A letter was delivered to Miss Dacre. She started, exclaimed, blushed, and tore it open.
‘Only you, only you,’ she said, extending her hand to the young Duke, ‘only you were capable of this!’
It was a letter from Arundel Dacre, not only written but franked by him.
It explained everything that the Duke of St. James might have told them before; but he preferred hearing all himself, from the delighted and delightful3 lips of Miss Dacre, who read to her father her cousin’s letter.
The Duke of St. James had returned him for one of his Cornish boroughs4. It appeared that Lord St. Maurice was the previous member, who had accepted the Chiltern Hundreds in his favour.
‘You were determined5 to surprise, as well as delight us,’ said Mr. Dacre.
‘I am no admirer of mysteries,’ said the Duke; ‘but the fact is, in the present case, it was not in my power to give you any positive information, and I had no desire to provide you, after your late disappointment, with new sources of anxiety. The only person I could take the liberty with, at so short a notice, was St. Maurice. He, you know, is a Liberal; but he cannot forget that he is the son of a Tory, and has no great ambition to take any active part in affairs at present. I anticipated less difficulty with him than with his father. St. Maurice can command me again when it suits him; but, I confess to you, I have been surprised at my uncle’s kindness in this affair. I really have not done justice to his character before, and regret it. He has behaved in the most kind-hearted and the most liberal manner, and put me under obligations which I never shall forget. He seems as desirous of serving my friend as myself; and I assure you, sir, it would give you pleasure to know in what terms of respect he speaks of your family, and particularly of Arundel.’
‘Arundel says he shall take his seat the morning of the debate. How very near! how admirably managed! Oh! I never shall recover my surprise and delight! How good you are!’
‘He takes his seat, then, tomorrow,’ said Mr. Dacre, in a musing6 tone. ‘My letters give a rather nervous account of affairs. We are to win it, they hope, but by two only. As for the Lords, the majority against us will, it is said, be somewhat smaller than usual. We shall never triumph, George, till May is M.P. for the county. Cannot you return her for Pen Bronnock too?’
They talked, as you may suppose, of nothing else. At last Mr. Dacre remembered an appointment with his bailiff, and proposed to the Duke to join him, who acceded7.
‘And I to be left alone this morning, then!’ said Miss Dacre. ‘I am sure, as they say of children, I can set to nothing.’
‘Come and ride with us, then!’
‘An excellent idea! Let us canter over to Hauteville! I am just in the humour for a gallop9 up the avenue, and feel half emancipated10 already with a Dacre in the House! Oh! tomorrow, how nervous I shall be!’
‘I will despatch11 Barrington, then,’ said Mr. Dacre, ‘and join you in ten minutes.’
‘How good you are!’ said Miss Dacre to the Duke. ‘How can we thank you enough? What can we do for you?’
‘You have thanked me enough. What have I done after all? My opportunity to serve my friends is brief. Is it wonderful that I seize the opportunity?’
‘Brief! brief! Why do you always say so? Why do you talk so of leaving us?’
‘My visit to you has been already too long. It must soon end, and I remain not in England when it ceases.’
‘Come and live at Hauteville, and be near us?’
He faintly smiled as he said, ‘No, no; my doom12 is fixed13. Hauteville is the last place that I should choose for my residence, even if I remained in England. But I hear the horses.’
The important night at length arrived, or rather the important messenger, who brought down, express, a report of its proceedings14 to Castle Dacre.
Nothing is more singular than the various success of men in the House of Commons. Fellows who have been the oracles15 of coteries16 from their birth; who have gone through the regular process of gold medals, senior wranglerships, and double firsts, who have nightly sat down amid tumultuous cheering in debating societies, and can harangue18 with unruffled foreheads and unfaltering voice, from one end of a dinner-table to the other, who, on all occasions, have something to say, and can speak with fluency19 on what they know nothing about, no sooner rise in the House than their spells desert them. All their effrontery20 vanishes. Commonplace ideas are rendered even more uninteresting by monotonous21 delivery; and keenly alive as even boobies are in those sacred walls to the ridiculous, no one appears more thoroughly22 aware of his unexpected and astounding23 deficiencies than the orator24 himself. He regains25 his seat hot and hard, sultry and stiff, with a burning cheek and an icy hand, repressing his breath lest it should give evidence of an existence of which he is ashamed, and clenching26 his fist, that the pressure may secretly convince him that he has not as completely annihilated27 his stupid body as his false reputation.
On the other hand, persons whom the women have long deplored28, and the men long pitied, as having ‘no manner,’ who blush when you speak to them, and blunder when they speak to you, suddenly jump up in the House with a self-confidence, which is only equalled by their consummate29 ability. And so it was with Arundel Dacre. He rose the first night that he took his seat (a great disadvantage, of which no one was more sensible than himself), and for an hour and a half he addressed the fullest House that had long been assembled, with the self-possession of an habitual30 debater. His clenching argument, and his luminous31 detail, might have been expected from one who had the reputation of having been a student. What was more surprising was, the withering32 sarcasm33 that blasted like the simoom, the brilliant sallies of wit that flashed like a sabre, the gushing34 eddies35 of humour that drowned all opposition36 and overwhelmed those ponderous37 and unwieldy arguments which the producers announced as rocks, but which he proved to be porpoises38. Never was there such a triumphant39 début; and a peroration40 of genuine eloquence42, because of genuine feeling, concluded amid the long and renewed cheers of all parties.
The truth is, Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full, like a wholesome43 river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency44. Few are the men who cannot express their meaning, when the occasion demands the energy; as the lowest will defend their lives with acuteness, and sometimes even with eloquence. They are masters of their subject. Knowledge must be gained by ourselves. Mankind may supply us with facts; but the results, even if they agree with previous ones, must be the work of our own mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to feel ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be, when we are vomiting45 forth46 the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not a mere47 collection of words; and it is a delusion48 to suppose that thought can be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than our own. What is repetition, by a curious mystery ceases to be truth, even if it were truth when it was first heard; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic49 all the actions of vitality50, is not life. When a man is not speaking, or writing, from his own mind, he is as insipid51 company as a looking-glass.
Before a man can address a popular assembly with command, he must know something of mankind; and he can know nothing of mankind without knowing something of himself. Self-knowledge is the property of that man whose passions have their play, but who ponders over their results. Such a man sympathises by inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart. He can divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require, all that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel that a master-hand tears off the veil of cant8, with which, from necessity, they have enveloped52 their souls; for cant is nothing more than the sophistry53 which results from attempting to account for what is unintelligible54, or to defend what is improper55.
Perhaps, although we use the term, we never have had oratory56 in England. There is an essential difference between oratory and debating. Oratory seems an accomplishment57 confined to the ancients, unless the French preachers may put in their claim, and some of the Irish lawyers. Mr. Shiel’s speech in Kent was a fine oration41; and the boobies who taunted58 him for having got it by rote59, were not aware that in doing so he only wisely followed the example of Pericles, Demosthenes, Lysias, Isocrates, Hortensius, Cicero, C?sar, and every great orator of antiquity60. Oratory is essentially61 the accomplishment of antiquity: it was their most efficient mode of communicating thought; it was their substitute for printing.
I like a good debate; and, when a stripling, used sometimes to be stifled62 in the Gallery, or enjoy the easier privileges of a member’s son. I like, I say, a good debate, and have no objection to a due mixture of bores, which are a relief. I remember none of the giants of former days; but I have heard Canning. He was a consummate rhetorician; but there seemed to me a dash of commonplace in all that he said, and frequent indications of the absence of an original mind. To the last, he never got clear of ‘Good God, sir!’ and all the other hackneyed ejaculations of his youthful debating clubs. The most commanding speaker that I ever listened to is, I think, Sir Francis Burdett. I never heard him in the House; but at an election. He was full of music, grace? and dignity, even amid all the vulgar tumult17; and, unlike all mob orators63, raised the taste of the populace to him, instead of lowering his own to theirs. His colleague, Mr. Hobhouse, seemed to me ill qualified64 for a demagogue, though he spoke65 with power. He is rather too elaborate, and a little heavy, but fluent, and never weak. His thoughtful and highly-cultivated mind maintains him under all circumstances; and his breeding never deserts him. Sound sense comes recommended from his lips by the language of a scholar and the urbanity of a gentleman.
Mr. Brougham, at present, reigns66 paramount67 in the House of Commons. I think the lawyer has spoiled the statesman. He is said to have great powers of sarcasm. From what I have observed there, I should think very little ones would be quite sufficient. Many a sneer68 withers69 in those walls, which would scarcely, I think, blight70 a currant-bush out of them; and I have seen the House convulsed with raillery which, in other society, would infallibly settle the rallier to be a bore beyond all tolerance71. Even an idiot can raise a smile. They are so good-natured, or find it so dull. Mr. Canning’s badinage72 was the most successful, though I confess I have listened to few things more calculated to make a man gloomy. But the House always ran riot, taking everything for granted, and cracked their universal sides before he opened his mouth. The fault of Mr. Brougham is, that he holds no intellect at present in great dread73, and, consequently, allows himself on all occasions to run wild. Few men hazard more unphilosophical observations; but he is safe, because there is no one to notice them. On all great occasions, Mr. Brougham has come up to the mark; an infallible test of a man of genius.
I hear that Mr. Macaulay is to be returned. If he speaks half as well as he writes, the House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is one of those who, like the individual whom he has most studied, will ‘give up to party what was meant for mankind.’
At any rate, he must get rid of his rabidity. He writes now on all subjects, as if he certainly intended to be a renegade, and was determined to make the contrast complete.
Mr. Peel is the model of a minister, and improves as a speaker; though, like most of the rest, he is fluent without the least style. He should not get so often in a passion either, or, if he do, should not get out of one so easily. His sweet apologies are cloying75. His candour — he will do well to get rid of that. He can make a present of it to Mr. Huskisson, who is a memorable76 instance of the value of knowledge, which maintains a man under all circumstances and all disadvantages, and will.
In the Lords, I admire the Duke. The readiness with which he has adopted the air of a debater, shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky sort of a downright Montaignish na?veté about him, which is quaint77, unusual, and tells. You plainly perceive that he is determined to be a civilian78; and he is as offended if you drop a hint that he occasionally wears an uniform, as a servant on a holiday if you mention the word livery.
Lord Grey speaks with feeling, and is better to hear than to read, though ever strong and impressive. Lord Holland’s speeches are like a refacimento of all the suppressed passages in Clarendon, and the notes in the new edition of Bishop79 Burnet’s Memoirs80: but taste throws a delicate hue81 over the curious medley82, and the candour of a philosophic74 mind shows that in the library of Holland House he can sometimes cease to be a partisan83.
One thing is clear, that a man may speak very well in the House of Commons, and fail very completely in the House of Lords. There are two distinct styles requisite84: I intend, in the course of my career, if I have time, to give a specimen85 of both. In the Lower House Don Juan may perhaps be our model; in the Upper House, Paradise Lost.
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1 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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2 illegible | |
adj.难以辨认的,字迹模糊的 | |
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3 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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4 boroughs | |
(尤指大伦敦的)行政区( borough的名词复数 ); 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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5 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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6 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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7 acceded | |
v.(正式)加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 );答应;(通过财产的添附而)增加;开始任职 | |
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8 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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9 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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10 emancipated | |
adj.被解放的,不受约束的v.解放某人(尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚)( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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12 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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13 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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14 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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15 oracles | |
神示所( oracle的名词复数 ); 神谕; 圣贤; 哲人 | |
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16 coteries | |
n.(有共同兴趣的)小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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17 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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18 harangue | |
n.慷慨冗长的训话,言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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19 fluency | |
n.流畅,雄辩,善辩 | |
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20 effrontery | |
n.厚颜无耻 | |
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21 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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22 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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23 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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24 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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25 regains | |
复得( regain的第三人称单数 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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26 clenching | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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27 annihilated | |
v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
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28 deplored | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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30 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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31 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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32 withering | |
使人畏缩的,使人害羞的,使人难堪的 | |
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33 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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34 gushing | |
adj.迸出的;涌出的;喷出的;过分热情的v.喷,涌( gush的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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35 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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36 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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37 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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38 porpoises | |
n.鼠海豚( porpoise的名词复数 ) | |
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39 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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40 peroration | |
n.(演说等之)结论 | |
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41 oration | |
n.演说,致辞,叙述法 | |
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42 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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43 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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44 inefficiency | |
n.无效率,无能;无效率事例 | |
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45 vomiting | |
吐 | |
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46 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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47 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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48 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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49 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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50 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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51 insipid | |
adj.无味的,枯燥乏味的,单调的 | |
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52 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 sophistry | |
n.诡辩 | |
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54 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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55 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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56 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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57 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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58 taunted | |
嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落 | |
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59 rote | |
n.死记硬背,生搬硬套 | |
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60 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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61 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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62 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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63 orators | |
n.演说者,演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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64 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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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 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
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67 paramount | |
a.最重要的,最高权力的 | |
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68 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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69 withers | |
马肩隆 | |
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70 blight | |
n.枯萎病;造成破坏的因素;vt.破坏,摧残 | |
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71 tolerance | |
n.宽容;容忍,忍受;耐药力;公差 | |
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72 badinage | |
n.开玩笑,打趣 | |
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73 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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74 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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75 cloying | |
adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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76 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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77 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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78 civilian | |
adj.平民的,民用的,民众的 | |
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79 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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80 memoirs | |
n.回忆录;回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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81 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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82 medley | |
n.混合 | |
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83 partisan | |
adj.党派性的;游击队的;n.游击队员;党徒 | |
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84 requisite | |
adj.需要的,必不可少的;n.必需品 | |
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85 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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