But the disappearance6 of certain papers which had probably been abstracted from that room weighed more in the scale of suspicion against Sisily than her look of innocence. She stood to gain most by the suppression or destruction of the proofs of her mother’s earlier marriage. But Mr. Brimsdown could not see that this rather negative inference against the girl brought the actual solution of the mystery any nearer. It did nothing to explain, for instance, the marks on the dead man’s arm and his posthumous7 letter. The letter! What was the explanation of the letter? Was it not an argument of equal weight for Sisily’s innocence, suggesting the existence of some hidden avenging8 figure glimpsed by Robert Turold in time to give him warning of his death, but not in time to enable him to avert9 it?
There were other things too. What was the meaning of that sly and stealthy shake of the head which Austin Turold had given his son that afternoon. A warning obviously—but a warning for what purpose? Mr. Brimsdown could not guess, but his contemplation of the incident brought before him the image of the restless and unhappy young man, as he stood by the bedside in the next room, pointing to the marks on the dead man’s arm. Even in his vehement10 assertions of Sisily’s innocence Mr. Brimsdown had conceived the impression that he was keeping something back. What did Charles Turold know? Did his father share his secret knowledge? Mr. Brimsdown could not answer these questions, and he was greatly perturbed11 at the way in which they brought a host of other thoughts and doubts in their train. He reflected that the Turolds, father and son, were after all the greatest gainers by their relative’s death. The father came into immediate12 possession of a large and unexpected fortune which he would bequeath to his son. And Austin Turold was not anxious apparently13 to proceed with his brother’s claim for the title.
These were facts which could not be gainsaid14, but where did they lead? The trouble was that no conceivable theory covered the facts of the case, so far as they were known. So far as they were known! That was the difficulty. Any line of thought stopped short of the real solution, because the facts themselves were inconclusive. There was much that was still concealed—Mr. Brimsdown felt sure of that.
As he applied15 his mind to the problem, the definite impression came back to him, and this time with renewed force, that the mystery surrounding Robert Turold’s death was something which might not bear the light of day. He set his lips firmly as he considered that possibility. If that proved to be the case it would be his duty to cover it up again. He was an adept16 at such work, as many of his clients, alive and dead, could have approvingly testified. He had spent much time in safeguarding family secrets. Several old families had found him their rock of refuge in distress17. If he had been a man of the people, baby lips might have been taught to call down Heaven’s blessings18 on his discreet19 efforts. Those members of the secluded20 domain21 of high respectability for whom he strived showed their gratitude22 in a less emotional but more substantial way—generally in the mellow23 atmosphere of after-dinner conferences … “You had better see my man, Brimsdown. I’ll give you a note to him. He’ll square this business for you. Safe? None safer.”
Mr. Brimsdown did not accept the axiom of a great English jurist that every man is justified24 in evading25 the law if he can, because it is the duty of lawmakers not to leave any loophole for evasion26. That point of view of justice as a battle of wits, with victory to the sharpest, was a little too cynical27 for his acceptance. But he believed it to be his duty to safeguard the interests of his client. Robert Turold was dead, and no longer able to protect his own name. It might be that the facts of his death involved some scandalous secret of the dead man’s which was better undivulged, and if so it would remain undivulged, could Mr. Brimsdown contrive28 it. For the time being he would pursue his investigations29 and keep his own counsel.
The sound of an opening door and a shadow athwart the threshold disturbed his meditations30. He looked up, and was confronted by the spectacle of Thalassa advancing into the room with his eyes fixed31 upon him.
“Well, Thalassa,” he said, “what do you want?”
“To ask you something,” was the response. “It’s this. It’s every man for himself—now that he’s gone.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room. “He took this house for twelve months, and so it’ll have to be paid for. Can I stop here for a bit? I suppose it’s in your hands to say yes or no.”
His face was hard and expressionless as ever, but there was a new note in his voice which struck the lawyer’s keen ear—an accent of supplication32. He looked at Thalassa thoughtfully.
“You wish to stay on here until you have made other arrangements for your future—is that so?” he asked.
“That’s it,” was the brief reply.
Mr. Brimsdown felt there was more than that—some deeper, secret reason. Before granting the request it occurred to him to try and get what he could in exchange. Self-interest is the strongest of human motives34, and men wanting favours are in a mood to yield something in return.
“Well, Thalassa,” he said, amiably35 enough, but watching him with the eye of a hawk36, “I do not think your request is altogether unreasonable—in the circumstances. I dare say it could be arranged. I’ll try to do so, but I should like you to answer me one or two questions first.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Was your master’s daughter here—in the house, I mean—on the night of his death?”
Thalassa’s face hardened. “You, too?” he said simply. “I say again, as I said before, that she was not.”
“You said so,” rejoined Mr. Brimsdown softly. “The question is—are you telling the truth? If you know anything of the events of that night you may be injuring Miss Turold by your silence.”
For a moment Mr. Brimsdown thought his appeal was going to succeed. He could have sworn that a flicker37 of hesitation—of irresolution—crossed the old man’s stern countenance38. But the mood passed immediately, and it was in an indifferent voice that Thalassa, turning to go, replied—
“If that’s what you’re reckoning on, I’d better go and pack my traps.”
“Oh, I don’t make that a condition,” replied the lawyer, acknowledging his defeat in a sporting spirit. “You can remain here and look after the house until you decide what to do. As Robert Turold’s old servant you are entitled to consideration. I will help you afterwards, if you will let me know your plans. I am sure that would have been your late master’s wish.”
“I want nothing from him,” Thalassa rejoined, “a damned black scoundrel.”
Mr. Brimsdown was shocked at this savage39 outburst, but there was something so implacable in the old man’s air that the rebuke40 he wished to utter died unspoken. Thalassa regarded him for a moment in silence, and then went on—
“Thank’ee for letting me stop on here a bit. Now I’ll tell you something—about him.” Again his thumb indicated the next room. “It was the night after.”
“Do you mean the night after he met his death?”
“Yes. Some one was upstairs in his room—in this room.”
Mr. Brimsdown gave a startled glance around him, as though seeking a lurking42 form in the shadows. “Here?” he breathed.
“Here, sure enough. I woke up in my bed downstairs, staring wide awake, as though somebody had touched me on the shoulder. I was just turning over to go to sleep again, when I heered a noise up here.”
“What sort of a noise?”
“Like the rustling43 of paper. I listened for a bit, then it stopped. I heard a board creak in the next room, where we’d carried him. Then the rustling started in the other room again, right over my head. The dog downstairs started to bark. I got up, and went upstairs as quickly as I could, but there was nobody—except him. The dog frightened whoever it was, I suppose. Next morning I found the front room window wide open.”
“Were there any footprints outside the window?”
“A man doesn’t leave footprints on rocks.”
“What time was it?”
“It would be about midnight, I reckon.”
“Did your wife hear the noise?”
“No. She was in bed and asleep.”
“Are you sure you didn’t dream this?” Mr. Brimsdown asked, with a shrewd penetrating44 glance.
“The open window wasn’t a dream,” was the dogged reply.
“You might have left it open yourself.”
“No, I didn’t. I close the windows every night before dark.”
“And lock them?”
“Not always.”
The incident did not sound convincing to Mr. Brimsdown, but his face did not reveal his scepticism as he thanked Thalassa for the information. Thalassa lingered, as if he had something still on his mind. He brought it out abruptly—
“Has anything been seen of Miss Sisily?”
“Nothing whatever, Thalassa.”
On that he turned away, and went out of the room, leaving the lawyer pondering over his story of a midnight intruder. Mr. Brimsdown came to the conclusion that it was probably imagination, and so dismissed it from his mind.
He resumed his work of working over the papers, but after a few minutes discontinued his search, and walked restlessly about the room. The air seemed to have the taint5 of death in it, and he crossed over to one of the windows and flung it up.
The window looked out on the sea, though far above it, but the slope of the house embraced in the view a portion of the cliffs at the side. As Mr. Brimsdown stood so, breathing the sea air and looking around him, he espied45 a woman, closely veiled, walking rapidly across the cliffs in the direction of the house.
She vanished from the range of his vision almost immediately, but a few minutes later he heard footsteps and an opening door. He was again confronted by the presence of Thalassa on the threshold. But this time Thalassa did not linger. “Somebody to see you,” he announced with gruff brevity, and turned away.
The open door now revealed the figure of the woman he had seen outside. She advanced into the room.
“Mr. Brimsdown?” she said.
“That is my name,” said the lawyer, eyeing her in some surprise. He recognized her as the woman who had stared after him when he left Austin Turold’s lodgings46, but he could not conjecture47 the object of her visit.
“I see you do not remember me,” she sadly remarked.
“You are Mrs. Brierly, I think.”
“Yes. But I was Mary Pleasington before I was married. I remember you very well, but I suppose that I have changed.”
Mr. Brimsdown recalled the name with a start of surprise. He found it difficult to recognize, in the faded woman before him, the pretty daughter of his old client, Sir Roger Pleasington, whose debts and lawsuits48 had been compounded by death ten years before. He remembered his daughter as a budding beauty, with the airs and graces of a pretty girl who imagines her existence to be of some importance in the world. He recollected49 that her marriage to an impecunious50 young artist had caused some sensation in Society at the time. Marriage had dealt hardly with her, and no trace of her beauty or vivacity51 remained.
“You are the late Mr. Turold’s legal adviser52?” she continued, after a pause.
Mr. Brimsdown, always chary53 of unnecessary words, replied with a slight bow.
“I suppose you have come to Cornwall to investigate the cause of his death?”
Mr. Brimsdown remained silent, waiting to hear more.
“I—I wish to speak to you about that.” Her lips quivered with some inward agitation54.
“Will you not be seated?” he said, placing a chair for her.
“Will you regard what I have to say to you in strict confidence?” she queried56, sinking her voice to a whisper.
“Is it about Mr. Turold’s murder?”
“It—it may be.”
With the recollection of previous eavesdropping57 in that house, the lawyer rose and closed the door. “I cannot make a promise of that kind,” he said firmly, as he returned to his seat.
“No, no—of course not,” she hurriedly acquiesced58. “I was wrong to ask it. I have come here to tell you. When I saw you this afternoon I realized that Providence59 had answered my prayers, and sent somebody in whom I could safely confide55. I will tell you everything. I have come here for that purpose.”
She seemed to have a difficulty in commencing. Her pale grey eyes wandered irresolutely60 from his, and then returned. It was with a perceptible effort that she spoke41 at last.
“What I am about to tell you I have known for some days, but I could not bring myself to the extreme step of going to the police. Sometimes I am inclined to think that it may be only a trifling61 thing, easily explained, and of no importance. But sometimes—at night—it assumes a terrible significance. I need counsel—wise counsel—about it.”
She paused and looked at him wistfully. As though interpreting his nod as encouragement, she went on—.
“Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates62 of my household for the last six weeks. Mr. Robert Turold arranged it with me beforehand. I had never done anything of the kind before, but our means—my husband’s and mine—are insufficient63 for the stress of these times. After all, people must live.”
Mr. Brimsdown’s slight shake of the head seemed to imply that this last statement was by no means an incontrovertible proposition, but Mrs. Brierly was not looking at him.
“Therefore, to oblige Mr. Turold we decided64 to afford hospitality to his brother and son. The terms were favourable65, and they were gentlefolk. These things counted, and the money helped. But if I had only known—if I could have foreseen …”
“Mr. Turold’s death?” said Mr. Brimsdown, filling in the pause.
“I mean—everything,” she retorted a little wildly. “My name is well known. I was in Society once. There is my husband’s reputation as an artist to be considered. I would not be talked about for worlds. I acted against my husband’s advice in this matter—in taking Mr. Turold and his son. My husband said it was a degradation66 to take in lodgers67. I pointed68 out that they were gentlefolk. There is a difference. I wish now that I had listened to my husband’s advice.”
Mr. Brimsdown listened with patient immobility. His long experience of female witnesses withheld69 him from any effort to hasten the flow of his companion’s story.
“They were very nice and quiet—particularly Mr. Austin Turold,” she went on. “The son was more silent and reserved, but we saw very little of him—he was out so much. But Mr. Turold did my husband good—his breeding and conversation were just what he needed to lift him out of himself. A man goes to seed in the country, Mr. Brimsdown, no matter how intellectual he may be. Nature is delightful70, but a man needs to be near Piccadilly to keep smart. Cornwall is so very far away—so remote—and Cornish rocks are dreadfully severe on good clothes. I am not complaining, you understand. We had to come to Cornwall. It was inevitable—for us. No English artist is considered anything until he has painted a picture of the Land’s End or Newquay. The Channel Islands—or Devon—is not quite the same thing. Not such a distinctive71 hallmark. So we came to Cornwall, and my husband went to seed. That was why I welcomed Mr. Turold’s conversation for him. It did him good. My husband said so himself. He derived72 inspiration—artistic inspiration—from Mr. Turold’s talk. He conceived a picture—‘Land of Hope and Glory’ it was to be called—of a massive figure of Britannia, standing73 on Land’s End, defying the twin demons74 of Bolshevism and Labour Unrest with a trident. He was working at it with extraordinary rapidity—when this happened.
“On the day of his brother’s death we did not see much of Mr. Austin Turold. There was Mrs. Turold’s funeral in the afternoon, and when he came home I thought he would prefer to be left to himself.
“He went to his sitting-room75, and stayed there. My husband and I retired76 early that night, but later we were awakened77 by a very loud knock at the front door. We heard Mr. Austin Turold, who was still up, go down and open it. Then we heard a very loud voice, outside—Mr. Robert Turold’s man-servant, it appears. We heard him tell Mr. Austin that his brother had been found shot. Mr. Turold returned upstairs, and some time afterwards we heard him go down again and out.
“I was so upset that I arose and dressed myself to await Mr. Turold’s return. I thought he might like a cup of coffee when he returned, so I decided to go downstairs myself and prepare it. As I passed the passage which led to Mr. Charles Turold’s room, I noticed a light underneath78 his door. I rather wondered, as he was still up, why he had not gone with his father, but I was passing on without thinking any more about it when I happened to notice that the light beneath the door was fluctuating in the strangest way. First it was very bright, then it became quite dim, but the next moment it would be bright again.
“That alarmed me so much that I walked along the passage to see what it meant. I thought perhaps the young man had fallen asleep with the window open and left the gas flaring79 in the wind. I stood for a moment outside the door wondering what I ought to do. Then I heard a crackling sound, and smelt80 something burning. That alarmed me still more, because I knew no fire had been lit in the room that day. I wondered if the bedroom was on fire, and I knelt down and tried to see through the keyhole.
“At first I could see nothing except a bright light and the shadow of a form on the wall. Then I made out the form of Charles Turold, standing in his dressing-gown in front of the fireplace, in which a fire of kindling81 wood was leaping and blazing. I could not make out at first what he was doing. He seemed to be stooping over the fire, moving something about. Then I saw. He was drying his clothes—the suit he had worn that day. They must have been very wet, for the steam was rising from them.
“I must have made a noise which startled him, for I saw him turn quickly and stare at the closed door, then walk towards it. I went away as quickly and noiselessly as I could, and as I turned the corner of the passage, out of sight, his door opened, and then closed again. He had looked out and, seeing nobody, gone back into his room.
“I went downstairs to make the coffee and wait for Mr. Turold. I had to wait some time. When I did hear the sound of his key in the door, I went up the hall with a cup of coffee in my hand. Mr. Turold seemed surprised to see me. He looked at me in a questioning sort of way as he took the coffee, and stood there sipping82 it. As he handed me back the cup he told me in a low voice that his brother was dead. I said that was why I had waited up—because I had heard the knock and the dreadful news. Mr. Turold, in the same low voice, then said he was very much afraid his brother had taken his own life.
“He then went upstairs. I again retired shortly afterwards, but I could not sleep. I was too upset—too nervous. I could not get Mr. Robert Turold’s suicide out of my head. It seemed such a dreadful thing for a wealthy man to do—so common and vulgar! Suicide sticks to a family so—it is never really forgotten. It is much easier to live down an embezzlement83 or misappropriation of trust funds. The thought of it put the other thing—the fire and young Mr. Turold and his wet clothes—out of my head completely, for the time.
“As I was lying there tossing and thinking I heard a light footstep pass my door. I slipped out of bed, and opening the door a little, looked out. I saw Mr. Turold, fully33 dressed, a light in his hand, turning down the passage which led to his son’s room. Then I heard the sound of a creaking door, the murmur84 of a low conversation, cut short by the shutting of the door. I stood there for a few minutes, and then went back to my bed and fell asleep.
“The next day it all came back to me. I had gone into Charles Turold’s room for some reason when he was out, and there, on the hearth85, I could see the remains86 of the fire he had lit overnight to dry his clothes. He had made some clumsy man-like attempt to clean up the grate, but he left some ends of the charred87 kindling wood lying about.”
This final revelation brought a silence between Mrs. Brierly and the lawyer; a silence broken only by the distant deep call of the sea beneath the open window. The silence lengthened88 into minutes before Mr. Brimsdown found his voice.
“You have said nothing to anybody else about this?” He spoke almost abstractedly, but she chose to regard this question in the light of a reproach. She hurriedly rejoined—
“I did not see the necessity—then. If young Mr. Turold got caught in the storm, and chose to dry his clothes in his room, instead of putting them out for the maid, why should I tell anybody? I did not connect it with his uncle’s death. I was under the impression that Mr. Robert Turold had taken his own life. It was not until the detective called to see Mr. Austin Turold that I learnt there was a suspicion of—murder. My maid overheard the detective say something while she was in and out of the room serving tea, and she told me what she had heard. I saw things in a new light then, and I was terribly upset. But I could not see my way clear until you came to the house to-day. Then I decided to tell you.”
“Can you tell me what time Charles Turold came in that night?”
“I have no idea. He and his father have separate keys of the front door.”
It was evident that she had told all she knew. She rose to her feet in agitation.
“I must go. My husband will be wondering where I am. But tell me, Mr. Brimsdown, do you imagine … Is it possible …” Her voice dropped to the ghost of a frightened whisper.
He evaded89 this issue with legal caution.
“You have done quite right in coming to me,” he replied, as he opened the door for her departure. He held out his hand.
She touched it with trembling fingers, and went away.
Mr. Brimsdown closed the door behind her, and wearily sat down. He had been prepared to do much to shield the name of Turold, but he had not bargained for this. He did not doubt the truth of the story he had just heard, and it gave him a feeling of nausea90. What a revelation of the infamy91 of human nature! The stupendous depth of such villainy overwhelmed him with dismay. The extent of the criminal understanding between father and son he did not attempt to fathom92. His mind was filled with the monstrous93 audacity94 by which Charles Turold, apparently at the dictate95 of remorse96, had sought to convince him of Sisily’s innocence by directing attention to the marks on the dead man’s arm which he had probably made himself. Could human cynicism go farther than that? A great wave of pity swept over the lawyer as he thought of the unhappy Sisily, and all that she had been compelled to endure. But why had she fled?
Long he sat there without stirring, until the shadows deepened and the grey surface of the sea dissolved in blackness.
“The police must be told of this,” he said at last, in an almost voiceless whisper.
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收听单词发音
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1
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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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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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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meditations
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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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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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fully
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motives
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amiably
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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41
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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42
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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44
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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47
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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48
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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49
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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51
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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53
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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54
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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58
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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72
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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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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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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82
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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83
embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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84
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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85
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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86
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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87
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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92
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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93
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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94
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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95
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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