Mr. Jesse Crow sat on the front fence with his feet comfortably resting on the lower rail, whittling1 a stick. Crops had been "laid by," and he felt that he could afford to sit on the fence and engage in the pleasing recreation of whittling. But it was not, on this particular occasion, enjoyed as heartily2 as usual. It seemed to be a mere3 mechanical occupation to aid him in solving a knotty4 problem. He was a small, wiry, mild-eyed man, with a deeply tanned complexion5 and a good-humored expression. He was a prosperous farmer, and highly respected in the settlement, where he had a good reputation for fair, honest dealing7 and clear judgment8, though often permitting his love of mercy to overrule the rigid9 laws of justice.
"It ain't no use in bein' hard on enny creetur," he would say mildly. "We ain't all been tried erlike, an' thar mought be extinguishin' sarcums-tances ter jedge by if we could see 'em."
But this morning his brows were drawn10 together in a perplexed11 frown, and he stared at the slowly sharpening splinter with abstracted eyes. The steady, even fall of hoofs12 upon the hard, dry road roused him from his reflections, and glancing up he saw Jim Edwards, his neighbor and crony, approaching on his old gray mare13. Mr. Jesse Crow hailed him with hearty14 delight.
"Won't you 'light an' come in?" he asked hospitably15.
"No, reckon not this mornin'. Nancy's in er pow'ful hurry fer some truck, but I don't know as I min' a-jinin' you thar a little while."
He dismounted, threw the bridle16 over a low projecting limb of the great chestnut-tree standing17 near the gate, and in a few minutes sat on the fence by the side of his friend.
"You have heard erbout Tom Fannin a-takin' that money from Bill Sanders, down whar they air a-workin' on the new railroad?" he said, fumbling20 for his knife from mere force of habit, and settling himself for a little gossip.
"Yes," said Mr. Crow, seriously, "an' I don't min' sayin' that I never was more tuk down."
"Well, I thought better o' Tom than that myself, but you know what the scripturs say 'bout18 Satan allus a-havin' work fer idle hands ter do, an' it's purty well known Tom Fannin's as lazy as his hide kin19 hold."
"Yes, that's so," assented21 his companion.
Edwards stole a glance at him, shifted the tobacco around in his mouth, and then—
"How does Bet take it?" he rather diffidently inquired.
"That's what's pesterin' me erbout the matter, Ed'ards," exclaimed Mr. Crow, dropping the last sliver23 from his whittling, and turning toward his companion. "Bet lows he didn't do it; she knows in reason he didn't, an' ter that point she sticks."
"But, man alive, the money was found in his pocket! It was this way, an' I hearn it from Bill hisself. Him an' Tom has been a-roomin' together since Tom tuk an' started to work down thar, an' Bill one mornin' put twenty dollars in the top er his trunk with nobody seein' it but Tom. At dinner-time it wus gone. The men, black an' white, wus all fer havin' their pockets searched, an' when they come ter Tom's coat a-hangin' on er bush, thar wus the money stacked down in the little pocket. Some er the boys say he turned mighty24 white, an' 'lowed he didn't know 'twas thar, an' kep' on denyin' it, but the p'int is, how did it come thar then?"
"I've tole Bet that, time an' ag'in, but every time she sez, 'Pa, I know he didn't take it.'"
"How do you know?" says I.
"''Cause he sez so—' as if that kin clar up the matter. Thar ain't no reasonin' with wimmen folks, Ed'ards."
"That's so, Jesse. If you ax 'em why they believe sech an' sech, they'll apt ter say 'jes' 'cause,' an' that's all the sense you kin git outen 'em."
"It ain't my fault Bet's been a-keepin' comp'ny long o' Tom Fannin—it's er puzzlin' thing ter me how she kin like him, knowin' he is lazy an' sorter triflin', but Bet's got er head of her own," with a sudden touch of pride, and fumbling along the rail for another loose splinter.
"She's er likely gal25, if I do say it ter you, Jesse Crow, an' I'd 'a' been mighty glad if she'd 'a' tuk a likin' ter Pink. She knows how ter work, an' she ain't afeerd ter put her hand tu it."
"Her ma hain't sp'ilt her, that's a fact," said Mr. Crow, modestly. "Thar she comes now," he continued, raising his head, and glancing across the road.
She had been to the spring, and walked briskly up the path and across the dusty road, her sun-bonnet swinging from one hand, a pail of water poised26 evenly on her head. Her black hair hung in a thick braid down her back, the sun had tanned her skin to a fine brown, but there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks, and full, firm lips. Her bright, steady eyes were dark gray, and when she smiled two rows of even white teeth were disclosed to view.
"A likely" girl indeed, dressed in a neat, clean cotton gown, its clumsy folds not able to hide the graceful27 development of her figure. She was Jesse Crow's only child, and he regarded her with a just feeling of pride, and, though it had now taken a perplexing turn, felt secretly pleased at her disposition28 and ability to have her own way. Edwards nodded to her with a friendly smile.
"Mornin', Bet."
"Mornin' Mr. Ed'ards. How's Mis Ed'ards and the chillun?" she inquired in a pleasant, soft-toned voice, pausing at the gate.
"'Bout as common, Bet."
She looked inquiringly at him. Mr. Edwards cleared his throat.
"Now, Bet, you ain't goin' ter be onreasonable 'bout this Fannin scrape, air ye?"
A sudden flush passed over her face, and she lifted the brimming pail from her head and placed it on the fence.
"Depends on what you mean by that, Mr. Ed'ards, hopin' you'll take no offence a-talkin' so plain."
"I mean you ain't a-goin' ter hold up fer him ag'in everybody else, an' pester22 yer ma an' pa."
Her lips trembled; she looked at her father.
"Pa knows I ain't a-meanin' ter pester him."
"Yes, honey, we know that," he said, her appealing glance melting his heart to tenderness at once. When had he ever failed to respond to her joy or sorrow?
"Now, that's Pink, an' Sile Jill, an' Bill Sanders, an'—"
"Don't be a-namin' Bill Sanders ter me, Mr. Ed'ards, if yer please," she exclaimed quickly.
"But it ain't fair ter be a-blamin' him fer Tom Fannin's fault, Betsy," shaking his head reprovingly.
"How kin I help it, Mr. Ed'ards, when I feel an' know that in some way or other he's the cause o' it?" she cried, with a passionate29 tremor30 in her voice. "It ain't a-hurtin' nobody fer me ter b'lieve in Tom, spite o' everything, an' please don't ax me not to, fer I must; I can't help it."
She opened the gate, and took up the pail of water and went on into the house, and a few minutes later the men heard the steady click-clack of the loom31.
All day she sat on the high bench, weaving steadily32 a stripe of blue and a stripe of brown, counting the threads carefully; but her heart lay heavy in her bosom33, and her eyes were grave. She had been deeply shocked at the charge against Tom Fannin, but her faith in his honesty remained unshaken. She understood his faults, his weaknesses, but they only appealed to her womanly tenderness. He was generous, honest, and truthful34, and if he was not so good-looking or so prosperous as others—Pink Edwards and Bill Sanders, she loved him. The heart of woman is past finding out. Bet Crow might have had pick and choice among the beaux of the settlement, and instead of favoring the suit of one of her smart, industrious35 lovers, she chose Tom Fannin, the poorest, least fortunate young man in the county. He had a farm, but it did not prosper6, and his stock were neglected and shabby.
"He's shiftless," said his neighbors, and Bet knew it to be true, though too loyal even to acknowledge it to any one but herself.
The shadows were growing long across the yard, and the soft lowing of the cows, wending their way home, could be heard, when a step sounded in the entry, and Tom Fannin himself walked into the room where Bet sat weaving.
"Mis' Crow said 'Jest walk right in,'" he said, stopping near the door, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands.
"Tu be shure, Tom," said the girl, feeling his new embarrassment36 acutely, and longing37 to put him at his ease and make him understand that story would not change her regard. "Jes' take er cheer."
She did not stop her work, and he drew a chair up near the bench, laid his hat on the floor, and then for the first time looked straightly and frankly38 at her. His eyes were clear and honest if not handsome. Bet felt his steady look, and flushed, and the hand holding the shuttle trembled slightly.
"You have heard?" he said at last, with a deep, dejected sigh.
"Yes," suddenly facing him and looking into his eyes. They did not waver, though his sunburnt face flushed.
"It wus in my pocket, Bet, but if it's the las' word I'm ever ter say, I don't know how it got thar," he said, solemnly.
"I know'd you didn't do it," she said with generous faith. "Bill Sanders mus' be at the bottom o' it himself."
"I don't know—I don't know nothin' erbout the matter 't all. I can't seem ter understan' why ennybody'd wanter spile my character, I've been shiftless an' lazy, I'll 'low that," humbly39, "an' I don't know as you oughter 'a' put up with me, but I never tuk nothin' that didn't berlong ter me, an' never lifted er finger to harm a human creetur."
His voice shook slightly, and he leaned his head upon the weaving bench, his face hidden in a fold of Bet's dress.
She trembled in a passion of tender sympathy; tears filled her eyes, ran down her face, but she would not let a single sob40 pass her quivering lips. She laid her hand softly on his ruddy hair, and when she could speak without crying, said:
"It'll never make enny difference with me, I don't care what they say."
"But the whole world'll be turnin' ag'in me now, Bet. I've come over to tell you I won't think hard o' yer fer takin' back yer promises," he said with an effort.
"Promises air promises, an' I never make 'em 'thout wantin' ter keep 'em," she said steadily.
He raised his head, he saw the tears on her face, the trembling of her lips, and starting up threw one arm around her, and pressed her head against him.
"God A'mighty bless yer, Bet, honey, for keerin' fer sech a poor creetur as I, when you mought git the best. Ef I don't make somethin' o' myself now arter this, I'll never ax yer to keep yer word," he whispered, passionately41 pressing his rough cheek against her smooth, warm one.
For a moment the girl did not move, then she gently removed his arm, and sitting upright began to look confusedly for her shuttle, flushing, paling, not daring to meet her lover's eyes.
"Can't nothin' be done to clear up the matter?" she said finally in a low tone.
Fannin shook his head sadly.
"Nothin'; it wus thar, an' I hain't no way o' provin' I didn't put it thar."
That was true, and gossip was rife42 throughout the settlement, and the members of Cool Spring Church met in solemn conclave43 to "deal" with the erring44 young man, who persisted in denying his guilt45, thereby46 adding the sin of a lie to the sin of stealing. He lost his situation on the railroad, he lost his friends, and seemed to sink to the lowest ebb47 of fortune. But his trials put a new spirit into him, or else called forth48 a great deal of latent strength, for he met the slights of his associates and neighbors with quiet dignity and went to work energetically on his farm.
"I 'lowed you 'ud be a-huntin' a new home," said one of his neighbors to him, eying him curiously49.
"No, I'm goin' ter stay right t' hum," he replied doggedly50.
"He's er turrible sinner," said the gossips on learning his determination to remain at his old home.
Those long summer days were wretched ones to Bet Crow. She devised a thousand plans for clearing her lover, but they all came to naught51. She firmly believed Bill Sanders had caused the trouble, though why or how she could not determine. He had been one of her most ardent52 admirers, and betrayed as much anger as disappointment when she refused to "keep cump'ny" with him, but she did not connect that with Tom's disgrace. After that one afternoon visit her lover did not come again to see her, and if they met accidentally at church or elsewhere, they only exchanged the briefest and quietest greeting, but eyes may speak as well as lips, and there were glances eloquent53 and sweet to both.
Bet did not parade her feelings, and people said she had come to her senses at last, and had sent "that triflin' Tom Fannin erdrift."
One day Bill Sanders stepped boldly up and asked permission to walk home from meeting with her. She curtly54 refused.
"What's the matter, Bet? It's onjest to treat me in sech er way 'thout er cause," he said in wounded tones.
"You know I can't be a-wantin' enny o' yer comp'ny," she said, and before the righteous anger of her eyes he shrank back abashed55.
The summer passed slowly—dewy dawns, languid sunlit noons, and dusky evenings. The corn ripened56, and the cotton-fields promised a fair yield. Tom Fannin worked steadily, early and late, as though finding in constant occupation a panacea57 for his troubles.
"He'll soon git tired o' that; min' what I say," said one prophet, "an' go ter idlin' round ag'in."
But he did not, growing thin and brawny58 with constant toil59. But the change had come too late. The charge of theft could neither be forgiven nor forgotten in that community.
Farmer Crow carefully refrained from mentioning Tom Fannin's name to his daughter since the morning he sat on the fence and talked with Mr. Jim Edwards. But his shrewd, kindly60 eyes observed the young man's demeanor61 with approval.
"He's got more grit62 than we calkerlated on," he mused63.
At last he broached64 the subject to Bet.
"It's a pity Tom Fannin sp'ilt his fortune a-takin' that money; he's a-doin' so mighty well now."
Bet looked reproachfully at him. "How do you know he took it, pa?"
"How do we know he didn't, Bet? Honey, don't be a-deceivin' yerself. I'm mighty proud you have dropped his comp'ny."
"I hain't dropped it, pa. We er jest a-waitin'."
He sighed.
"You air pow'fully sot in yer ways, Bet, fer er young creetur."
"Pa, I mought as well give up livin' as ter give up Tom. You know how 'tis," her eyes traveling to the round, placid65 face of her mother sitting out in the entry, knitting.
Her father's face softened66.
"Well, well, honey, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry fer, that's all I ax. Waitin' is sometimes a mighty tryin' thing."
"But it mus' be better'n not havin' anything ter wait fer," she said, solemnly.
But as time passed monotonously67, without bringing any vindication68 of her lover's name, and hope died slowly and painfully, she learned the bitterness of waiting.
It was "fodder-pullin'" time, and the farmers were out from dawn until evening stripping the yellowing blades from the stalk, tying it, and stacking it in the wide hot fields. The new railroad skirted the western bounds of Mr. Jesse Crow's farm, and through the almost breathless stillness could be heard the ring of hammer and steel from the bridge building over Cool Spring Creek69. Some of the strange workmen had a reputation for lawlessness quite shocking to the simple, peaceable country people.
It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Bet Crow was spinning listlessly, while her mother carded the rolls for her. They were not dreaming of any danger, when a man, coatless, hatless, covered with dust, and panting heavily, leaped the fence and ran across the yard. It was Bill Sanders.
"Mis' Crow, for the love of God let me hide in here!" he gasped70 hoarsely71, stumbling over the doorstep, and then staggering into the room.
"Bill Sanders! what on the face o' the yeth!" cried the frightened woman, her fresh-colored face growing pale.
"They air arter me! they mean to kill me!" he panted, crouching72 under the loom, quivering with exhaustion73, wild-eyed with fear.
"Bet, Bet! what does it mean?" exclaimed her mother appealingly.
Bet ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out. Four or five men were running along the road toward the house, searching and cursing fiercely. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew they were workmen from the bridge, and a desperate-looking gang they were to her frightened eyes. For a moment her heart quailed74. They might murder her and her mother, as well as Bill Sanders. He was incapable75 of offering any defense76 just then, and pity filled her heart. Her eyes flashed; her lips were set in a determined77 line. They should not get him if she could help it.
"Quick, ma! blow the horn for pa!" she said, then sprang up on a chair and took down her father's shot-gun from over the door, a trusty weapon he loved next to his wife and daughter.
"Don't you come enny nigher till you tell what you want," she said clearly, raising the gun in her none too steady hands as they scrambled78 over the fence. For a moment they were nonplussed79, and stared at her with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty80.
"We want the man that's hid in there," said one lowering fellow, fiercely.
"What for?"
"To hang to the nearest tree."
"What's he been a-doin'?"
"Killin' a friend of our'n down on the railroad."
The horror of it almost took her breath, but she maintained her defensive81 attitude bravely.
"That's er turrible thing," she said, praying that every blast of the horn would bring her father.
"See here, young woman, you'd better get outen that and let us have him. We don't mean no harm to you, but we ain't got time to argue with you."
"I'm plum' sorry for you, but I'm bound ter do what I kin fer the law. We air peaceable folks here, an' like ter be punished 'cordin' ter law. If you'll git the jestice o' the peace an' have Mr. Sanders tuk ter jail, I ain't no objections."
Their wrath82 was evidently cooling somewhat, and they were forced to a reluctant admiration83 of her pluck.
If they had known that she was trembling like a leaf, that her arms were feeling nerveless and weak, her eyes dim! She knew that she could not hold out much longer in that threatening attitude. A moment of dead silence fell while the men consulted in whispers, and Bet could hear the deep, hurried breathing of the hidden man, and the horrified84 moans and ejaculations of her mother with a distinctness absolutely painful to her. But help had come. Her strained eyes wandered despairingly from those dark, angry faces confronting her, and she saw her father and two or three other men coming through the lot.
Matters were at last peaceably adjusted. Mr. Crow argued so mildly and reasonably with the avenging85 party that they consented—the farmers bearing them company—to take their prisoner and allow the law to deal with him.
"But I'll tell you what, Sanders, you owe your life to that girl. We would 'a' killed you, sure, if she hadn't 'a' stood up in your defense like she did. We didn't want to hurt her," said one of the men grimly, and Sanders groaned86 heavily. He gave Bet one humbly grateful glance as they led him away.
The whole occurrence occupied but a brief space of time in the bright summer day. The dust settled softly upon the road behind the retreating footsteps of the self-appointed posse and their prisoner, and the crickets shrilling87 in the grass seemed the only living thing left. Bet sank down on the doorstep, and hid her face in her hands, faint and weak from the strain upon her nerves.
"Drink this, honey, it'll do you good," said her mother, holding a brimming gourd88 of water to her pale lips, and she drank a little and declared that she felt better.
"Do you s'pose they'll hang him, Bet?" in a fearful whisper.
"I don't know, ma, if he's tuk human life—" she paused with a shudder89.
A new sensation had been furnished the settlement, and a far greater one than the mere theft of a little money. The men met to discuss the crime, and the women spoke90 of it in low, awestruck tones. Then it was discovered that the man had not been killed, but badly wounded and stunned91. A quieter spirit prevailed, and when it came out that the stranger had struck the first blow, and that Sanders had only acted on the defensive, the tide of public sympathy turned in his favor.
It does not belong to this story to go into all the details of the trial held at the September term of the county court. It is enough to say the young man was acquitted92 and walked out of the court-room free, but subdued93 and quiet. He went direct to Farmer Crow's, and walked into the room where Bet sat with her patchwork94. She greeted him with grave kindness, and asked him to sit down, but he declined, preferring to stand. He twisted the flexible willow95 switch he carried, nervously96 around in his hands, and swallowed audibly, as though something choked him.
"They'd 'a' tuk my life shure in their first mad fit if it hadn't 'a' been for you, Bet," he said finally, with an effort. "I don't know what to say; I ain't much fer words, but—"
"Please don't say nothin' 'bout it, Bill," she pleaded in great embarrassment. "Folks air a-puttin' what I done up too high. If I helped you it wasn't nothin' more'n duty, seein' as you was plum' tuckered out with runnin'. I'd 'a' done it fer ennybody."
"Don't I know that better'n you, Bet?" he exclaimed bitterly. "Don't I know you can't bear the sight o' me? but I'm a-goin' to show you that I ain't ungrateful fer what you've done fer me."
He passed his hands over his eyes. "Bet, I done somethin' for you that for yer sake I'm now a-goin' ter undo97. Next Sunday is meetin' day at Cool Spring, an' I'm a-goin' ter make public acknowledgments o' my temptations, an' the doin's o' Satan in my heart. I've keered for you mighty nigh to the ruination o' my hopes fer a better world. But if God A'mighty kin fergive me, then you kin tu, Bet. Good-evenin'."
He turned to go. She sprang up, scattering98 her quilt pieces right and left.
"Bill!" she gasped, but he strode hastily out of the room, mounted his horse, and rode away.
The last song had been sung and the congregation at Cool Spring church were about to rise to receive the benediction99 when Bill Sanders stood up, and clearing his throat, looked around on the people. As he met the curious expectant eyes fixed100 upon him, he seemed to waver—to flinch101 from his purpose.
"Now speak out, Brother Sanders," said the pastor102 encouragingly, and the kindly voice of the old man gave him fresh strength.
"Broth'r'n an' sist'r'n, it becomes my duty ter tell you o' the temptations I've be'n a-fallin' under this year, an' ter ax yer forgiveness an' yer prayers. I've be'n a-wanderin' fur from the right way. I done er turrible thing ter brother Tom Fannin—took away his good name, an' made him a byword an' en example o' evil among you. Fer the sake o' one who it ain't becomin' in me ter name here, an' who ain't ter blame any more'n a innocent child, I 'lowed myself ter hate him—ter wanter cast disfavor 'pon him."
He paused, and a pinfall might have been heard in that church, so intensely quiet, so breathless were the excited people. He looked at Tom Fannin leaning forward eagerly on his seat, then his eyes rested for a moment on Bet Crow's drooping103 face, and he could almost feel the quick flutter of the pulse in her round soft throat. His eyes sank to the floor; he drew a long breath.
"Broth'r'n, this is er public acknowledgment, an' the solemn, bindin' truth—I put that money in Tom Fannin's pocket with my own hands."
He said no more, but sat down and hid his face in his hands, and a stir and murmur104 seemed to sweep over the church like a wave. The agitation105, excitement, seemed about to break dignified106 Christian107 bounds, when Mr. Jesse Crow rose and solemnly said:
"Broth'r'n, we have all heard the public acknowledgments o' Brother Sanders's wrong-doin'. He has tole it 'thout bein' axed, an' o' his own free will an' inclernation. In dealin' with this errin' brother we mus' bear in min' thar air allus extinguishin' sarcumstances surroundin' ever' deed done by weak mortal creeturs, an' a confession108 o' guilt is er long way to'ards complete repentance109."
Well, that public confession was the climax110 of that year of events in the Cool Spring settlement, if I except the wedding at Mr. Jesse Crow's, later in the season, when house and yard overflowed111 with guests, and all united in giving a kindly hand and a hearty word to the bridegroom. Bill Sanders was not present. He had gone out West to seek a new home, and let us hope that he was in time as happy as Tom Fannin and his wife, once the belle112 of Cool Spring settlement—Bet Crow.
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1
whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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2
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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3
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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4
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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5
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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7
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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8
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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14
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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15
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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21
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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sliver
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| n.裂片，细片，梳毛；v.纵切，切成长片，剖开 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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25
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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26
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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27
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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passionate
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| 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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30
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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31
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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32
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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33
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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34
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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35
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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36
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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37
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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38
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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39
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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40
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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41
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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42
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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43
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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44
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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45
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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46
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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47
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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50
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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51
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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52
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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53
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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55
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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58
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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59
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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66
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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67
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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68
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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69
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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72
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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73
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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76
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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81
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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82
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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83
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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84
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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85
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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86
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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87
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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88
gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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89
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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90
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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91
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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92
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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93
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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94
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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95
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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96
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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97
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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98
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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99
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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100
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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101
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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102
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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103
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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104
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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105
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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106
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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107
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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108
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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109
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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110
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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111
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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112
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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