De Forrest did not appear until dinner, and then came down moody4 and taciturn. The young ladies had heard of his illness the evening before, with significant glances. Mrs. Marchmont partly surmised5 the truth, but politely ignored the matter, treating it only as a sudden indisposition; and so the affair was passed over, as such matters usually are in fashionable life until they reach a stage too pronounced for polite blindness.
De Forrest but dimly recollected6 the events of the preceding evening. He was quite certain, however, that he had been drunk, and had made a fool of himself.
Though his conscience was not over tender upon this subject, and though such occurrences were not so exceedingly rare in fashionable life as to be very shocking, he still had the training and instinct of a gentleman, to a sufficient degree to feel deep mortification7.
If he had become tipsy among those of his own sex, or while off on a fishing excursion, he would have regarded it as a light matter; but, even in his eyes, intoxication8 at an evening company, and before the girl in whose estimation he most wished to stand well, was a very serious matter. He could not remember much after going a second time to the supper-room in compliance9 with Lottie's request, but had a vague impression that she and Hemstead had brought him home. He was left in torturing uncertainty10 how far he had disgraced himself, because it was a subject concerning which he could not bring himself to make inquiries11. That those he met at the dinner-table treated him with their usual quiet politeness proved nothing. Human faces mask more thoughts than are expressed. Hemstead's grave silence was somewhat significant; but De Forrest cared so little for his opinion that he scarcely heeded12 the student's manner.
Lottie Marsden was the one he most wished, and yet most dreaded14 to see. But Lottie did not appear.
Whether it was true, as she believed, or not, that she was the more guilty, she certainly was the greater sufferer, and that Saturday became the longest and dreariest15 period of pain that she had ever experienced. She awoke in the morning with a nervous headache, which grew so severe that she declined to leave her room during the day. Bel, Addie, and her aunt all offered to do anything in their power; but she only asked to be left alone. She was so unstrung that even words of kindness and solicitude16 jarred like discord17.
It was torture to think, and yet her brain was unnaturally18 active. Everything presented itself in the most painfully bare and accurate manner. The glamour21 faded out of her gay young life, and she saw only the hard lines of fact. Hemstead's words repeated themselves over and over again, and in their light she questioned the past closely. It was not in keeping with her positive nature and strong mind to do things by halves. With fixed22 and steady scrutiny23 she reviewed the motives24 of her life, and estimated the results. They were so unsatisfactory as to startle her. Although the spent years had been filled with continuous and varied25 activity, what had she accomplished26 for herself or any one else? Were not all her past days like water spilled on barren sands, producing nothing?
As she had before intimated, she had been receiving homage27, flattery, and even love, all her life, and yet now her heart had no treasures to which she could turn in solid satisfaction, nor could memory recall efforts like that she saw Miss Martell making in behalf of Harcourt. The adulation received was now empty breath and forgotten words, and nothing substantial or comforting remained.
But, if memory could recall little good accomplished, it placed in long and dark array many scenes that she would gladly have forgotten.
What can be worse—what need we fear more—than to be left alone forever with a guilty and accusing conscience, and no respite28, no solace29? What perdition need a man shrink from more than to go away from his earthly life, to be alone with memory—a pale and silent spectre—who will turn the pages of his daily record, and point to what was, and what might have been?
A shallow-minded girl would have been incapable30 of this searching self-analysis. A weak, irresolute31 girl like Bel Parton would have taken a sedative33, and escaped a miserable34 day in sleep. But, with all her faults, Lottie abounded35 in practical common sense; and Hemstead's words and her own experience suggested that she might be doing herself a very great wrong. She felt that it was no light matter to make one's whole life a blunder, and to invest all one's years and energies in what paid no better interest than she had received that day. Her physical pain and mental distress36 acted and reacted upon each other, until at last, wearied out, she sobbed37 herself to sleep.
Both De Forrest and Hemstead were greatly in hopes that she would be at the supper-table, but they did not see her that day. The former, with his aching head and heavy heart, learned, if never before, that the "way of transgressors is hard." But, though the latter could not be regarded as a transgressor38, his way was hard also that long day; and he whom Lottie, in the memory of his severe words, regarded somewhat as her stern accuser, would have been more than ready to take all her pains and woes39 upon himself, could he have relieved her.
He now bitterly condemned40 himself for having been too harsh in the wholesome41 truth he had brought home to the nattered girl. It was rather severe treatment; still she was vigorous, and would be all the better for it. But now her faithful physician, as he heard how ill and suffering she was, almost wished that he had but faintly suggested the truth in homoeopathic doses.
At the same time he supposed that her indisposition was caused more by her shame and grief at the conduct of De Forrest than by anything he had said. The impression that she was attached or engaged to De Forrest was becoming almost a conviction.
Though Lottie had never, by a word, bound herself to her cousin, yet her aunt and all the household regarded her as virtually engaged to him, and expected that the marriage would eventually occur. With Hemstead, they regarded her illness and seclusion42 as the result of her mortificatoon at his behavior, and, underneath43 their politic44 politeness, were very indignant at his folly45. But they expected that the trouble would soon blow over, as a matter of course. The mantle46 of charity for young men as rich and well-connected as De Forrest is very large. And then this slip could be regarded somewhat in the light of an accident; for when it became evident that Bel understood the nature of De Forrest's "spell," as the coachman called it, Lottie had taken pains to insist that it was an accident for which she was chiefly to blame; and had also said as much to Mrs. Marchmont. Thus they all concluded that her relations with De Forrest would not be disturbed.
Harcourt was the happiest of the party; but it must be confessed that, clearer than any law points, he saw still among blooming exotics a being far more rare and beautiful, who stood before him the whole day with clasped hands and entreating47 eyes, whose only request was, "be a true man." Under the inspiration of her words and manner he began to hope that he might eventually grant her request.
As far as Lottie's intruding48 image would permit, Hemstead concentrated all his energies on the great sermon, the elaborate effort of many months, that he expected to preach on the morrow. He hoped that Lottie, and indeed all, would be there, for it seemed that if they would only give him their thoughtful attention he would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were in God's hands, and that it would be worse than folly not to submit to His shaping and moulding discipline.
At last Sunday morning came. It was a cold, chilly49, leaden day, and even a glance from the windows gave one a shivering sense of discomfort50.
The gloom of nature seemed to shadow the faces of some of the party as they gathered at a late breakfast; and of none was this more true than of Lottie Marsden, as, pale and languid, she took her wonted place. Her greeting of De Forrest was most kindly51, and he seemed greatly reassured52, and brightened up instantly. But Lottie's face did not lose its deep dejection.
To the others she appeared to take very little notice of Hemstead; but he thought that he observed her eyes furtively54 seeking his face, with a questioning expression. Once he answered her glance with such a frank, sunny smile that her own face lighted up. As they were passing into the parlor55 he said, in a low tone, "I wished a hundred times yesterday that I could bear your headache for you."
"That is more kind than just. It is right that I should get my deserts," she replied, shaking her head.
"Heaven save us from our deserts," he answered quickly.
Before she could speak again, De Forrest was by her side and said, "Let me wheel the lounge up to the fire, and I will read anything you wish this morning."
"O, no; I'm going to church."
"Miss Lottie, I beg of you do not go. You are not able."
"Yes, I am; the air will do me good. It's the Sunday before Christmas,
Julian, and we both ought to be at church."
"O, certainly, I'll go if you wish it."
"I hope your sermon will do me good, Mr. Hemstead. I'm wofully blue," she said, as she left the room to prepare for church.
"I think it will," he replied; "for I have prepared it with a great deal of care."
The building was a small but pretty Gothic structure, and its sacred quiet did seem to Lottie somewhat like a refuge. With an interest such as she had never felt in the elegant city temple, she waited for the service to begin, honestly hoping that there might be something that would comfort and reassure53.
But Hemstead went through the preliminary services with but indifferent grace and effect. He was embarrassed and awkward, as is usually the case with those who have seldom faced an audience, and who are naturally very diffident. But as he entered upon his sermon his self-consciousness began to pass away, and he spoke56 with increasing power and effect.
He took as his text words from the eleventh chapter of St. John, wherein Jesus declares to his disciples57, in regard to the death of Lazarus, "I am glad, for your sakes, that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe."
The importance of faith—believing—as the source of Christian58 life, and the ground of man's acceptance with God, was his subject, from which he wandered somewhat,—a course often observed in the ministerial tyro59.
He presented his views strongly, however; but they were partial and unripe60, giving but one side of the truth, and therefore calculated to do injury rather than good. He did not—he could not—over-estimate the importance of faith, but he unwittingly misrepresented God, in his efforts to inspire this faith, and the Christian life resulting; and he under-valued our earthly state and its interests.
He sketched61 in strong outlines the experience of the little family at Bethany, portraying62 with vivid realism the suffering of the man whom Jesus loved; the anxiety of the sisters when Lazarus became ill; this anxiety passing into fear, dread13, sickening certainty, and despair; the anguish63 of bereavement64, the loneliness and heart-breaking sorrow of four days; and that most agonized65 wrench66 of the heart when the beloved form is left alone to corrupt67 in the dark and silent sepulchre.
Having presented this picture in such true and sombre colors that the gloom was reflected from the faces of all his hearers, they being reminded that this would be their lot ere long, he passed suddenly from the painful scenes of Bethany to Bethabara, beyond Jordan, where was sojourning the mysterious Prophet of Nazareth, who had so often proved His power to heal every disease. He enlarged upon the fact that Jesus, seeing all the suffering at Bethany, which He could change by a word into gladness, did not interfere68, but decreed that the terrible ordeal69 should be endured to the bitter end.
From this he reasoned that the transient sorrows of the household at Bethany were of little moment, and that God, in the advancement70 of His own glory and the accomplishment71 of His great plans, would never turn aside because His human children in their short-sighted weakness would stay His heavy hand if they could. He knew all that was occurring at Bethany, but calmly permitted it to take place, and in this case it was the same as if He had willed it.
He then proceeded to show that the Divine purpose had not only a wide and general sweep, embracing the race, and extending through all time, but that there was a minute providence72 encompassing73 each life. If there were any good in us, God would bring it out, nor would He spare us in the effort. The preacher, unfortunately and unconsciously to himself, gave the impression that God acted on the principle that He could accomplish far more with the rod of affliction than with anything else, and that when He fully20 set about the task of winning a soul from sin, His first step was to stretch it upon the rack of some kind of suffering. He also intensified74 this painful impression by giving the idea that God thought little of the processes, which might be so painful to us, but fixed His eye only on the result. If people became sullen75, rebellious76, or reckless under His discipline, they were like misshappen clay, that the potter must cast aside. The crude ore must go into the furnace, and if there was good metal in it the fact would appear.
"Sooner or later," he said, "God will put every soul into the crucible77 of affliction. Sooner or later we shall all be passing through scenes like that of the family at Bethany. We may not hope to escape. God means we shall not. As Christ firmly, while seeing all, left events at Bethany to their designed course, so He will as surely and steadily78 carry out the discipline which He, as the unerring physician of the soul, sees that each one of us requires. Does the refiner hesitate to put the crude ore into the crucible? Does the sculptor79 shrink from chiselling80 the shapeless block into beauty? Does not the surgeon, with nerves of steel and pulse unquickened, cut near the very vitals of his agonized patient? He sees that it is necessary, in order to save from greater evil, and therefore he is as remorseless as fate. If to cure some transient, physical infirmity, man is justified81 in inflicting—nay82, more, is compelled to inflict—so much suffering upon his fellow-creatures, how much more is God justified in His severest moral discipline, which has as its object our eternal health. Though we shrink from the sorrow, though we writhe83 under the pain, though our hearts break a thousand times, He will not waver in His calm, steadfast84 purpose. He sees eternity85; the present is as nothing to Him. He will break our grasp from all earthly idols86, even though He tear our bleeding hearts asunder88. If we are trusting in aught save Him, that upon which we are leaning will be snatched away, even though we fall at first into the depths of despairing sorrow. What He makes us suffer now is not to be considered, in view of His purpose to wean us from this world and prepare us for the next. Christ, as we learn from our text, is as inflexible89 as fate, and does not hesitate to secure the needful faith by remaining away, even though the message of the sisters was an entreaty90 in itself. Nay, more, he distinctly declares to his disciples, 'I am glad, for your sakes, that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe.'
"In conclusion, we assert that we ought to rise above our human weakness and co-work with God. Instead of clinging so to the present, we ought to think of the eternal future, and welcome the harshest discipline which prepares us for that future. We should mortify91 ourselves, trample92 our earthly natures under our feet. To that degree that we can bring ourselves to think less of earth, we shall think more of heaven. Our business, our earthly hopes and plans, our dearest ties, may be fatal snares93 to our souls. The husband may make an idol87 of his wife, the mother of her child. God jealously watches; we should watch more jealously. The sisters may have been loving their brother and trusting to his protection more than in Christ. We should hold all earthly possessions in fear and trembling, as something not our own, but only committed for a brief time to our trust. We should remember that the one great object of this life is to secure that faith which leads to preparation for the life to come. The harsher our experiences are here, the better, if they more surely wean us from earth and all earthly things, and make eternity the habitation of our thoughts. We see how stern and resolute32 God is in His great purpose to stamp out unbelief from the world. Jesus would not save the family at Bethany that He loved,—the family that freely gave hospitality and love in return when nearly all the world was hostile. Do not think, then, that He will spare us. Let us therefore not spare ourselves, but with remorseless hands smite94 down every earthly object that hides from our view the wide ocean of eternity. As the wise men from the East travelled steadily across arid95 wastes with eyes fixed only on the strange bright luminary96 that was guiding them to Bethlehem, so we should regard this world as a desert across which we must hasten to the presence of our God."
As Hemstead forgot himself, and became absorbed in his theme, he spoke with impressiveness and power; and everywhere throughout the audience was seen that thoughtful contraction97 of the brow and fixed gaze which betoken98 deep attention. But upon the faces of nearly all was the expression of one listening to something painful. This was especially true of Miss Martell and her father, while Harcourt's face grew cold and satirical. Lottie looked pale and sullen, and De Forrest was evidently disgusted. Mr. Dimmerly fidgeted in his seat, and even complacent99 Mrs. Marchmont seemed a little ruffled100 and disturbed, while her daughter Addie was in a state of irritable protest against both preacher and sermon. Poor Bel was merely frightened and conscience-stricken,—her usual condition after every sermon to which she listened.
As, during the brief remnant of the service, Hemstead dropped into consciousness of the world around him, he felt at first, rather than saw, the chill he had caused, instead of a glow answering to his own feelings. As he looked more closely, he imagined he detected a gloomy and forbidding expression on the faces turned towards him. The Gospel—the message of good news that he had brought—appeared to shadow the audience like a passing cloud.
After dismission, the people aroused themselves as from an oppressive dream. The few greetings and congratulations that he received as he passed down the aisle101 seemed formal and constrained102, and, he thought, a little insincere. He was still more puzzled as he overheard Miss Martell say to Harcourt at the door, "I am sorry you heard that sermon."
"I am, too," he replied, "for it seemed true."
"It's only half-truth," she said earnestly.
"The Lord deliver me, then; this half is more than I can stand."
Lottie scarcely spoke during the drive home, and Hemstead noted103, with pain, that her face had a hard, defiant104 look. It occurred to him that he had not seen any who appeared to have enjoyed the service.
There were long pauses at the dinner-table, and after one of the longest, Mr. Dimmerly abruptly105 remarked, in his sententious manner: "Well, nephew, I suppose you gave us a powerful sermon this morning. It has made us all deucedly uncomfortable, anyhow. But I've no doubt the old rule holds good, the worse the medicine is to take the more certain to cure."
Lottie's response to this remark was a ringing laugh, in which the others, in the inevitable106 reaction from the morbid107 gloom, joined with a heartiness108 that was most annoying to the young clergyman.
"You must excuse me, Mr. Hemstead," said she, after a moment, "I have had the blues109 all day, and have reached that point where I must either laugh or cry, and prefer the former at the dinner-table."
Hemstead stiffly bowed as his only response. He was too chagrined110, puzzled, and disappointed to venture upon a reply, and after this one lurid111 gleam of unnatural19 mirth the murky112 gloom of the day seemed to settle down more heavily than before.
After dinner De Forrest tried to secure Lottie's society for the afternoon. The refusal was kind, not careless, as had been often the case. Indeed her whole manner towards him might be characterized as a grave, remorseful113 kindness, such as we might show towards a child or an inferior that we had wronged somewhat.
De Forrest, finding that Lottie would persist in going to her room, went to his also, and took a long, comfortable nap.
Bel wanted to talk about the sermon, but as Lottie would not talk about anything, she, too, soon forgot her spiritual anxieties in sleep.
But Lottie sat and stared at her fire, and Hemstead, deserted114 by all, stared at the fire in the parlor; and both were sorely troubled and perplexed115.
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1
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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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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7
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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14
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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15
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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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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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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42
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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43
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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46
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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47
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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48
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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49
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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50
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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51
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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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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53
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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54
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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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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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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portraying
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| v.画像( portray的现在分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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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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encompassing
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| v.围绕( encompass的现在分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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chiselling
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| n.錾v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的现在分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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82
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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97
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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98
betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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99
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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100
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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103
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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107
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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108
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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109
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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110
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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112
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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113
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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114
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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115
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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