A number of sprightly11 youths (the more the merrier) put up a certain sum of money, which is then funded in a pool under trustees; coming on for a century later, the proceeds are fluttered for a moment in the face of the last survivor12, who is probably deaf, so that he cannot even hear of his success — and who is certainly dying, so that he might just as well have lost. The peculiar13 poetry and even humour of the scheme is now apparent, since it is one by which nobody concerned can possibly profit; but its fine, sportsmanlike character endeared it to our grandparents.
When Joseph Finsbury and his brother Masterman were little lads in white-frilled trousers, their father — a well-to-do merchant in Cheapside — caused them to join a small but rich tontine of seven-and-thirty lives. A thousand pounds was the entrance fee; and Joseph Finsbury can remember to this day the visit to the lawyer’s, where the members of the tontine — all children like himself — were assembled together, and sat in turn in the big office chair, and signed their names with the assistance of a kind old gentleman in spectacles and Wellington boots. He remembers playing with the children afterwards on the lawn at the back of the lawyer’s house, and a battle-royal that he had with a brother tontiner who had kicked his shins. The sound of war called forth15 the lawyer from where he was dispensing16 cake and wine to the assembled parents in the office, and the combatants were separated, and Joseph’s spirit (for he was the smaller of the two) commended by the gentleman in the Wellington boots, who vowed17 he had been just such another at the same age. Joseph wondered to himself if he had worn at that time little Wellingtons and a little bald head, and when, in bed at night, he grew tired of telling himself stories of sea-fights, he used to dress himself up as the old gentleman, and entertain other little boys and girls with cake and wine.
In the year 1840 the thirty-seven were all alive; in 1850 their number had decreased by six; in 1856 and 1857 business was more lively, for the Crimea and the Mutiny carried off no less than nine. There remained in 1870 but five of the original members, and at the date of my story, including the two Finsburys, but three.
By this time Masterman was in his seventy-third year; he had long complained of the effects of age, had long since retired18 from business, and now lived in absolute seclusion19 under the roof of his son Michael, the well-known solicitor20. Joseph, on the other hand, was still up and about, and still presented but a semi-venerable figure on the streets in which he loved to wander. This was the more to be deplored21 because Masterman had led (even to the least particular) a model British life. Industry, regularity22, respectability, and a preference for the four per cents are understood to be the very foundations of a green old age. All these Masterman had eminently23 displayed, and here he was, ab agendo, at seventy-three; while Joseph, barely two years younger, and in the most excellent preservation24, had disgraced himself through life by idleness and eccentricity25. Embarked26 in the leather trade, he had early wearied of business, for which he was supposed to have small parts. A taste for general information, not promptly27 checked, had soon begun to sap his manhood. There is no passion more debilitating28 to the mind, unless, perhaps, it be that itch29 of public speaking which it not infrequently accompanies or begets31. The two were conjoined in the case of Joseph; the acute stage of this double malady32, that in which the patient delivers gratuitous33 lectures, soon declared itself with severity, and not many years had passed over his head before he would have travelled thirty miles to address an infant school. He was no student; his reading was confined to elementary textbooks and the daily papers; he did not even fly as high as cyclopedias; life, he would say, was his volume. His lectures were not meant, he would declare, for college professors; they were addressed direct to ‘the great heart of the people’, and the heart of the people must certainly be sounder than its head, for his lucubrations were received with favour. That entitled ‘How to Live Cheerfully on Forty Pounds a Year’, created a sensation among the unemployed35. ‘Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and Desirability’, gained him the respect of the shallow-minded. As for his celebrated36 essay on ‘Life Insurance Regarded in its Relation to the Masses’, read before the Working Men’s Mutual37 Improvement Society, Isle38 of Dogs, it was received with a ‘literal ovation’ by an unintelligent audience of both sexes, and so marked was the effect that he was next year elected honorary president of the institution, an office of less than no emolument39 — since the holder40 was expected to come down with a donation — but one which highly satisfied his self-esteem.
While Joseph was thus building himself up a reputation among the more cultivated portion of the ignorant, his domestic life was suddenly overwhelmed by orphans41. The death of his younger brother Jacob saddled him with the charge of two boys, Morris and John; and in the course of the same year his family was still further swelled43 by the addition of a little girl, the daughter of John Henry Hazeltine, Esq., a gentleman of small property and fewer friends. He had met Joseph only once, at a lecture-hall in Holloway; but from that formative experience he returned home to make a new will, and consign45 his daughter and her fortune to the lecturer. Joseph had a kindly46 disposition47; and yet it was not without reluctance48 that he accepted this new responsibility, advertised for a nurse, and purchased a second-hand49 perambulator. Morris and John he made more readily welcome; not so much because of the tie of consanguinity50 as because the leather business (in which he hastened to invest their fortune of thirty thousand pounds) had recently exhibited inexplicable51 symptoms of decline. A young but capable Scot was chosen as manager to the enterprise, and the cares of business never again afflicted52 Joseph Finsbury. Leaving his charges in the hands of the capable Scot (who was married), he began his extensive travels on the Continent and in Asia Minor53.
With a polyglot54 Testament55 in one hand and a phrase-book in the other, he groped his way among the speakers of eleven European languages. The first of these guides is hardly applicable to the purposes of the philosophic56 traveller, and even the second is designed more expressly for the tourist than for the expert in life. But he pressed interpreters into his service — whenever he could get their services for nothing — and by one means and another filled many notebooks with the results of his researches.
In these wanderings he spent several years, and only returned to England when the increasing age of his charges needed his attention. The two lads had been placed in a good but economical school, where they had received a sound commercial education; which was somewhat awkward, as the leather business was by no means in a state to court enquiry. In fact, when Joseph went over his accounts preparatory to surrendering his trust, he was dismayed to discover that his brother’s fortune had not increased by his stewardship57; even by making over to his two wards14 every penny he had in the world, there would still be a deficit58 of seven thousand eight hundred pounds. When these facts were communicated to the two brothers in the presence of a lawyer, Morris Finsbury threatened his uncle with all the terrors of the law, and was only prevented from taking extreme steps by the advice of the professional man. ‘You cannot get blood from a stone,’ observed the lawyer.
And Morris saw the point and came to terms with his uncle. On the one side, Joseph gave up all that he possessed59, and assigned to his nephew his contingent60 interest in the tontine, already quite a hopeful speculation61. On the other, Morris agreed to harbour his uncle and Miss Hazeltine (who had come to grief with the rest), and to pay to each of them one pound a month as pocket-money. The allowance was amply sufficient for the old man; it scarce appears how Miss Hazeltine contrived62 to dress upon it; but she did, and, what is more, she never complained. She was, indeed, sincerely attached to her incompetent63 guardian64. He had never been unkind; his age spoke65 for him loudly; there was something appealing in his whole-souled quest of knowledge and innocent delight in the smallest mark of admiration66; and, though the lawyer had warned her she was being sacrificed, Julia had refused to add to the perplexities of Uncle Joseph.
In a large, dreary67 house in John Street, Bloomsbury, these four dwelt together; a family in appearance, in reality a financial association. Julia and Uncle Joseph were, of course, slaves; John, a gentle man with a taste for the banjo, the music-hall, the Gaiety bar, and the sporting papers, must have been anywhere a secondary figure; and the cares and delights of empire devolved entirely68 upon Morris. That these are inextricably intermixed is one of the commonplaces with which the bland69 essayist consoles the incompetent and the obscure, but in the case of Morris the bitter must have largely outweighed70 the sweet. He grudged71 no trouble to himself, he spared none to others; he called the servants in the morning, he served out the stores with his own hand, he took soundings of the sherry, he numbered the remainder biscuits; painful scenes took place over the weekly bills, and the cook was frequently impeached72, and the tradespeople came and hectored with him in the back parlour upon a question of three farthings. The superficial might have deemed him a miser73; in his own eyes he was simply a man who had been defrauded74; the world owed him seven thousand eight hundred pounds, and he intended that the world should pay.
But it was in his dealings with Joseph that Morris’s character particularly shone. His uncle was a rather gambling76 stock in which he had invested heavily; and he spared no pains in nursing the security. The old man was seen monthly by a physician, whether he was well or ill. His diet, his raiment, his occasional outings, now to Brighton, now to Bournemouth, were doled77 out to him like pap to infants. In bad weather he must keep the house. In good weather, by half-past nine, he must be ready in the hall; Morris would see that he had gloves and that his shoes were sound; and the pair would start for the leather business arm in arm. The way there was probably dreary enough, for there was no pretence78 of friendly feeling; Morris had never ceased to upbraid79 his guardian with his defalcation80 and to lament81 the burthen of Miss Hazeltine; and Joseph, though he was a mild enough soul, regarded his nephew with something very near akin30 to hatred82. But the way there was nothing to the journey back; for the mere83 sight of the place of business, as well as every detail of its transactions, was enough to poison life for any Finsbury.
Joseph’s name was still over the door; it was he who still signed the cheques; but this was only policy on the part of Morris, and designed to discourage other members of the tontine. In reality the business was entirely his; and he found it an inheritance of sorrows. He tried to sell it, and the offers he received were quite derisory. He tried to extend it, and it was only the liabilities he succeeded in extending; to restrict it, and it was only the profits he managed to restrict. Nobody had ever made money out of that concern except the capable Scot, who retired (after his discharge) to the neighbourhood of Banff and built a castle with his profits. The memory of this fallacious Caledonian Morris would revile84 daily, as he sat in the private office opening his mail, with old Joseph at another table, sullenly85 awaiting orders, or savagely86 affixing87 signatures to he knew not what. And when the man of the heather pushed cynicism so far as to send him the announcement of his second marriage (to Davida, eldest88 daughter of the Revd. Alexander McCraw), it was really supposed that Morris would have had a fit.
Business hours, in the Finsbury leather trade, had been cut to the quick; even Morris’s strong sense of duty to himself was not strong enough to dally89 within those walls and under the shadow of that bankruptcy90; and presently the manager and the clerks would draw a long breath, and compose themselves for another day of procrastination91. Raw Haste, on the authority of my Lord Tennyson, is half-sister to Delay; but the Business Habits are certainly her uncles. Meanwhile, the leather merchant would lead his living investment back to John Street like a puppy dog; and, having there immured92 him in the hall, would depart for the day on the quest of seal rings, the only passion of his life. Joseph had more than the vanity of man, he had that of lecturers. He owned he was in fault, although more sinned against (by the capable Scot) than sinning; but had he steeped his hands in gore93, he would still not deserve to be thus dragged at the chariot-wheels of a young man, to sit a captive in the halls of his own leather business, to be entertained with mortifying94 comments on his whole career — to have his costume examined, his collar pulled up, the presence of his mittens95 verified, and to be taken out and brought home in custody96, like an infant with a nurse. At the thought of it his soul would swell44 with venom97, and he would make haste to hang up his hat and coat and the detested98 mittens, and slink upstairs to Julia and his notebooks. The drawing-room at least was sacred from Morris; it belonged to the old man and the young girl; it was there that she made her dresses; it was there that he inked his spectacles over the registration99 of disconnected facts and the calculation of insignificant100 statistics.
Here he would sometimes lament his connection with the tontine. ‘If it were not for that,’ he cried one afternoon, ‘he would not care to keep me. I might be a free man, Julia. And I could so easily support myself by giving lectures.’
‘To be sure you could,’ said she; ‘and I think it one of the meanest things he ever did to deprive you of that amusement. There were those nice people at the Isle of Cats (wasn’t it?) who wrote and asked you so very kindly to give them an address. I did think he might have let you go to the Isle of Cats.’
‘He is a man of no intelligence,’ cried Joseph. ‘He lives here literally101 surrounded by the absorbing spectacle of life, and for all the good it does him, he might just as well be in his coffin102. Think of his opportunities! The heart of any other young man would burn within him at the chance. The amount of information that I have it in my power to convey, if he would only listen, is a thing that beggars language, Julia.’
‘Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn’t excite yourself,’ said Julia; ‘for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be sent for.’
‘That is very true,’ returned the old man humbly103, ‘I will compose myself with a little study.’ He thumbed his gallery of notebooks. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘I wonder (since I see your hands are occupied) whether it might not interest you —’
‘Why, of course it would,’ cried Julia. ‘Read me one of your nice stories, there’s a dear.’
He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as though to forestall104 some possible retractation. ‘What I propose to read to you,’ said he, skimming through the pages, ‘is the notes of a highly important conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas, which is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money it cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was induced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It runs only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.’ He cleared his throat, and began to read.
Mr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four hundred and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited105 from Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require to listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been a perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by frequent appliances to the bottle; it would even seem that (toward the end) he had ceased to depend on Joseph’s frugal106 generosity107 and called for the flagon on his own account. The effect, at least, of some mellowing108 influence was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a willing witness; he began to volunteer disclosures; and Julia had just looked up from her seam with something like a smile, when Morris burst into the house, eagerly calling for his uncle, and the next instant plunged109 into the room, waving in the air the evening paper.
It was indeed with great news that he came charged. The demise110 was announced of Lieutenant-General Sir Glasgow Biggar, KCSI, KCMG, etc., and the prize of the tontine now lay between the Finsbury brothers. Here was Morris’s opportunity at last. The brothers had never, it is true, been cordial. When word came that Joseph was in Asia Minor, Masterman had expressed himself with irritation111. ‘I call it simply indecent,’ he had said. ‘Mark my words — we shall hear of him next at the North Pole.’ And these bitter expressions had been reported to the traveller on his return. What was worse, Masterman had refused to attend the lecture on ‘Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and Desirability’, although invited to the platform. Since then the brothers had not met. On the other hand, they never had openly quarrelled; Joseph (by Morris’s orders) was prepared to waive112 the advantage of his juniority; Masterman had enjoyed all through life the reputation of a man neither greedy nor unfair. Here, then, were all the elements of compromise assembled; and Morris, suddenly beholding113 his seven thousand eight hundred pounds restored to him, and himself dismissed from the vicissitudes114 of the leather trade, hastened the next morning to the office of his cousin Michael.
Michael was something of a public character. Launched upon the law at a very early age, and quite without protectors, he had become a trafficker in shady affairs. He was known to be the man for a lost cause; it was known he could extract testimony115 from a stone, and interest from a gold-mine; and his office was besieged116 in consequence by all that numerous class of persons who have still some reputation to lose, and find themselves upon the point of losing it; by those who have made undesirable117 acquaintances, who have mislaid a compromising correspondence, or who are blackmailed118 by their own butlers. In private life Michael was a man of pleasure; but it was thought his dire34 experience at the office had gone far to sober him, and it was known that (in the matter of investments) he preferred the solid to the brilliant. What was yet more to the purpose, he had been all his life a consistent scoffer119 at the Finsbury tontine.
It was therefore with little fear for the result that Morris presented himself before his cousin, and proceeded feverishly120 to set forth his scheme. For near upon a quarter of an hour the lawyer suffered him to dwell upon its manifest advantages uninterrupted. Then Michael rose from his seat, and, ringing for his clerk, uttered a single clause: ‘It won’t do, Morris.’
It was in vain that the leather merchant pleaded and reasoned, and returned day after day to plead and reason. It was in vain that he offered a bonus of one thousand, of two thousand, of three thousand pounds; in vain that he offered, in Joseph’s name, to be content with only one-third of the pool. Still there came the same answer: ‘It won’t do.’
‘I can’t see the bottom of this,’ he said at last. ‘You answer none of my arguments; you haven’t a word to say. For my part, I believe it’s malice121.’
The lawyer smiled at him benignly122. ‘You may believe one thing,’ said he. ‘Whatever else I do, I am not going to gratify any of your curiosity. You see I am a trifle more communicative today, because this is our last interview upon the subject.’
‘Our last interview!’ cried Morris.
‘The stirrup-cup, dear boy,’ returned Michael. ‘I can’t have my business hours encroached upon. And, by the by, have you no business of your own? Are there no convulsions in the leather trade?’
‘I believe it to be malice,’ repeated Morris doggedly123. ‘You always hated and despised me from a boy.’
‘No, no — not hated,’ returned Michael soothingly124. ‘I rather like you than otherwise; there’s such a permanent surprise about you, you look so dark and attractive from a distance. Do you know that to the naked eye you look romantic? — like what they call a man with a history? And indeed, from all that I can hear, the history of the leather trade is full of incident.’
‘Yes,’ said Morris, disregarding these remarks, ‘it’s no use coming here. I shall see your father.’
‘O no, you won’t,’ said Michael. ‘Nobody shall see my father.’
‘I should like to know why,’ cried his cousin.
‘I never make any secret of that,’ replied the lawyer. ‘He is too ill.’
‘If he is as ill as you say,’ cried the other, ‘the more reason for accepting my proposal. I will see him.’
‘Will you?’ said Michael, and he rose and rang for his clerk.
It was now time, according to Sir Faraday Bond, the medical baronet whose name is so familiar at the foot of bulletins, that Joseph (the poor Golden Goose) should be removed into the purer air of Bournemouth; and for that uncharted wilderness125 of villas126 the family now shook off the dust of Bloomsbury; Julia delighted, because at Bournemouth she sometimes made acquaintances; John in despair, for he was a man of city tastes; Joseph indifferent where he was, so long as there was pen and ink and daily papers, and he could avoid martyrdom at the office; Morris himself, perhaps, not displeased127 to pretermit these visits to the city, and have a quiet time for thought. He was prepared for any sacrifice; all he desired was to get his money again and clear his feet of leather; and it would be strange, since he was so modest in his desires, and the pool amounted to upward of a hundred and sixteen thousand pounds — it would be strange indeed if he could find no way of influencing Michael. ‘If I could only guess his reason,’ he repeated to himself; and by day, as he walked in Branksome Woods, and by night, as he turned upon his bed, and at meal-times, when he forgot to eat, and in the bathing machine, when he forgot to dress himself, that problem was constantly before him: Why had Michael refused?
At last, one night, he burst into his brother’s room and woke him.
‘What’s all this?’ asked John.
‘Julia leaves this place tomorrow,’ replied Morris. ‘She must go up to town and get the house ready, and find servants. We shall all follow in three days.’
‘Oh, brayvo!’ cried John. ‘But why?’
‘I’ve found it out, John,’ returned his brother gently.
‘It? What?’ enquired128 John.
‘Why Michael won’t compromise,’ said Morris. ‘It’s because he can’t. It’s because Masterman’s dead, and he’s keeping it dark.’
‘Golly!’ cried the impressionable John. ‘But what’s the use? Why does he do it, anyway?’
‘To defraud75 us of the tontine,’ said his brother.
‘He couldn’t; you have to have a doctor’s certificate,’ objected John.
‘Did you never hear of venal129 doctors?’ enquired Morris. ‘They’re as common as blackberries: you can pick ‘em up for three-pound-ten a head.’
‘I wouldn’t do it under fifty if I were a sawbones,’ ejaculated John.
‘And then Michael,’ continued Morris, ‘is in the very thick of it. All his clients have come to grief; his whole business is rotten eggs. If any man could arrange it, he could; and depend upon it, he has his plan all straight; and depend upon it, it’s a good one, for he’s clever, and be damned to him! But I’m clever too; and I’m desperate. I lost seven thousand eight hundred pounds when I was an orphan42 at school.’
‘O, don’t be tedious,’ interrupted John. ‘You’ve lost far more already trying to get it back.’
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1 dwelling | |
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极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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3 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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4 consultation | |
n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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5 illegible | |
adj.难以辨认的,字迹模糊的 | |
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6 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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7 precocity | |
n.早熟,早成 | |
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8 treatise | |
n.专著;(专题)论文 | |
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9 vainglorious | |
adj.自负的;夸大的 | |
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10 narrative | |
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11 sprightly | |
adj.愉快的,活泼的 | |
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12 survivor | |
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13 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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区( ward的名词复数 ); 病房; 受监护的未成年者; 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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15 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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16 dispensing | |
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17 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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18 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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19 seclusion | |
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20 solicitor | |
n.初级律师,事务律师 | |
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21 deplored | |
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22 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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23 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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24 preservation | |
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25 eccentricity | |
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26 embarked | |
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28 debilitating | |
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29 itch | |
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30 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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31 begets | |
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32 malady | |
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33 gratuitous | |
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34 dire | |
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35 unemployed | |
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41 orphans | |
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55 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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56 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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57 stewardship | |
n. n. 管理工作;管事人的职位及职责 | |
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58 deficit | |
n.亏空,亏损;赤字,逆差 | |
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59 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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60 contingent | |
adj.视条件而定的;n.一组,代表团,分遣队 | |
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61 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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62 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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63 incompetent | |
adj.无能力的,不能胜任的 | |
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64 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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65 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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66 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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67 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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68 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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69 bland | |
adj.淡而无味的,温和的,无刺激性的 | |
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70 outweighed | |
v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 );在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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71 grudged | |
怀恨(grudge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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72 impeached | |
v.控告(某人)犯罪( impeach的过去式和过去分词 );弹劾;对(某事物)怀疑;提出异议 | |
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73 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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74 defrauded | |
v.诈取,骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75 defraud | |
vt.欺骗,欺诈 | |
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76 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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77 doled | |
救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 ); 失业救济金 | |
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78 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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79 upbraid | |
v.斥责,责骂,责备 | |
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80 defalcation | |
n.盗用公款,挪用公款,贪污 | |
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81 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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82 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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83 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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84 revile | |
v.辱骂,谩骂 | |
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85 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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86 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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87 affixing | |
v.附加( affix的现在分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
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88 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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89 dally | |
v.荒废(时日),调情 | |
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90 bankruptcy | |
n.破产;无偿付能力 | |
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91 procrastination | |
n.拖延,耽搁 | |
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92 immured | |
v.禁闭,监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93 gore | |
n.凝血,血污;v.(动物)用角撞伤,用牙刺破;缝以补裆;顶 | |
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94 mortifying | |
adj.抑制的,苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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95 mittens | |
不分指手套 | |
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96 custody | |
n.监护,照看,羁押,拘留 | |
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97 venom | |
n.毒液,恶毒,痛恨 | |
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98 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99 registration | |
n.登记,注册,挂号 | |
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100 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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101 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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102 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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103 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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104 forestall | |
vt.抢在…之前采取行动;预先阻止 | |
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105 elicited | |
引出,探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106 frugal | |
adj.节俭的,节约的,少量的,微量的 | |
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107 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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108 mellowing | |
软化,醇化 | |
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109 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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110 demise | |
n.死亡;v.让渡,遗赠,转让 | |
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111 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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112 waive | |
vt.放弃,不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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113 beholding | |
v.看,注视( behold的现在分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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114 vicissitudes | |
n.变迁,世事变化;变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 );盛衰兴废 | |
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115 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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116 besieged | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117 undesirable | |
adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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118 blackmailed | |
胁迫,尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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119 scoffer | |
嘲笑者 | |
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120 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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121 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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122 benignly | |
adv.仁慈地,亲切地 | |
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123 doggedly | |
adv.顽强地,固执地 | |
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124 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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125 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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126 villas | |
别墅,公馆( villa的名词复数 ); (城郊)住宅 | |
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127 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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128 enquired | |
打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 ); 询问; 问问题; 查问 | |
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129 venal | |
adj.唯利是图的,贪脏枉法的 | |
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