Amelie, who was unable to look into the room, the door being closed, was afraid to stay longer; she was satisfied with having heard the opening of the garret door, and departed noiselessly.
“Fear nothing,” said the painter to the officer. “Mademoiselle is the daughter of a most faithful friend of the Emperor, the Baron6 di Piombo.”
The young soldier retained no doubts as to Ginevra’s patriotism7 as soon as he saw her.
“You are wounded,” she said.
“Oh! it is nothing, mademoiselle,” he replied; “the wound is healing.”
Just at this moment the loud cries of the vendors9 of newspapers came up from the street: “Condemned10 to death!” They all trembled, and the soldier was the first to hear a name that turned him pale.
“Labedoyere!” he cried, falling on a stool.
They looked at each other in silence. Drops gathered on the livid forehead of the young man; he seized the black tufts of his hair in one hand with a gesture of despair, and rested his elbow on Ginevra’s easel.
“After all,” he said, rising abruptly11, “Labedoyere and I knew what we were doing. We were certain of the fate that awaited us, whether from triumph or defeat. He dies for the Cause, and here am I, hiding myself!”
He rushed toward the door of the studio; but, quicker than he, Ginevra reached it, and barred his way.
“Can you restore the Emperor?” she said. “Do you expect to raise that giant who could not maintain himself?”
“But what can I do?” said the young man, addressing the two friends whom chance had sent to him. “I have not a relation in the world. Labedoyere was my protector and my friend; without him, I am alone. To-morrow I myself may be condemned; my only fortune was my pay. I spent my last penny to come here and try to snatch Labedoyere from his fate; death is, therefore, a necessity for me. When a man decides to die he ought to know how to sell his life to the executioner. I was thinking just now that the life of an honest man is worth that of two traitors13, and the blow of a dagger14 well placed may give immortality15.”
This spasm16 of despair alarmed the painter, and even Ginevra, whose own nature comprehended that of the young man. She admired his handsome face and his delightful17 voice, the sweetness of which was scarcely lessened18 by its tones of fury. Then, all of a sudden, she poured a balm upon the wounds of the unfortunate man:—
“Monsieur,” she said, “as for your pecuniary19 distress20, permit me to offer you my savings21. My father is rich; I am his only child; he loves me, and I am sure he will never blame me. Have no scruple22 in accepting my offer; our property is derived23 from the Emperor; we do not own a penny that is not the result of his munificence24. Is it not gratitude25 to him to assist his faithful soldiers? Take the sums you need as indifferently as I offer them. It is only money!” she added, in a tone of contempt. “Now, as for friends — those you shall have.”
She raised her head proudly, and her eyes shone with dazzling brilliancy.
“The head which falls tomorrow before a dozen muskets26 will save yours,” she went on. “Wait till the storm is over; you can then escape and take service in foreign countries if you are not forgotten here; or in the French army, if you are.”
In the comfort that women give there is always a delicacy27 which has something maternal28, foreseeing, and complete about it. But when the words of hope and peace are said with grace of gesture and that eloquence29 of tone which comes from the heart, and when, above all, the benefactress is beautiful, a young man does not resist. The prisoner breathed in love through all his senses. A rosy30 tinge31 colored his white cheeks; his eyes lost something of the sadness that dulled them, and he said, in a peculiar tone of voice:—
“You are an angle of goodness — But Labedoyere!” he added. “Oh, Labedoyere!”
At this cry they all three looked at one another in silence, each comprehending the others’ thoughts. No longer friends of twenty minutes only, they were friends of twenty years.
“Dear friend,” said Servin, “can you save him?”
“I can avenge32 him.”
Ginevra quivered. Though the stranger was handsome, his appearance had not influenced her; the soft pity in a woman’s heart for miseries33 that are not ignoble34 had stifled35 in Ginevra all other emotions; but to hear a cry of vengeance36, to find in that proscribed37 being an Italian soul, devotion to Napoleon, Corsican generosity38! — ah! that was, indeed, too much for her. She looked at the officer with a respectful emotion which shook his heart. For the first time in her life a man had caused her a keen emotion. She now, like other women, put the soul of the stranger on a par5 with the noble beauty of his features and the happy proportions of his figure, which she admired as an artist. Led by accidental curiosity to pity, from pity to a powerful interest, she came, through that interest, to such profound sensations that she felt she was in danger if she stayed there longer.
“Until tomorrow, then,” she said, giving the officer a gentle smile by way of a parting consolation39.
Seeing that smile, which threw a new light on Ginevra’s features, the stranger forgot all else for an instant.
“To-morrow,” he said, sadly; “but tomorrow, Labedoyere —”
Ginevra turned, put a finger on her lips, and looked at him, as if to say: “Be calm, be prudent40.”
And the young man cried out in his own language:
“Ah! Dio! che non vorrei vivere dopo averla veduta? — who would not wish to live after seeing her?”
The peculiar accent with which he pronounced the words made Ginevra quiver.
“Are you Corsican?” she cried, returning toward him with a beating heart.
“I was born in Corsica,” he replied; “but I was brought, while very young, to Genoa, and as soon as I was old enough for military service I enlisted41.”
The beauty of the young man, the mighty42 charm lent to him by his attachment43 to the Emperor, his wound, his misfortunes, his danger, all disappeared to Ginevra’s mind, or, rather, all were blended in one sentiment — a new and delightful sentiment. This persecuted44 man was a child of Corsica; he spoke45 its cherished language! She stood, for a moment, motionless; held by a magical sensation; before her eyes was a living picture, to which all human sentiments, united by chance, gave vivid colors. By Servin’s invitation, the officer had seated himself on a divan46, and the painter, after removing the sling which supported the arm of his guest, was undoing47 the bandages in order to dress the wound. Ginevra shuddered48 when she saw the long, broad gash49 made by the blade of a sabre on the young man’s forearm, and a moan escaped her. The stranger raised his head and smiled to her. There was something touching50 which went to the soul, in the care with which Servin lifted the lint51 and touched the lacerated flesh, while the face of the wounded man, though pale and sickly, expressed, as he looked at the girl, more pleasure than suffering. An artist would have admired, involuntarily, this opposition52 of sentiments, together with the contrasts produced by the whiteness of the linen53 and the bared arm to the red and blue uniform of the officer.
At this moment a soft half-light pervaded54 the studio; but a parting ray of the evening sunlight suddenly illuminated55 the spot where the soldier sat, so that his noble, blanched56 face, his black hair, and his clothes were bathed in its glow. The effect was simple enough, but to the girl’s Italian imagination it was a happy omen8. The stranger seemed to her a celestial57 messenger, speaking the language of her own country. He thus unconsciously put her under the spell of childhood’s memories, while in her heart there dawned another feeling as fresh, as pure as her own innocence58. For a short, very short moment, she was motionless and dreamy, as though she were plunged59 in boundless60 thought. Then she blushed at having allowed her absorption to be noticed, exchanged one soft and rapid glance with the wounded man, and fled with the vision of him still before her eyes.
The next day was not a class-day, but Ginevra came to the studio, and the prisoner was free to sit beside her easel. Servin, who had a sketch62 to finish, played the part of mentor63 to the two young people, who talked to each other chiefly in Corsican. The soldier related the sufferings of the retreat from Moscow; for, at nineteen years of age, he had made the passage of the Beresins, and was almost the last man left of his regiment64. He described, in words of fire, the great disaster of Waterloo. His voice was music itself to the Italian girl. Brought up as a Corsican, Ginevra was, in some sense, a child of Nature; falseness was a thing unknown to her; she gave herself up without reserve to her impressions; she acknowledged them, or, rather, allowed them to be seen without the affectations of petty and calculating coquetry, characteristic of Parisian girlhood. During this day she sat more than once with her palette in one hand, her brushes in another, without touching a color. With her eyes fastened on the officer, and her lips slightly apart, she listened, in the attitude of painting a stroke which was never painted. She was not surprised to see such softness in the eyes of the young man, for she felt that her own were soft in spite of her will to keep them stern and calm. After periods like this she painted diligently65, without raising her head, for he was there, near her, watching her work. The first time he sat down beside her to contemplate66 her silently, she said, in a voice of some emotion, after a long pause:—
“Does it amuse you to see me paint?”
That day she learned that his name was Luigi. Before separating, it was agreed between them that if, on class-days when they could not see each other, any important political event occurred, Ginevra was to inform him by singing certain Corsican melodies then agreed upon.
The following day Mademoiselle Thirion informed all the members of the class, under pledge of secrecy67 that Ginevra di Piombo had a lover, a young man who came during the hours for the lesson, and concealed68 himself in the garret beyond the studio.
“You, who take her part,” she said to Mademoiselle Roguin, “watch her carefully, and you will see how she spends her time.”
Ginevra was, therefore, observed with diabolical69 attention. They listened to her songs, they watched her glances. At times, when she supposed that no one saw her, a dozen pairs of eyes were furtively70 upon her. Thus enlightened, the girls were able to interpret truly the emotions that crossed the features of the beautiful Italian — her gestures, the peculiar tones in which she hummed a tune12, and the attention with which they saw her listen to sounds which only she could hear through the partition.
By the end of a week, Laure was the only one of Servin’s fifteen pupils who had resisted the temptation of looking at Luigi through the crevice71 of the partition; and she, through an instinct of weakness, still defended her beautiful friend. Mademoiselle Roguin endeavored to make her wait on the staircase after the class dispersed72, that she might prove to her the intimacy73 of Ginevra and the young man by entering the studio and surprising them together. But Laure refused to condescend74 to an act of espial which no curiosity could justify75, and she consequently became the object of much reprobation76.
Before long Mademoiselle Thirion made known that she thought it improper77 to attend the classes of a painter whose opinions were tainted78 with patriotism and Bonapartism (in those days the terms were synonymous), and she ceased her attendance at the studio. But, although she herself forgot Ginevra, the harm she had planted bore fruit. Little by little, the other young girls revealed to their mothers the strange events which were happening at the studio. One day Matilde Roguin did not come; the next day another girl was missing, and so on, till the last three or four who were left came no more. Ginevra and Laure, her little friend, were the sole occupants of the deserted79 studio for three or four days.
Ginevra did not observe this falling off, nor ask the cause of her companions’ absence. As soon as she had invented means of communication with Luigi she lived in the studio in a delightful solitude80, alone amid her own world, thinking only of the officer and the dangers that threatened him. Though a sincere admirer of noble characters that never betray their political faiths, she nevertheless urged Luigi to submit himself to the royal authority, that he might be released from his present life and remain in France. But to this he would not consent. If passions are born and nourished, as they say, under the influence of romantic causes, never did so many circumstances of that kind concur81 in uniting two young souls by one and the same sentiment. The friendship of Ginevra for Luigi and that of Luigi for Ginevra made more progress in a month than a friendship in society would make in ten years. Adversity is the touchstone of character. Ginevra was able, therefore, to study Luigi, to know him; and before long they mutually esteemed82 each other. The girl, who was older than Luigi, found a charm in being courted by a youth already so grand, so tried by fate — a youth who joined to the experience of a man the graces of adolescence83. Luigi, on his side, felt an unspeakable pleasure in allowing himself to be apparently84 protected by a woman, now twenty-five years of age. Was it not a proof of love? The union of gentleness and pride, strength and weakness in Ginevra were, to him, irresistible85 attractions, and he was utterly86 subjugated87 by her. In short, before long, they loved each other so profoundly that they felt no need of denying to each other their love, nor yet of telling it.
One day, towards evening, Ginevra heard the accustomed signal. Luigi scratched with a pin on the woodwork in a manner that produced no more noise than a spider might make as he fastened his thread. The signal meant that he wished to come out of his retreat.
Ginevra glanced around the studio, and not seeing Laure, opened the door; but as she did so Luigi caught sight of the little pupil and abruptly retired88. Surprised at his action, Ginevra looked round, saw Laure, and said, as she went up to the girl’s easel:—
“You are staying late, my dear. That head seems to me finished; you only want a high-light — see! on that knot of hair.”
“You would do me a great kindness,” said Laure, in a trembling voice, “if you would give this copy a few touches; for then I could carry away with me something to remind me of you.”
“Willingly,” said Ginevra, painting a few strokes on the picture. “But I thought it was a long way from your home to the studio, and it is late.”
“Oh! Ginevra, I am going away, never to return,” cried the poor girl, sadly.
“You mean to leave Monsieur Servin!” exclaimed Ginevra, less affected89, however, by this news than she would have been a month earlier.
“Haven’t you noticed, Ginevra, that for some days past you and I have been alone in the studio?”
“True,” said Ginevra, as if struck by a sudden recollection. “Are all those young ladies ill, or going to be married, or are their fathers on duty at court?”
“They have left Monsieur Servin,” replied Laure.
“Why?”
“On your account, Ginevra.”
“My account!” repeated the Corsican, springing up, with a threatening brow and her eyes flashing.
“Oh! don’t be angry, my kind Ginevra,” cried Laure, in deep distress. “My mother insists on my leaving the studio. The young ladies say that you have some intrigue90, and that Monsieur Servin allows the young man whom you love to stay in the dark attic91. I have never believed these calumnies92 nor said a word to my mother about them. But last night Madame Roguin met her at a ball and asked her if she still sent me here. When my mother answered yes, Madame Roguin told her the falsehoods of those young ladies. Mamma scolded me severely93; she said I must have known it all, and that I had failed in proper confidence between mother and daughter by not telling her. Oh! my dear Ginevra! I, who took you for my model, oh! how grieved I am that I can’t be your companion any longer.”
“We shall meet again in life; girls marry —” said Ginevra.
“When they are rich,” signed Laure.
“Come and see me; my father has a fortune —”
“Ginevra,” continued Laure, tenderly. “Madame Roguin and my mother are coming to see Monsieur Servin tomorrow and reproach him; hadn’t you better warn him.”
A thunderbolt falling at Ginevra’s feet could not have astonished her more than this revelation.
“What matter is it to them?” she asked, naively94.
“Everybody thinks it very wrong. Mamma says it is immoral95.”
“And you, Laure, what do you say?”
The young girl looked up at Ginevra, and their thoughts united. Laure could no longer keep back her tears; she flung herself on her friend’s breast and sobbed96. At this moment Servin came into the studio.
“Mademoiselle Ginevra,” he cried, with enthusiasm, “I have finished my picture! it is now being varnished97. What have you been doing, meanwhile? Where are the young ladies; are they taking a holiday, or are they in the country?”
Laure dried her tears, bowed to Monsieur Servin, and went away.
“The studio has been deserted for some days,” replied Ginevra, “and the young ladies are not coming back.”
“Pooh!”
“Oh! don’t laugh,” said Ginevra. “Listen: I am the involuntary cause of the loss of your reputation —”
The artist smiled, and said, interrupting his pupil:—
“My reputation? Why, in a few days my picture will make it at the Exposition.”
“That relates to your talent,” replied the girl. “I am speaking of your morality. Those young ladies have told their mothers that Luigi was shut up here, and that you lent yourself — to — our love.”
“There is some truth in that, mademoiselle,” replied the professor. “The mothers of those young ladies are foolish women; if they had come straight to me I should have explained the matter. But I don’t care a straw about it! Life is short, anyhow.”
And the painter snapped his fingers above his head. Luigi, who had heard part of the conversation, came in.
“You have lost all your scholars,” he cried. “I have ruined you!”
The artist took Luigi’s hand and that of Ginevra, and joined them.
“Marry one another, my children,” he said, with fatherly kindness.
They both dropped their eyes, and their silence was the first avowal98 they had made to each other of their love.
“You will surely be happy,” said Servin. “There is nothing in life to equal the happiness of two beings like yourselves when bound together in love.”
Luigi pressed the hand of his protector without at first being able to utter a word; but presently he said, in a voice of emotion:—
“To you I owe it all.”
“Be happy! I bless and wed61 you,” said the painter, with comic unction, laying his hands upon the heads of the lovers.
This little jest put an end to their strained emotion. All three looked at one another and laughed merrily. Ginevra pressed Luigi’s hand in a strong clasp, with a simplicity99 of action worthy100 of the customs of her native land.
“Ah ca, my dear children,” resumed Servin, “you think that all will go right now, but you are much mistaken.”
The lovers looked at him in astonishment101.
“Don’t be anxious. I’m the only one that your romance will harm. But the fact is, Madame Servin is a little straitlaced; and I don’t really see how we are to settle it with her.”
“Heavens! and I forgot to tell you,” exclaimed Ginevra, “that Madame Roguin and Laure’s mother are coming here tomorrow to —”
“I understand,” said the painter.
“But you can easily justify yourself,” continued the girl, with a proud movement of her head. “Monsieur Luigi,” she added, turning to him with an arch look, “will no longer object to entering the royal service. Well, then,” after receiving a smile from the young man, “tomorrow morning I will send a petition to one of the most influential102 persons at the ministry103 of War — a man who will refuse nothing to the daughter of the Baron di Piombo. We shall obtain a ‘tacit’ pardon for Captain Luigi, for, of course, they will not allow him the rank of major. And then,” she added, addressing Servin, “you can confound the mothers of my charitable companions by telling them the truth.”
“You are an angel!” cried Servin.
While this scene was passing at the studio the father and mother of Ginevra were becoming impatient at her non-return.
“It is six o’clock, and Ginevra not yet home!” cried Bartolomeo.
“She was never so late before,” said his wife.
The two old people looked at each other with an anxiety that was not usual with them. Too anxious to remain in one place, Bartolomeo rose and walked about the salon104 with an active step for a man who was over seventy-seven years of age. Thanks to his robust105 constitution, he had changed but little since the day of his arrival in Paris, and, despite his tall figure, he walked erect106. His hair, now white and sparse107, left uncovered a broad and protuberant108 skull109, which gave a strong idea of his character and firmness. His face, seamed with deep wrinkles, had taken, with age, a nobler expression, preserving the pallid110 tones which inspire veneration111. The ardor112 of passions still lived in the fire of his eyes, while the eyebrows113, which were not wholly whitened, retained their terrible mobility114. The aspect of the head was stern, but it conveyed the impression that Piombo had a right to be so. His kindness, his gentleness were known only to his wife and daughter. In his functions, or in presence of strangers, he never laid aside the majesty115 that time had impressed upon his person; and the habit of frowning with his heavy eyebrows, contracting the wrinkles of his face, and giving to his eyes a Napoleonic fixity, made his manner of accosting116 others icy.
During the course of his political life he had been so generally feared that he was thought unsocial, and it is not difficult to explain the causes of that opinion. The life, morals, and fidelity117 of Piombo made him obnoxious118 to most courtiers. In spite of the fact that delicate missions were constantly intrusted to his discretion119 which to any other man about the court would have proved lucrative120, he possessed121 an income of not more than thirty thousand francs from an investment in the Grand Livre. If we recall the cheapness of government securities under the Empire, and the liberality of Napoleon towards those of his faithful servants who knew how to ask for it, we can readily see that the Baron di Piombo must have been a man of stern integrity. He owed his plumage as baron to the necessity Napoleon felt of giving him a title before sending him on missions to foreign courts.
Bartolomeo had always professed122 a hatred123 to the traitors with whom Napoleon surrounded himself, expecting to bind124 them to his cause by dint125 of victories. It was he of whom it is told that he made three steps to the door of the Emperor’s cabinet after advising him to get rid of three men in France on the eve of Napoleon’s departure for his celebrated126 and admirable campaign of 1814. After the second return of the Bourbons Bartolomeo ceased to wear the decoration of the Legion of honor. No man offered a finer image of those old Republicans, incorruptible friends to the Empire, who remained the living relics127 of the two most energetic governments the world has ever seen. Though the Baron di Piombo displeased128 mere129 courtiers, he had the Darus, Drouots, and Carnots with him as friends. As for the rest of the politicians, he cared not a whiff of his cigar’s smoke for them, especially since Waterloo.
Bartolomeo di Piombo had bought, for the very moderate sum which Madame Mere, the Emperor’s mother, had paid him for his estates in Corsica, the old mansion130 of the Portenduere family, in which he had made no changes. Lodged131, usually, at the cost of the government, he did not occupy this house until after the catastrophe132 of Fontainebleau. Following the habits of simple persons of strict virtue133, the baron and his wife gave no heed134 to external splendor135; their furniture was that which they bought with the mansion. The grand apartments, lofty, sombre, and bare, the wide mirrors in gilded136 frames that were almost black, the furniture of the period of Louis XIV. were in keeping with Bartolomeo and his wife, personages worthy of antiquity137.
Under the Empire, and during the Hundred Days, while exercising functions that were liberally rewarded, the old Corsican had maintained a great establishment, more for the purpose of doing honor to his office than from any desire to shine himself. His life and that of his wife were so frugal138, so tranquil139, that their modest fortune sufficed for all their wants. To them, their daughter Ginevra was more precious than the wealth of the whole world. When, therefore, in May, 1814, the Baron di Piombo resigned his office, dismissed his crowd of servants, and closed his stable door, Ginevra, quiet, simple and unpretending like her parents, saw nothing to regret in the change. Like all great souls, she found her luxury in strength of feeling, and derived her happiness from quietness and work. These three beings loved each other too well for the externals of existence to be of value in their eyes.
Often, and especially after the second dreadful fall of Napoleon, Bartolomeo and his wife passed delightful evenings alone with their daughter, listening while she sang and played. To them there was a vast secret pleasure in the presence, in the slightest word of that child; their eyes followed her with tender anxiety; they heard her step in the court-yard, lightly as she trod. Like lovers, the three would often sit silently together, understanding thus, better than by speech, the eloquence of their souls. This profound sentiment, the life itself of the two old people, animated140 their every thought. Here were not three existences, but one — one only, which, like the flame on the hearth141, divided itself into three tongues of fire. If, occasionally, some memory of Napoleon’s benefits and misfortunes, if the public events of the moment distracted the minds of the old people from this source of their constant solicitude142, they could always talk of those interests without affecting their community of thought, for Ginevra shared their political passions. What more natural, therefore, than the ardor with which they found a refuge in the heart of their only child?
Until now the occupations of public life had absorbed the energy of the Baron di Piombo; but after leaving those employments he felt the need of casting that energy into the last sentiment that remained to him. Apart from the ties of parentage, there may have been, unknown to these three despotic souls, another powerful reason for the intensity143 of their reciprocal love: it was love undivided. Ginevra’s whole heart belonged to her father, as Piombo’s whole heart belonged to his child; and if it be true that we are bound to one another more by our defects than by our virtues144, Ginevra echoed in a marvellous manner the passions of her father. There lay the sole imperfection of this triple life. Ginevra was born unyielding of will, vindictive145, and passionate146, like her father in his youth.
The Corsican had taken pleasure in developing these savage147 sentiments in the heart of his daughter, precisely148 as a lion teaches the lion-cubs to spring upon their prey149. But this apprenticeship150 to vengeance having no means of action in their family life, it came to pass that Ginevra turned the principle against her father; as a child she forgave him nothing, and he was forced to yield to her. Piombo saw nothing more than childish nonsense in these fictitious151 quarrels, but the child was all the while acquiring a habit of ruling her parents. In the midst, however, of the tempests which the father was fond of exciting, a look, a word of tenderness, sufficed to pacify152 their angry souls, and often they were never so near to a kiss as when they were threatening each other vehemently153.
Nevertheless, for the last five years, Ginevra, grown wiser than her father, avoided such scenes. Her faithfulness, her devotion, the love which filled her every thought, and her admirable good sense had got the better of her temper. And yet, for all that, a very great evil had resulted from her training; Ginevra lived with her father and mother on the footing of an equality which is always dangerous.
Piombo and his wife, persons without education, had allowed Ginevra to study as she pleased. Following her caprices as a young girl, she had studied all things for a time, and then abandoned them — taking up and leaving each train of thought at will, until, at last, painting had proved to be her dominant154 passion. Ginevra would have made a noble woman had her mother been capable of guiding her studies, of enlightening her mind, and bringing into harmony her gifts of nature; her defects came from the fatal education which the old Corsican had found delight in giving her.
After marching up and down the room for some time, Piombo rang the bell; a servant entered.
“Go and meet Mademoiselle Ginevra,” said his master.
“I always regret our carriage on her account,” remarked the baroness155.
“She said she did not want one,” replied Piombo, looking at his wife, who, accustomed for forty years to habits of obedience156, lowered her eyes and said no more.
Already a septuagenarian, tall, withered157, pale, and wrinkled, the baroness exactly resembled those old women whom Schnetz puts into the Italian scenes of his “genre” pictures. She was so habitually158 silent that she might have been taken for another Mrs. Shandy; but, occasionally, a word, look, or gesture betrayed that her feelings still retained all the vigor159 and the freshness of their youth. Her dress, devoid160 of coquetry, was often in bad taste. She usually sat passive, buried in a low sofa, like a Sultana Valide, awaiting or admiring her Ginevra, her pride, her life. The beauty, toilet, and grace of her daughter seemed to have become her own. All was well with her if Ginevra was happy. Her hair was white, and a few strands161 only were seen above her white and wrinkled forehead, or beside her hollow cheeks.
“It is now fifteen days,” she said, “since Ginevra made a practice of being late.”
“Jean is so slow!” cried the impatient old man, buttoning up his blue coat and seizing his hat, which he dashed upon his head as he took his cane162 and departed.
“You will not get far,” said his wife, calling after him.
As she spoke, the porte-cochere was opened and shut, and the old mother heard the steps of her Ginevra in the court-yard. Bartolomeo almost instantly reappeared, carrying his daughter, who struggled in his arms.
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1 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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2 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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3 sling | |
vt.扔;悬挂;n.挂带;吊索,吊兜;弹弓 | |
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4 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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5 par | |
n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
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6 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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7 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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8 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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9 vendors | |
n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 );小贩;(房屋等的)卖主;卖方 | |
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10 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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12 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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13 traitors | |
卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 ); 叛徒; 背叛者; 背信弃义的人 | |
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14 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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15 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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16 spasm | |
n.痉挛,抽搐;一阵发作 | |
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17 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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18 lessened | |
减少的,减弱的 | |
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19 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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20 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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21 savings | |
n.存款,储蓄 | |
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22 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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23 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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24 munificence | |
n.宽宏大量,慷慨给与 | |
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25 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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26 muskets | |
n.火枪,(尤指)滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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27 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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28 maternal | |
adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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29 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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30 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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31 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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32 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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33 miseries | |
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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34 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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35 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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36 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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37 proscribed | |
v.正式宣布(某事物)有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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39 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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40 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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41 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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42 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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43 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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44 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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45 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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46 divan | |
n.长沙发;(波斯或其他东方诗人的)诗集 | |
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47 undoing | |
n.毁灭的原因,祸根;破坏,毁灭 | |
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48 shuddered | |
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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49 gash | |
v.深切,划开;n.(深长的)切(伤)口;裂缝 | |
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50 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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51 lint | |
n.线头;绷带用麻布,皮棉 | |
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52 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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53 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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54 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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56 blanched | |
v.使变白( blanch的过去式 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
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57 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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58 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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59 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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60 boundless | |
adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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61 wed | |
v.娶,嫁,与…结婚 | |
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62 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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63 mentor | |
n.指导者,良师益友;v.指导 | |
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64 regiment | |
n.团,多数,管理;v.组织,编成团,统制 | |
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65 diligently | |
ad.industriously;carefully | |
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66 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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67 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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68 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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69 diabolical | |
adj.恶魔似的,凶暴的 | |
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70 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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71 crevice | |
n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝;缺口 | |
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72 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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73 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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74 condescend | |
v.俯就,屈尊;堕落,丢丑 | |
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75 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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76 reprobation | |
n.斥责 | |
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77 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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78 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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79 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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80 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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81 concur | |
v.同意,意见一致,互助,同时发生 | |
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82 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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83 adolescence | |
n.青春期,青少年 | |
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84 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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85 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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86 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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87 subjugated | |
v.征服,降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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89 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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90 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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91 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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92 calumnies | |
n.诬蔑,诽谤,中伤(的话)( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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93 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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94 naively | |
adv. 天真地 | |
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95 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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96 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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97 varnished | |
浸渍过的,涂漆的 | |
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98 avowal | |
n.公开宣称,坦白承认 | |
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99 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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100 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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101 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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102 influential | |
adj.有影响的,有权势的 | |
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103 ministry | |
n.(政府的)部;牧师 | |
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104 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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105 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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106 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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107 sparse | |
adj.稀疏的,稀稀落落的,薄的 | |
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108 protuberant | |
adj.突出的,隆起的 | |
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109 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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110 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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111 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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112 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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113 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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114 mobility | |
n.可动性,变动性,情感不定 | |
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115 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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116 accosting | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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117 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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118 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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119 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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120 lucrative | |
adj.赚钱的,可获利的 | |
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121 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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122 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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123 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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124 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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125 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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126 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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127 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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128 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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129 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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130 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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131 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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132 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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133 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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134 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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135 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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136 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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137 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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138 frugal | |
adj.节俭的,节约的,少量的,微量的 | |
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139 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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140 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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141 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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142 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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143 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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144 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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145 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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146 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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147 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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148 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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149 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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150 apprenticeship | |
n.学徒身份;学徒期 | |
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151 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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152 pacify | |
vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒);抚慰 | |
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153 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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154 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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155 baroness | |
n.男爵夫人,女男爵 | |
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156 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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157 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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158 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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159 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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160 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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161 strands | |
n.(线、绳、金属线、毛发等的)股( strand的名词复数 );缕;海洋、湖或河的)岸;(观点、计划、故事等的)部份v.使滞留,使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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