt my arm seized above the elbow, and next instant found myself swung so as to face Mr. Razumov.
“You spring up from the ground before me with this talk. Who the devil are you? This is not to be borne! Why! What for? What do you know what is or is not peculiar? What have you to do with any confounded circumstances, or with anything that happens in Russia, anyway?”
He leaned on his stick with his other hand, heavily; and when he let go my arm, I was certain in my mind that he was hardly able to keep on his feet.
“Let us sit down at one of these vacant tables,” I proposed, disregarding this display of unexpectedly profound emotion. It was not without its effect on me, I confess. I was sorry for him.
“What tables? What are you talking about? Oh — the empty tables? The tables there. Certainly. I will sit at one of the empty tables.”
I led him away from the path to the very centre of the raft of deals before the chalet. The Swiss couple were gone by that time. We were alone on the raft, so to speak. Mr. Razumov dropped into a chair, let fall his stick, and propped37 on his elbows, his head between his hands, stared at me persistently38, openly, and continuously, while I signalled the waiter and ordered some beer. I could not quarrel with this silent inspection39 very well, because, truth to tell, I felt somewhat guilty of having been sprung on him with some abruptness40 — of having “sprung from the ground,” as he expressed it.
While waiting to be served I mentioned that, born from parents settled in St. Petersburg, I had acquired the language as a child. The town I did not remember, having left it for good as a boy of nine, but in later years I had renewed my acquaintance with the language. He listened, without as much as moving his eyes the least little bit. He had to change his position when the beer came, and the instant draining of his glass revived him. He leaned back in his chair and, folding his arms across his chest, continued to stare at me squarely. It occurred to me that his clean-shaven, almost swarthy face was really of the very mobile sort, and that the absolute stillness of it was the acquired habit of a revolutionist, of a, conspirator41 everlastingly42 on his guard against self-betrayal in a world of secret spies.
“But you are an Englishman — a teacher of English literature,” he murmured, in a voice that was no longer issuing from a parched throat. “I have heard of you. People told me you have lived here for years.”
“Quite true. More than twenty years. And I have been assisting Miss Haldin with her English studies.”
“You have been reading English poetry with her,” he said, immovable now, like another man altogether, a complete stranger to the man of the heavy and uncertain footfalls a little while ago — at my elbow.
“Yes, English poetry,” I said. “ But the trouble of which I speak was caused by an English newspaper.”
He continued to stare at me. I don’t think he was aware that the story of the midnight arrest had been ferreted out by an English journalist and given to the world. When I explained this to him he muttered contemptuously, “It may have been altogether a lie.”
“I should think you are the best judge of that,” I retorted, a little disconcerted. “I must confess that to me it looks to be true in the main.”
“How can you tell truth from lies?” he queried43 in his new, immovable manner.
“I don’t know how you do it in Russia,” I began, rather nettled44 by his attitude. He interrupted me.
“In Russia, and in general everywhere — in a newspaper, for instance. The colour of the ink and the shapes of the letters are the same.”
“Well, there are other trifles one can go by. The character of the publication, the general verisimilitude of the news, the consideration of the motive45, and so on. I don’t trust blindly the accuracy of special correspondents — but why should this one have gone to the trouble of concocting46 a circumstantial falsehood on a matter of no importance to the world?”
“That’s what it is,” he grumbled47. “What’s going on with us is of no importance — a mere sensational48 story to amuse the readers of the papers — the superior contemptuous Europe. It is hateful to think of. But let them wait a bit!”
He broke off on this sort of threat addressed to the western world. Disregarding the anger in his stare, I pointed49 out that whether the journalist was well — or ill-informed, the concern of the friends of these ladies was with the effect the few lines of print in question had produced — the effect alone. And surely he must be counted as one of the friends — if only for the sake of his late comrade and intimate fellow-revolutionist. At that point I thought he was going to speak vehemently50; but he only astounded51 me by the convulsive start of his whole body. He restrained himself, folded his loosened arms tighter across his chest, and sat back with a smile in which there was a twitch52 of scorn and malice53.
“Yes, a comrade and an intimate. . . . Very well,” he said.
“I ventured to speak to you on that assumption. And I cannot be mistaken. I was present when Peter Ivanovitch announced your arrival here to Miss Haldin, and I saw her relief and thankfulness when your name was mentioned. Afterwards she showed me her brother’s letter, and read out the few words in which he alludes54 to you. What else but a friend could you have been?”
“Obviously. That’s perfectly55 well known. A friend. Quite correct. . . . Go on. You were talking of some effect.”
I said to myself: “He puts on the callousness56 of a stern revolutionist, the insensibility to common emotions of a man devoted57 to a destructive idea. He is young, and his sincerity58 assumes a pose before a stranger, a foreigner, an old man. Youth must assert itself. . . . As concisely59 as possible I exposed to him the state of mind poor Mrs. Haldin had been thrown into by the news of her son’s untimely end.
He listened — I felt it — with profound attention. His level stare deflected60 gradually downwards61, left my face, and rested at last on the ground at his feet.
“You can enter into the sister’s feelings. As you said, I have only read a little English poetry with her, and I won’t make myself ridiculous in your eyes by trying to speak of her. But you have seen her. She is one of these rare human beings that do not want explaining. At least I think so. They had only that son, that brother, for a link with the wider world, with the future. The very groundwork of active existence for Nathalie Haldin is gone with him. Can you wonder then that she turns with eagerness to the only man her brother mentions in his letters. Your name is a sort of legacy62.”
“What could he have written of me?” he cried, in a low, exasperated63 tone.
“Only a few words. It is not for me to repeat them to you, Mr. Razumov; but you may believe my assertion that these words are forcible enough to make both his mother and his sister believe implicitly64 in the worth of your judgment65 and in the truth of anything you may have to say to them. It’s impossible for you now to pass them by like strangers.”
I paused, and for a moment sat listening to the footsteps of the few people passing up and down the broad central walk. While I was speaking his head had sunk upon his breast above his folded arms. He raised it sharply.
“Must I go then and lie to that old woman!”
It was not anger; it was something else, something more poignant66, and not so simple. I was aware of it sympathetically, while I was profoundly concerned at the nature of that exclamation67.
“Dear me! Won’t the truth do, then? I hoped you could have told them something consoling. I am thinking of the poor mother now. Your Russia is a cruel country.”
He moved a little in his chair.
“Yes,” I repeated. “I thought you would have had something authentic68 to tell.”
The twitching69 of his lips before he spoke70 was curious.
“What if it is not worth telling?”
“Not worth — from what point of view? I don’t understand.”
“From every point of view.”
I spoke with some asperity71.
“I should think that anything which could explain the circumstances of that midnight arrest . . . .”
“Reported by a journalist for the amusement of the civilized72 Europe,” he broke in scornfully.
“Yes, reported. . . . But aren’t they true? I can’t make out your attitude in this? Either the man is a hero to you, or . . . .”
He approached his face with fiercely distended73 nostrils74 close to mine so suddenly that I had the greatest difficulty in not starting back.
“You ask me! I suppose it amuses you, all this. Look here! I am a worker. I studied. Yes, I studied very hard. There is intelligence here.” (He tapped his forehead with his finger-tips.) “Don’t you think a Russian may have sane75 ambitions? Yes — I had even prospects76. Certainly! I had. And now you see me here, abroad, everything gone, lost, sacrificed. You see me here — and you ask! You see me, don’t you? — sitting before you.”
He threw himself back violently. I kept outwardly calm.
“Yes, I see you here; and I assume you are here on account of the Haldin affair?”
His manner changed.
“You call it the Haldin affair — do you?” he observed indifferently.
“I have no right to ask you anything,” I said. “I wouldn’t presume. But in that case the mother and the sister of him who must be a hero in your eyes cannot be indifferent to you. The girl is a frank and generous creature, having the noblest — well — illusions. You will tell her nothing — or you will tell her everything. But speaking now of the object with which I’ve approached you first, we have to deal with the morbid77 state of the mother. Perhaps something could be invented under your authority as a cure for a distracted and suffering soul filled with maternal78 affection.”
His air of weary indifference79 was accentuated80, I could not help thinking, wilfully81.
“Oh yes. Something might,” he mumbled82 carelessly.
He put his hand over his mouth to conceal83 a yawn. When he uncovered his lips they were smiling faintly.
“Pardon me. This has been a long conversation, and I have not had much sleep the last two nights.”
This unexpected, somewhat insolent84 sort of apology had the merit of being perfectly true. He had had no nightly rest to speak of since that day when, in the grounds of the Chateau85 Borel, the sister of Victor Haldin had appeared before him. The perplexities and the complex terrors — I may say — of this sleeplessness86 are recorded in the document I was to see later — the document which is the main source of this narrative87. At the moment he looked to me convincingly tired, gone slack all over, like a man who has passed through some sort of crisis.
“I have had a lot of urgent writing to do,” he added.
I rose from my chair at once, and he followed my example, without haste, a little heavily.
“I must apologize for detaining you so long,” I said.
“Why apologize? One can’t very well go to bed before night. And you did not detain me. I could have left you at any time.”
I had not stayed with him to be offended.
“I am glad you have been sufficiently88 interested,” I said calmly. “No merit of mine, though — the commonest sort of regard for the mother of your friend was enough. . . . As to Miss Haldin herself, she at one time was disposed to think that her brother had been betrayed to the police in some way.”
To my great surprise Mr. Razumov sat down again suddenly. I stared at him, and I must say that he returned my stare without winking14 for quite a considerable time.
“In some way,” he mumbled, as if he had not understood or could not believe his ears.
“Some unforeseen event, a sheer accident might have done that,” I went on. “Or, as she characteristically put it to me, the folly89 or weakness of some unhappy fellow-revolutionist.”
“Folly or weakness,” he repeated bitterly.
“She is a very generous creature,” I observed after a time. The man admired by Victor Haldin fixed90 his eyes on the ground. I turned away and moved off, apparently unnoticed by him. I nourished no resentment of the moody91 brusqueness with which he had treated me. The sentiment I was carrying away from that conversation was that of hopelessness. Before I had got fairly clear of the raft of chairs and tables he had rejoined me.
“H’m, yes!” I heard him at my elbow again. “But what do you think?”
I did not look round even.
“I think that you people are under a curse.”
He made no sound. It was only on the pavement outside the gate that I heard him again.
“I should like to walk with you a little.”
After all, I preferred this enigmatical young man to his celebrated92 compatriot, the great Peter Ivanovitch. But I saw no reason for being particularly gracious.
“I am going now to the railway station, by the shortest way from here, to meet a friend from England,” I said, for all answer to his unexpected proposal. I hoped that something informing could come of it. As we stood on the curbstone waiting for a tramcar to pass, he remarked gloomily —
“I like what you said just now.”
“Do you?”
We stepped off the pavement together.
“The great problem,” he went on, “is to understand thoroughly93 the nature of the curse.”
“That’s not very difficult, I think.”
“I think so too,” he agreed with me, and his readiness, strangely enough, did not make him less enigmatical in the least.
“A curse is an evil spell,” I tried him again. “And the important, the great problem, is to find the means to break it.”
“Yes. To find the means.”
That was also an assent94, but he seemed to be thinking of something else. We had crossed diagonally the open space before the theatre, and began to descend95 a broad, sparely frequented street in the direction of one of the smaller bridges. He kept on by my side without speaking for a long time.
“You are not thinking of leaving Geneva soon?” I asked.
He was silent for so long that I began to think I had been indiscreet, and should get no answer at all. Yet on looking at him I almost believed that my question had caused him something in the nature of positive anguish96. I detected it mainly in the clasping of his hands, in which he put a great force stealthily. Once, however, he had overcome that sort of agonizing97 hesitation98 sufficiently to tell me that he had no such intention, he became rather communicative — at least relatively99 to the former off-hand curtness100 of his speeches. The tone, too, was more amiable101. He informed me that he intended to study and also to write. He went even so far as to tell me he had been to Stuttgart. Stuttgart, I was aware, was one of the revolutionary centres. The directing committee of one of the Russian parties (I can’t tell now which) was located in that town. It was there that he got into touch with the active work of the revolutionists outside Russia.
“I have never been abroad before,” he explained, in a rather inanimate voice now. Then, after a slight hesitation, altogether different from the agonizing irresolution102 my first simple question “whether he meant to stay in Geneva” had aroused, he made me an unexpected confidence —
“The fact is, I have received a sort of mission from them.”
“Which will keep you here in Geneva?”
“Yes. Here. In this odious103 . . . .”
I was satisfied with my faculty104 for putting two and two together when I drew the inference that the mission had something to do with the person of the great Peter Ivanovitch. But I kept that surmise105 to myself naturally, and Mr. Razumov said nothing more for some considerable time. It was only when we were nearly on the bridge we had been making for that he opened his lips again, abruptly106 —
“Could I see that precious article anywhere?”
I had to think for a moment before I saw what he was referring to.
“It has been reproduced in parts by the Press here. There are files to be seen in various places. My copy of the English newspaper I have left with Miss Haldin, I remember, on the day after it reached me. I was sufficiently worried by seeing it lying on a table by the side of the poor mother’s chair for weeks. Then it disappeared. It was a relief, I assure you.”
He had stopped short.
“I trust,” I continued, “that you will find time to see these ladies fairly often — that you will make time.”
He stared at me so queerly that I hardly know how to define his aspect. I could not understand it in this connexion at all. What ailed107 him? I asked myself. What strange thought had come into his head? What vision of all the horrors that can be seen in his hopeless country had come suddenly to haunt his brain? If it were anything connected with the fate of Victor Haldin, then I hoped earnestly he would keep it to himself for ever. I was, to speak plainly, so shocked that I tried to conceal my impression by — Heaven forgive me — a smile and the assumption of a light manner.
“Surely,” I exclaimed, “that needn’t cost you a great effort.”
He turned away from me and leaned over the parapet of the bridge. For a moment I waited, looking at his back. And yet, I assure you, I was not anxious just then to look at his face again. He did not move at all. He did not mean to move. I walked on slowly on my way towards the station, and at the end of the bridge I glanced over my shoulder. No, he had not moved. He hung well over the parapet, as if captivated by the smooth rush of the blue water under the arch. The current there is swift, extremely swift; it makes some people dizzy; I myself can never look at it for any length of time without experiencing a dread108 of being suddenly snatched away by its destructive force. Some brains cannot resist the suggestion of irresistible109 power and of headlong motion.
It apparently had a charm for Mr. Razumov. I left him hanging far over the parapet of the bridge. The way he had behaved to me could not be put down to mere boorishness110. There was something else under his scorn and impatience111. Perhaps, I thought, with sudden approach to hidden truth, it was the same thing which had kept him over a week, nearly ten days indeed, from coming near Miss Haldin. But what it was I could not tell.
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1
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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ramming
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| n.打结炉底v.夯实（土等）( ram的现在分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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37
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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39
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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40
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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41
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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42
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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43
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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47
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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48
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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53
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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54
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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callousness
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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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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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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82
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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85
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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86
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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87
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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89
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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92
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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95
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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96
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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98
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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99
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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100
curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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101
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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102
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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103
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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104
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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105
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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106
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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107
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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108
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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109
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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110
boorishness
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111
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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