Pauline's latest enthusiasm was Miss Braddon, and what glorious things she made of "Lady Audley's Secret," "Aurora8 Floyd," and, I fancy, a tale about a Captain Vulture! I read these books afterwards (that is the two first), and what poor tawdry stuff, my faith, compared with the brilliant embroideries9 of my most imaginative sister, who turned lead into pure gold!
Years, how many, many years, after, a man of European fame, one of the rare figures that go to make up a century's portraits, speaking of Pauline, said she was the cleverest woman he had ever known. But alas10! alas! hers was not a cleverness a woman poor and obscure could utilise. A man, she would have been a great statesman, for she was a born politician. Geography was her passion, history her mania,—not that she could ever have written history, for she was too quick, complex, and vital to learn so slow a trade as that of a writer's; but hers was a miraculous11 intuitive seizure12 of history, that made it to her imperious vision present, and not the smallest historical fact in Europe escaped her attention and remembrance. Could crowned heads but know what a severe and unflinching gaze was fixed13 upon them! of what singular and passionate14 importance to her was the marriage of their most distant relatives! Modern history and modern politics became to her what[Pg 255] classical music had been to our daft grandfather, whom she strongly resembled. They absorbed her, filled the long, long days of sick and lonely maidenhood15, when, such was the vividness, the surprising vitality17 of her matchless imagination, that in a dull seaside residence she found, and lived and died in, her own excitements and gratifications of mind and soul.
Miss Lawson before leaving the convent had inoculated18 us, the little ones, her devoted19 admirers, with a curious passion for pinafored mites20—whist. Whist for several months became the object of our existence. Lessons in comparison were but a trivial occupation. When Birdie and I next went home, we taught the game to still smaller mites, and such were the gamblers we became, that we have played whist, I the eldest21 of the four confederates, twelve, with renowned22 and aged23 clubmen, who found us their match. We slept with a pack of cards under our pillow, and dawn found us four little night-dressed girls gathered together in one bed with the lid of a bandbox over our joined knees, rapturously playing whist.
On the pretext24 of meeting our father at the station of Dalkey every evening at half-past six, we took possession of the waiting-room, cards[Pg 256] in hands, and imperiously acquainted our friend the station-master with the fact that the room was engaged. The novelty of the situation so tickled25 the station-master that while we four miscreants26 in short skirts played our game of whist, not a soul was allowed to enter the waiting-room—an injustice27 I now marvel28 at.
The boys and girls around us were neglected. We only cared for whist, which we played from the time we got up until we went to bed, with no other variation that I remember except sea-bathing and Captain Marryat's novels. As none of the boys or girls shared our desperate passion, it followed that I and my three smaller step-sisters became inseparable, and held all our fellows who did not live for whist to be poor dull creatures. Once we made part of a children's gathering29 at Killiney Hill, but after the cold chicken, jelly, cakes, and lemonade, we speedily found life intolerable without a pack of cards.
"I say, Angela," whispered Birdie to me, when I was musing30 of honours and the odd trick, "I've brought them. Let's go behind a tree and have a game."
Now I always take a hand with pleasure because of that defunct31 vice32; but, alas! I am compelled to own that I never played so well as at eleven.
My next passion, for which Pauline this time was responsible, was genealogy33. We invented a family called the L'Estranges and brought them over with the Conqueror34. Where they had previously35 come from we did not ask. What did it matter? To come over with the Conqueror was, we knew, a certificate of chivalry36. The chief, Walter, fought at the Battle of Hastings. We pictured him with golden locks, a bright and haughty37 visage, stern grey eyes that could look ineffably38 soft in a love-scene, and beautiful shining armour39. We married him to a certain Saxon Edith, and down as far as the Battle of Bosworth Field, Walter and Edith were the favourite family names of the L'Estranges. To give piquancy40 to our most delightful41 game, and stimulate42 our imagination, we founded a cemetery43 of the L'Estranges. We made little wooden tombstones, on which we carved imaginary epitaphs of all the imaginary L'Estranges who had died since the Battle of Hastings. As we loathed45 old people in our dramatic history, except the aged lord who dies blessing46 a numerous progeny47 from time to time, all our resplendent heroes perished in romantic youth on the Spanish Main, on battle-fields, on the African coast; or rescuing Turkish princesses, or capturing Grecian isles48; while their brides invariably faded away either of consumption or a broken heart at seventeen. The cemetery was peopled to excess by the time we got as far as the Battle of Bosworth Field, where the last hero fell in front of the enemy before he had time to marry the maiden16 of his choice.
It is astonishing how little the average child approves of a natural death. The heroes must die by violence in the flower of youth, and the heroines must perish or pine away from unnatural49 causes on the threshold of maidenhood. Nineteen is even old and commonplace: the age of glory is seventeen.
If you entered our garden, turned into the cemetery of the L'Estranges, you would have seen layer upon layer of little wooden sticks that looked like the indication of hidden seeds, and if you stooped to read the legend, this is the sort of thing that would have greeted your eyes:—
"Here lies Walter l'Estrange" (or Rupert, or Ralph, or Reginald, for we were fond of these names), "born such and such a year, wrecked50 off the coast of Barbary such and such a year," or "perished in a conflict with Spanish pirates," &c.; and beside him, with day and date of birth and burial, "Here lies Edith, his beloved wife, daughter of Lord Seymour or Admiral So-and-so."
In a big ledger51, recorded in Pauline's sprawling52 calligraphy53, were the lives and characters of the imaginary dead. It was remarkable54 that all our heroes were as brave as lions, as modest and mild as lambs, and as stainless55 as Galahads. To lend relief to the monotony of their implacable virtue56, we now and then invented a villain57, who invariably died in a vulgar brawl58 or a duel59. The battlefield, the Spanish Main, the rescue of Turkish princesses, and a noble shipwreck60, were kept for the Galahads.
The last profile of my Lysterby days is that of a radiant and lovely Irish girl, who came from Southampton, the Mother House of the Ladies of Mercy, to stay with us until the nuns61 found her a situation as governess. Her name was Molly O'Connell: she was doubly orphaned62 almost since birth, her mother having died giving life to her, and her father within the following year. Everybody about her thought it very sad that her mother should have died on the very day of her birth. But I, alas! knew a sadder thing. My father, who, I am told, was a very kindly63, tender-hearted man, died some months before my birth. Had I been given the choice beforehand, and known what was in store for me, I should have greatly preferred it had been my mother who died many months before my birth. But, alas! babies in the ante-natal stage are never consulted upon the question of their own interest.
Molly O'Connell remains64 upon memory as beauty in a flash. Never since have I seen such a flashing combination of brilliant effects. Oh! such teeth—teeth to dream of, teeth that laughed and smiled, that had a sort of light in them like white sunshine, and were the fullest expression I have ever known of the word radiance! Then her eyes were pools of violet light, where you seemed to see straight down to the bottom of a deep well, violet all the way down to the very end, where you saw yourself reflected. These glorious eyes, like the teeth, smiled and laughed; they caressed65, too, looked an unfathomable tenderness and sweetness, shone, irradiated like stars, went through the whole gamut66 of visual emotion, from the holiest feeling, the effable eloquence67 of sentiment, to the bewildering obscurities of passion. They were eyes, I now know, to damn a saint, and—Heaven help us all in a world so inexplicable68 as ours!—they performed their fatal mission to the bitter end. Add to these eyes and teeth hair as dark as shadow, as thick as the blackness of night, a scarlet69 and white face, round and dimpled, of the divinest shape, the rarest and ripest combination of fruit and flower, with deep peach-like bloom upon the soft cheek, and the hue70 of a crimson71 cherry upon the curved full lips, and there you have a woman equipped for her own destruction, if she have a heart to lose, no brains to speak of, and only as much knowledge of man, of the world, as a fresh-born kitten or a toddling72 babe.
Molly was the joy, the light, the glory, the romance of our lives. We worshipped her for her unsurpassable loveliness, which kept rows of young eyes fixed upon her charming visage in round-lidded, wonder and awe73; we adored her for her gaiety, her chatter74, her incessant75 laughter, and we loved her for the conviction that she was as young and innocent and helpless and unlettered as ourselves.
Molly was nineteen, but she was a bigger child than any of us; and now I hold my breath in pain when I remember the nature and quality of her innocence76. She had been brought up from infancy77 in a convent. Had her life lain among the roses, such ignorance as hers might be pardoned in her teachers. But to send out into the world, to earn her living among selfish and indifferent strangers, a young girl of such bewildering exquisiteness78, and never once hint to her the kind of perils79 that would beset80 her, give her no knowledge of man, nor of herself, nor of nature! This is an iniquity81 the nuns of Southampton can never be pardoned.
Now that I know the sequel, and understand what the beginning meant, I cannot recall our laughter over Molly's first experiences without a thrill of horror. The nuns had placed her with titled folk—Lord and Lady E., with whom lived Lady E.'s father, an old earl, a widower82. Molly was the most ingenuous83 and garrulous84 of creatures. She spent her first vacation some months later with us, and kept us at recreation hour in shouts of laughter and scorn over her adventures. The old earl was the most extraordinary old man, according to her. He was always meeting her alone, here, there, and everywhere. She seemed to think it was a sort of schoolboy's game. Once he showed her in the garden, when no one was by, a splendid diamond bracelet85, which he had bought for her.
"O Molly!" we all screamed in joy, "he wants to marry you, and you'll be a grand countess, like the gipsy maiden of the song."
But Molly curled her lips haughtily86. Did we know that he was seventy, a queer old gentleman, just fit to be tucked into bed and given gruel87? The suspicion of evil design never once entered her innocent head, for the simple reason that she had not the ghost of a suspicion of any kind of evil.
Then Lady E. went up to town, and left this bewitching creature at the mercy of her husband. Molly again regarded it in the light of a capital game. The aged earl and his middle-aged88 son-in-law appeared to be on strained terms. The poor goose never suspected why. Lord E. insisted on her sitting in his wife's place at table—and still she suspected nothing.
One night, she told us, shrieking89 with laughter as at the height of the grotesque90, Lord E. mistook her room for the nursery, and entered it in his shirt. Not the faintest feeling of anger or fear on the part of this blind, silly maid. All she did was to go into convulsions of laughter, "because he looked so ugly and so ridiculous."[Pg 264] But it was still part of the high old game of life, where everything happens to send one into fits of laughter. That tears, that trouble, that shame and blighting91 misery92 lay in wait for her, this radiant, unconscious, ignorant, and foolish innocent could not then suspect.
We, too, thought it a splendid game, laughed heartily93 at the ridiculous figure she described Lord E. as cutting in his nightshirt, agreed with her that the old earl was a monstrous94 old fool to go skipping in that absurd way down the park avenues with her, putting his hand upon his heart, sighing and talking in a wild incoherent way about "the loveliest girl on earth," whom Molly, the least vain of creatures, never for one moment suspected was herself. For she was far too busy laughing at people to understand them. You had but to stand solemnly before her, and say, "It's a wet day," and off she was on a ringing cascade95. What you said she probably did not understand in the least; but the expression of your eye, the tone of your voice, made her laugh.
And so the infamous96 nature of the pursuit of the earl and his son-in-law quite escaped her, and neither the diamond bracelet, nor Lord E. in his shirt at night in her room, awoke the faintest throb97 of alarm. All this to her and us was part of the eternal joke of nature. And a very, very few years afterwards, I learned, one who had loved her well and sought her far discovered her at night in the vicinity of the Haymarket, with paint upon her cheeks and lips, and the fatal brightness of consumption looking out of her hollow violet eyes.
My remembrance of the rest of my stay at Lysterby fades away upon the heavy perfume of incense98 in the cold aisles99 of the cathedral, whither we were conducted by the nuns for the breathlessly interesting offices of Holy Week. It is a long dream of sombre tones and solemn notes, which I followed in a passionate absorption in the "Offices of Holy Week," printed in Latin and English, for which I paid the sum of four shillings. I studied those offices so diligently100, followed them so accurately101, that afterwards I could detect to a movement, a note, a Latin word, any error or omission102 in the Lenten services of the pro-cathedral of Dublin, where I must say the rites103 struck me as shorn of all impressiveness.
But at Lysterby functions were rigidly104 correct. The evening office of Tenebr? was a funereal105 delight. The services of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday were religious excitements on which to live for months. I shut my eyes, even now in middle age, and I see again the long grey cathedral aisles dim in taper-light, altars hung in black, and the lean aristocratic visage of Father More above the surplice and violet stole, and I hear him chant in his thin, melodious106 voice, "Oremus, flectamus genua!" and listen again for the response, "Levate!"
I cannot precisely107 define my sensations in this period. Religion with me was nothing but an intense emotion nourished upon incense, music, taper-lit gloom, and a mysterious sense of the intangible. It was in the fullest meaning of the word sensuous108; but while its attraction lasted, nothing I have since known could be compared with it for intensity109. While under its spell, you seem to float in the air, to touch the wings of the angels, to be yourself part of the heavenly sphere you aspire110 to attain111. Rapture112 itself is a mean enough word to define your emotions. And then you come back to earth with a sense of unspeakable deception113 and surprise. You feel hungry, and loathe44 yourself for the vulgar need. Your ear is buffeted114 by loud earthly sounds instead of the roll of the organ and the monotonous115 solemnity of Gregorian chant.
To realise this is to understand how so many sentimental116, virtuous117, and sensuous souls seek oblivion of life in religious excitement. It is a mental and moral mixture of opium118 and alcohol extremely soothing119 to the bruised120 consciousness, a gentle diversion in common-place cares that poor humanity must not be begrudged121; though, as George Eliot has finely said, it is proof of strength to live and do well without this narcotic122.
The return to Ireland coincides with the outbreak of the Franco-German war. A mist hangs over those terrible months, but Dublin I remember was French to a man. Every morning my eldest sister marched us off to mass to pray for the French, and we wept profusely123 over each tragic124 telegram. Our hero Edmond was over there, fighting and lying with equal gallantry. Several noble dames125 had tended his wounds and offered to marry him, and he escaped from prison with the assistance of the jailer's daughter, who loved him despairingly. I recall our awed126 inspection127 of several helmets and swords brought back from the war by a quantity of heroic young Irishmen who professed128 to have laid the Germans low on countless129 occasions. I do not now know what they did out there, for there is always a great deal of Tartarin, an atmosphere of Tarascon, about the Irishman returned from abroad. But we all went down in a glorified130 body, dressed in our very best, to assist at the arrival of Marshal M'Mahon and his wife, who came all the way from far-off France to thank us for what they had or had not done.
Here, at the age of twelve, my childhood ends, and youth, troubled youth, begins.
* * * * * * * *
To stand upon the hill-top and cast a glance of retrospection down the long path travelled in all its excess of light and shadow; impenetrable darkness massed against a luminous131 haze132 through which rays of blazing glory filter, each one striking upon memory in a shock of prismatic hues133, until the eye reaches as far back as the start from the valley,—how astonished we are at the unevenness134 of the road! So brilliant, so ineffectual for most of us, is this dear thing called Youth! The uneasy flutter from the nest, the wild throb of pulses, now for ever tamed, at each sharp encounter with fate; the courage, the hope, the passion—alas! how futile135 and how sad to eyes in middle life that see the inexorable word "failure" written across that splendid tear-blotted page of strife136, of yearning137, of frailty138 and endeavour. Seen from the hill-top, how small the big stones are that broke our path! How easy it might have been to skirt the thorn-bushes and brambles, instead of tearing an impulsive139 way through them, and falling so repeatedly on bleeding face and hands!
Impatience140 and panting courage have served to carry us through the unequal battle, and now, resting in the equable tones of middle life, how sweet a wonder seem the blackness, the purple, the golden lights of youth! We sit in the unemotional shade, and slake141 our thirst for the old joys and sorrows by fondly recalling the ghosts of dead hours and dead dreams, of forgotten faiths and dim-remembered faces; and though we may not desire to re-live each year with its burden of pains and pangs143, surely we may tell ourselves that it is good to have lived those past years, even if tears seem the most prominent part of our inheritance.
Then, however sad the living moment, we still had the consolation144 of that beautiful and vision-bearing word "To-morrow." In youth, sorrow fells us to-day, and joy awakes us to-morrow. It is always—Land may be in sight to-morrow! The night is dark, but hope dances blithely145 through our veins146 with the delicious assurance that to-morrow brings the sun. The world is empty, but vague dreams tell us that to-morrow love will cross our path and fill the universe. Hope is the magician that waved us forward and carried us recklessly through briar and bramble, with undaunted confidence in life, in ourselves, and in all things around us. Each fall was ever the last, each pang142 the precursor147 of eternal happiness.
And now it is over. Hope's magic wand for us is broken, and she has folded her wings and dropped into slumber148 that wakens not again: henceforth our best friend is drab-robed content.
THE END.
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1
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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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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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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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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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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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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musing
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| 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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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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genealogy
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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56
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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57
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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58
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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59
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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60
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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61
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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62
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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63
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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64
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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65
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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67
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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68
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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69
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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70
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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71
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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72
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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73
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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74
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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75
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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76
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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77
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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78
exquisiteness
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79
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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80
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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81
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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82
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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83
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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84
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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85
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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86
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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87
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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88
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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89
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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90
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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91
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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92
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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94
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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95
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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96
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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97
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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98
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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99
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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100
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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101
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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102
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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103
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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104
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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105
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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106
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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107
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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108
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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109
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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110
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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111
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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112
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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113
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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114
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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115
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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116
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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117
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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118
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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119
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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120
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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121
begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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122
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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123
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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124
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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125
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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126
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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128
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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129
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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130
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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131
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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132
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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133
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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134
unevenness
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| n. 不平坦，不平衡，不匀性 | |
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135
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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136
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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137
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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138
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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139
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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140
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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141
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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142
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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143
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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144
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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145
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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146
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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147
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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148
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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