[Pg 148]
When I gave up police-court work, I thought to devote the remainder of my days absolutely to the London home-workers; but Providence9 willed it otherwise, so only one-half of a very busy life is at their service. Of what that half reveals I cannot be silent, though I would that some far abler pen than mine would essay the task of describing the difficulties and perils10 that environ the lives of the industrious poor. I want and mean to be a faithful witness, so I will tell of nothing that I have not seen, I will describe no person that does not exist, and no narrative11 shall sully my pages that is not true in fact and detail. Imagination is of no service to me. I am as zealous12 for mere13 facts as was Mr. Gradgrind himself, and my facts shall be real, self-sufficing facts, out-vying imagination, and conveying their own lesson. If I carry my readers with me, we shall go into strange places and see strange sights and hear piteous stories; but I shall ask my readers to be heedless of all that is unpleasant, not to be alarmed at forbidding neighbourhoods or disgusted with frowzy14 women, but to contemplate15 with me the difficulties and the virtues of the industrious poor, and then, if they will, to worship with me at the shrine16 of poor humanity.
Quite recently I was invited to take sixty of my poor industrious women to spend a day at Sevenoaks. Among the party was a widow aged17 sixty and her daughter of thirty-five. They were makers18 of women's costumes, and had worked till half-past four that very morning in order to have the day's outing. I had known them for years, and many times had I been in their poor home[Pg 149] watching them as, side by side, they sat at their machines. Happy were they in recent years when their united earnings19 amounted to twenty-one shillings for a week's work of eighty hours. "Tell me," I said to the widow, "how long have you lived in your present house?" "Forty years," said the widow. "Emmy was born in it, and my husband was buried from it. I have been reckoning up, and find that I have paid more than twelve hundred pounds in rent, besides the rates." "Impossible," I said, "out of your earnings!" She said: "We let off part of the house, and that pays the rates and a little over, but we always have to find ten shillings a week for rent." Ten shillings out of twenty-one shillings, when twenty-one was forthcoming, which was by no means the case every week. "We cannot do with less than three rooms—one to work in, one to sleep in, and the little kitchen. I cannot get anything cheaper in the neighbourhood."
Here we come at once upon one of the greatest difficulties of the industrious poor. If they wish to live in any way decently, one-half their earnings disappears in rent.
"We have nowhere to go." The difficulties the poor have in finding suitable—or, indeed, any—rooms that may serve as a shelter for themselves and their children, and be dignified20 by the name of "home," are almost past belief. All sorts of subterfuges21 are resorted to, and it is no uncommon22 thing for a woman, when applying for one or more rooms, to state the number of her children to be less than half what it is in reality. Sometimes, it must be confessed, the people who obtain rooms[Pg 150] by such means are not desirable tenants23; but it is also true that even decent people have to resort to some kind of deception25 if they are to find shelter at all.
Day after day in London police-courts the difficulty is made manifest. Houses altogether unfit for human habitation have to be closed by order of the authorities; but, wretched and insanitary as those dwellings27 are, dangerous to the health and well-being28 of the community as they may be, they are full to overflowing29 of poor humanity seeking some cover. But they must "clear out." Their landlords say so, the sanitary26 authorities say so, and the magistrate30 confirms the landlord and the sanitary authorities. The one cry, the one plea of all the poor who are to be ejected is: "Where are we to go? We can't get another place." The kindly31 magistrate generally allows a few weeks' grace, and tells them to do their best meanwhile to procure32 other rooms. For some this is a possibility, but for others the period of grace will pass, and on an appointed day an officer of the court will be in Paradise Row or Angel Court, as the case may be, to see that the tenants are ejected without undue34 violence, and that their miserable35 belongings36 are deposited safely in the street.
On dark November days, with the rain coming steadily37 down, I have frequently seen the débris of such homes, the children keeping watch, and shivering as they watched. I have spoken to the children, asked them about their mother, and their reply has been: "Mother has gone with the baby to look for another place."
Heaven help that mother in her forlorn hope[Pg 151] and desperate search! I can imagine her clutching the babe tightly to her, holding in her closed hand the shilling that is to act as a deposit for binding38 a tenancy, her last rent-book in her bosom40 to show her bona fides, going from street to street, from house to house, climbing staircase after staircase, exploring and appealing time after time. She will stoutly41 declare that she has but two children, when she has six; she will declare that her husband is a good, sober man, and in regular work, neither of which will be true. Ultimately, she will promise to pay an impossible rent, and tremulously hand over the shilling to bind39 the contract; then she will return to the "things," and tell the children of their new home. This is no imaginary picture. It is so very true, so very common, that it does not strike our imagination. The cry of the very poor is ever sounding in our ears: "We have nowhere to live! We don't know where to go!"
This fear of being homeless, of not being allowed to live in such wretched places as they now inhabit, haunts the very poor through life, and pursues them to the grave. And this worry, anxiety, and trouble falls upon the woman, adding untold42 suffering to her onerous43 life; for it is the woman that has to meet the rent-collector, whose visits come round all too quickly; she has to mollify him when a few shillings remain unpaid44. The wife has to procure other rooms when her husband has fallen out of work, and she receives the inevitable45 notice to quit when there appears to be a possibility of the family becoming still more numerous. If sickness, contagious46 or otherwise, comes upon[Pg 152] any of the children, and the shadow of death enters the home, upon the wife comes the heart-breaking task of seeking a new home and conveying her children and "things" to another place. This is no light task. The expense is a consideration, and the old home, bad as it was, had become in many ways dear to her. What more pitiful sight can be imagined than the removal? No pantechnicon is required—a hired barrow is sufficient; and when night has well advanced the goods are conveyed in semi-darkness from the old home to the new.
Think for a moment what a life she lives, to what shifts she is reduced, what privations she endures! Is it any wonder that the children born of her have poor bodies and strange minds?
"The children born of thee are fire and sword,
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,"
Tennyson makes King Arthur to say. In many respects these words are true of poor mothers in London. The houses in which they live, the conditions under which they exist, the ceaseless worries and nameless fears they endure, make it absolutely certain that many of the children born will be strange creatures.
And right up to the verge47 of eternity48 the fear of being homeless haunts the poor. Let one instance suffice. I was visiting a young married woman whose husband had been sent to prison for some months. She lived in one room, for which she paid, or should have paid, four shillings and sixpence weekly. The street was a very poor street, and the house a very small house. It stood, without[Pg 153] any forecourt, close up to the street pavement. While I was speaking to the young woman a message came that the landlady49, who lived downstairs, wanted to speak to me; so down the narrow stairs I went. There being only one room below, I rapped at the door, and a very queer voice told me to "Come in." I went in, and found a very small room, occupied chiefly by a bed, a small table, and several broken chairs. On the bed lay an old woman. Her face was puckered50 with age, her forehead was deeply furrowed51, her eyes were dim, and the hands lying on the quilt were more like claws than human hands. As I stood over her, she looked up and said: "Are you Mr. Holmes? I want my rent." Her voice was so strange and thin that I had some difficulty in understanding her, but I found that the tenant24 upstairs owed her five weeks' rent, and that, now her husband was in prison, the poor old woman was afraid of losing it. As the matter seemed to trouble her greatly, I told her that I would pay the arrears53 of her rent. "But I want it now," she went on. "The collector is coming to-morrow, and I shall be put out—I shall be put out." I stroked her thin hair, and told her that I would call early the next morning and give her the money. But the poor woman looked worried and doubtful. I called early the next morning, and found the old woman expecting me. "Have you brought my rent?" were the first words I heard on entering the room. I took up one of her thin hands and opened it, and put a sovereign in it. "That is a sovereign," I said. She held it up, and tried to look at it; but she was not[Pg 154] satisfied, for she said to her daughter, who was standing52 by: "Jane, is this a sovereign?" When Jane assured her that it was, the old hand closed convulsively upon it. "Hold out your other hand," I said. She held it open, and I counted five shillings into it. Then that hand closed, and the old head lay a bit closer to the pillow, and an expression of restful satisfaction passed over her withered54 face. A week later I called at the same house, but the old woman was not there, neither had she been "put out." She had paid the rent-collector when he called, and her rent-book was duly signed; but the Great Collector had not forgotten her, for He also had called and given her a receipt in full. Her worries were ended.
If we would but think—think of the effect that such anxieties must have upon the present and future generations—I believe that we should realize that first and foremost of all questions affecting the health and happiness of the nation stands the one great question of "housing the very poor"; for the chivalry55 of our men, the womanliness of our women, the sweetness of our daughters, and the brave hearts of our lads depend upon it.
But if the fear of being "put out" has its terrors, none the less has the continuous occupation of one room its attendant evils. It is so easy for humanity to get used to wretched homes and vile56 environments, so easy to get accustomed to dirt, thick air, and insanitary conditions, that one does not wonder that poor people who have lived for years under such conditions prefer those conditions to any other. And this holds true even with those who have known the bracing57 effect of[Pg 155] cold water on their bodies, and have felt the breath of God in their lungs. The return path to dirt is always alluring58 to the human body. Time and again I have gone into places where I hardly dared to breathe, and in which I could only with the greatest difficulty stay for a few minutes; and when I have sometimes ventured to open a window a look of astonishment59 crossed the faces of those I had called on, for even the thick atmosphere had become natural.
And other results follow—mental as well as physical. To become, through bad but frightfully dear housing, gradually used to dirt and bad air, till these are looked upon as natural, carries along with it, as part and parcel of itself, another deadening influence. Filth60 raises no feeling of disgust; high rents produce no sense of injustice61, no feelings of resentment62: for the poor become absolutely passive. Yes, and passive in more ways than one; for they, without question or demur63, accept any payment that may be given them for such services as they can render. Inevitably64, they become the prey65 of the sweater, and work for endless hours at three halfpence per hour; and if the payment for the work they do should, without their permission, be reduced, it only means that a couple of hours more must be added to the long day already worked.
It is this passivity of the poor that appals66 me. Their negative virtues astonish me, for I find in them no bitterness, no sense of wrong, no idea of rebellion, no burning resentment—not even the feeling that something is wrong, though they[Pg 156] know not what. Their only ambition is to live their little lives in their very little homes; to be ready weekly with their four shillings for their wretched room in a wretched house; to have plenty of poorly-paid work, though they sit up all night to do it; and to sit in poverty and hunger when sufficient work is not to hand, to suffer silently, to bear with passive heroism67, and to die unburied by the parish.
Such is the life of many London home-workers, of whom some are my personal friends. But what becomes of this life? The death of aspiration68. A machine-like perseverance69 and endurance is gradually developed; but the hope of better things dies: hope cannot exist where oxygen is absent. Then comes the desire to be let alone, and alone to die.
I have met women who had become so used to the terrible conditions under which they lived that no amount of persuasion70 could induce them to move out of those conditions. Again I draw upon my experience.
One cold day in February a young married man was charged with stealing a piece of pork. I had some conversation with him, and he told me that he was out of work, that his wife and children were starving, and that his widowed mother, who lived in the same house, was in much the same condition. He gave me their address—a poor street in Haggerston—so I visited the family. It was a terrible street even for Haggerston, but it was crowded with humanity. I found the house, and went up the rotten staircase to the first-floor back. There I found the prisoner's wife, sitting[Pg 157] at a machine making babies' boots. In the room was an old broken perambulator, in which were two children, one asleep and the other with that everlasting71 deceit, a "baby's comforter," in its mouth. As the child fed on the thick air it looked at me with wondering eyes, and the mother kept on working. Presently she stopped and answered my questions. Yes, it was true her husband was out of work. He was good to her, and a sober, industrious man. They paid three and sixpence weekly for their room, when they could. Would I excuse her? She must get on with her work; she wanted to take it in. I excused her, and, leaving her a few shillings, went in search of the older woman.
I found her in another small room; but, small as the room was, there were two beds in it, which were covered with match-boxes. A small table and two old chairs completed the furniture. She was seated making match-boxes as I entered, and I saw her hands moving with that dreadfully automatic movement that has so often made me shudder72.
She looked up at me, but on she went. I spoke2 to her of her son, told her my business, and ultimately sat down and watched her. Poor old woman! She was fifty-six, she told me. She might have been any age over seventy. She was a widow. She had lived in that room thirteen years, having come to it soon after her husband's death. Whilst I was speaking to her she got up from her boxes, took a small saucepan off the miserable fire, and out of it took some boiled rice, put it in an old saucer, sat down, and ate it. It was her dinner.
[Pg 158]
Afterwards she put the remaining rice in a saucer, covered it with another, and placed it in front of the fire. I soon saw why. A lanky73 boy of nearly fourteen came in from school, and she pointed33 to the saucer. He took it, and swallowed the rice, and looked at me. I looked at the boy, and read the history of his life in his face and body. He had been born in that room; that was his bed in the corner covered with match-boxes. The old woman was his mother. Three and sixpence every week had she paid for that room. Nearly three days of the week she had worked for interminable hours to earn the money that paid for the shelter for herself and the boy.
I will not describe the boy. Was he a boy at all? All his life he had lived, moved, and had his being in that room; had fed as I saw him feed, and had breathed the air I was breathing.
He went back to school, and I talked to his mother. She owed no rent; she had received no parish help. She never went to church or chapel74. She wanted nothing from anybody. That little room had become her world, and her only recreation was taking her boxes to the factory. Grimy and yellow were the old hands that kept on with the boxes. I offered her a holiday and rest. There was the rent to be paid. I would pay the rent. She had no clothes suitable. Mrs. Holmes would send her the clothes. There was the boy to be seen to. I would arrange for him. No; she would not go. Her last word was that she did not wish or care to leave her home. Neither did she. And though years have passed since my[Pg 159] first visit to that one-roomed house, out of it the old woman has not passed, excepting on her usual errand. And fresh air, clean sheets, and relaxation75 meant nothing to her.
I sat in the dark, damp kitchen of a house in one of the narrow streets of Hoxton. Over my head some very poor clothing was hanging to dry. It was winter-time, and the gloom outside only added to the gloom within, and through a small window the horrors of a London back-yard were suggested rather than revealed.
As I sat watching the widow at her work, and wondered much at the mechanical accuracy of her movements, I felt something touch my leg, and, looking down, found a silent child, about three years of age, on the floor at my feet. I had been in the room some few minutes, and had not previously76 seen or heard the child, it was so horribly quiet. I picked it up, and placed it on my knee, but it was passive and open-eyed as a big doll. The child had been born in that kitchen on a little substitute for a bed that half-filled the room. Its father was dead, and the widowed mother got a "living" for herself and her children by attaching bits of string to luggage labels, for which interesting work she got fourpence per thousand. In her spare time she took in washing, and the clothes over my head belonged to neighbours.
Fifteen years she had lived in that house. It was her first home after marriage. Till his death, which occurred three years before, her husband had been tenant of the whole house, but always "let off" the upper part, which consisted of two rooms, it being a two-storied house.
[Pg 160]
He died of consumption in the other room on the ground-floor, which abutted77 the street pavement. Her child was born in the kitchen as her husband lay dying a few feet away in the front-room. So that wretched house was dear to her, for love, death, and life had been among its visitants, and it became to her a sacred and a solemn place. She became tenant of the house, and continued to let off the two upper rooms; and with her children round her she continued her life in the lower rooms. The rent was 13s. weekly. She received 7s. 6d. weekly for the two upper rooms, leaving 5s. 6d. weekly to be the burden and anxiety of her life; so she tied knots and took in washing. The very sight of the knot-tying soon tired me, and the dark, damp atmosphere soon satisfied me. As I rose to leave, the widow invited me to "look at her boy in the other room." We went into the room in front. It was now quite dark, and the only light in the room came through the window from a street-lamp. The widow spoke to someone, but no answer came. I struck a wax match and held it aloft. A glance was enough. I asked the widow to get a lamp, and one of those cheap, dangerous abominations provided for the poor was brought to me.
On the bed lay a strange-looking boy of nine, twisted and deformed78 in body, wizened79 in features, suffering writ80 all over him, yet apathetically81 and unconcernedly waiting for the end. With the lamp in my hand, I bent82 over him and spoke kindly to him. He looked at me, then turned away from me; he would not speak to me.[Pg 161] Poor little fellow! He had suffered so long and so much that he expected nothing else. He knew that he was dying. What did it matter? The mothers in London streets are not squeamish, and their young children are very soon made acquainted with the mysteries of life and death.
"He has been in two hospitals, and I have fetched him home to die," said the widow to me. "How long has he lain like this?" I asked. "Three months." "Who sleeps in that bed with him?" "I do, and the little boy you saw in the kitchen." "Who sleeps in the kitchen?" "Only George: he is fourteen."
On inquiry84, I was told that the dying boy had always been weak and ailing85, and also that, when five years of age, he had been knocked down in the street by a cyclist, and that he had been crippled and twisted ever since.
Nearly five years of suffering, and now he had "come home to die." Poor little fellow! What a life for him! What a death for him! Born in a dark kitchen while his father lay dying; four years of joyless poverty in a London street; five years of suffering, in and out of hospitals; and now "home to die." And he knew it, and waited for the end with contemptuous indifference86. But he had not much longer to wait, for in three weeks' time the blessed end came.
But the widow still takes in washing, damp clothes still hang in her dark kitchen, and by the faint light of her evil-smelling lamp she continues to "tie her knots"; and the silent child is now acquiring some power of expression in the gutter87.
Slum property sometimes gets into queer hands.[Pg 162] Sometimes it is almost impossible to find the real owners, and the fixing of responsibility becomes a great difficulty.
A Slum Property Holder88.
An old woman, dressed in greasy89 black silk, with a bonnet90 of ancient date, often appeared in one of our courts for process against some of her many tenants. Her hair, plastered with grease, hung round her head in long ringlets; her face never showed any signs of having been washed; a long black veil hung from her old bonnet, and black cotton gloves covered her hands. She was the widow of a well-to-do jeweller, and owned some rows of cottage property in one of our poorest neighbourhoods. After her husband's death, she decided91 to live in one of her cottages and collect her own rents. She brought with her much jewellery, etc., that had not been sold, and there in the slums, with her wealth around her, and all alone, lived the quaint83 old creature. Week by week she appeared at the court for "orders" against tenants who had not paid their rent. Though seventy-three, she would have no agent; she could manage her own business. Suddenly she appeared as an applicant92 for advice. She had married: her husband was a carpenter, aged twenty-one. They had been married but a few days, and her husband refused to go to work—so she told the magistrate. "Well, you know, madam, that you have plenty for both," said the magistrate. "That's what he says, but I tell him that I did not marry him that I might keep him." She got neither help nor comfort from the [Pg 163]magistrate, so she tottered93 out of the court, grumbling94 as she went. In a few days she appeared again. "My husband has stolen some of my jewellery." Again she got no comfort. Still again she complained. "My husband has been collecting my rents." "Send a notice to your tenants warning them not to pay your husband." She did so; the husband did the same, warning the tenants not to pay his wife. This suited the tenants admirably: they paid neither. Never were such times till the old woman applied95 for ejectment orders wholesale96. While these things were going on the youthful husband wasted her substance in riotous97 living, and showed a decided preference for younger women. This aroused the old woman's jealousy98; she couldn't put up with it. Packing her jewels and valuables in a portmanteau, she left her house. When her husband returned at night the wife of his bosom was gone; neither did she return. He was disconsolate99, and sought her sorrowing. Some miles away she had a poor widowed sister, and there the old woman found shelter.
But there paralysis100 seized her, and a doctor had to be called in. He acted in the double capacity of doctor and lawyer, for he drew up a will, put a pen into her hands, and guided her gently while she signed it. "All her worldly goods were left to her sister." Ultimately the husband found out where she was located, and frequently called at the house, but the door was barred against him. It was winter-time, and the snow lay on the ground. At midnight a cab drew softly up to the house where the old woman lay. Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door, and the sister came down[Pg 164] to answer. Thoughtlessly she opened the door, when she was seized by two men, who locked her in the front parlour while they ran upstairs, rolled the old woman in warm blankets, carried her to the cab, and away they went. A nice room and another doctor were awaiting her. Another will was drawn101 up, which the old woman signed. "All her worldly goods were left to her dear husband." Next morning the sister applied for a summons against the young husband, but the magistrate decided that the man had a right to run away with his own wife. All might have gone merrily for the husband, but the old lady died. The sister went to the police, who arrested him for causing his wife's death. For many days the case was before the court, half a dozen doctors on each side expressing very decided opinions. Ultimately he was committed for trial. Doctors and counsel galore were concerned, but the jury acquitted102 him at last. And then came another trial. Counsel and doctors were again concerned. Which will was to stand? I don't know how they settled it, but one thing I am sure about—when the doctors and lawyers had got their share, and the counsel had had a good picking, there was not much left for the loving husband and the dear sister.
Since writing the above, the following paragraphs have appeared in the daily press:
"Widower's Pathetic Plight103.
"'My wife is lying dead in the house, and the landlord threatens to eject me at twelve o'clock if I am not out. What can I do?' Thus asked a respectable-looking working man of Mr. [Pg 165]d'Eyncourt at Clerkenwell Police-Court. 'Has he given you notice?' 'Yes; but how can I go just now? The funeral is to-morrow, and I have offered to go on Wednesday, but he says he will put me in the street to-day.' 'Well, he's legally entitled to do so, I am afraid. I can do nothing.' 'I thought that perhaps you might ask him to let me stay for a day or two.' 'No, that is a matter for you. I cannot interfere,' the magistrate observed in conclusion."
"London Land without an Owner.
"Mr. H. Sherwin White requested Mr. Marsham at Bow Street Police-Court to appoint someone under the Lands Clauses Consolidation104 Act to determine the value of the forecourts of five houses in Coldharbour Lane, Brixton, which had been required for tramway purposes. He added that the owner of the houses could not be found. Mr. Marsham appointed Mr. A. L. Guy to be valuer."
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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perils
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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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narrative
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zealous
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mere
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frowzy
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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shrine
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aged
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makers
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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dignified
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subterfuges
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uncommon
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tenants
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tenant
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deception
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26
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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29
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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30
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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31
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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32
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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33
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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34
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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35
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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36
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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37
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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38
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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39
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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42
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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43
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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44
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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45
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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46
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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47
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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48
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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49
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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50
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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54
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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59
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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60
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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63
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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appals
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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72
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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73
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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74
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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75
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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77
abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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78
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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79
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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80
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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81
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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84
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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85
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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86
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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87
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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88
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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89
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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90
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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91
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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92
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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93
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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94
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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95
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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96
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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97
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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98
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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99
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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100
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
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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103
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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104
consolidation
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| n.合并,巩固 | |
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