Delafield was walking through the Park towards Victoria Gate. A pair of beautiful roans pulled up suddenly beside him, and a little figure with a waving hand bent1 to him from a carriage.
"Jacob, where are you off to? Let me give you a lift?"
The gentleman addressed took off his hat.
"Much obliged to you, but I want some exercise. I say, where did Freddie get that pair?"
"I don't know, he doesn't tell me. Jacob, you must get in. I want to speak to you."
Rather unwillingly2, Delafield obeyed, and away they sped.
"J'ai un tas de choses à vous dire," she said, speaking low, and in French, so as to protect herself from the servants in front. "Jacob, I'm very unhappy about Julie."
Delafield frowned uncomfortably.
"Why? Hadn't you better leave her alone?"
"Oh, of course, I know you think me a chatterbox. I don't care. You must let me tell you some fresh news about her. It isn't gossip, and you and I are her best friends. Oh, Freddie's so disagreeable about her. Jacob, you've got to help and advise a little. Now, do listen. It's your duty--your downright catechism duty."
And she poured into his reluctant ear the tale which Miss Emily Lawrence nearly a fortnight before had confided4 to her.
"Of course," she wound up, "you'll say it's only what we knew or guessed long ago. But you see, Jacob, we didn't know. It might have been just gossip. And then, besides"--she frowned and dropped her voice till it was only just audible--"this horrid5 man hadn't made our Julie so--so conspicuous6, and Lady Henry hadn't turned out such a toad--and, altogether, Jacob, I'm dreadfully worried."
"Don't be," said Jacob, dryly.
"And what a creature!" cried the Duchess, unheeding. "They say that poor Moffatt child will soon have fretted7 herself ill, if the guardians8 don't give way about the two years."
"What two years?"
"The two years that she must wait--till she is twenty-one. Oh, Jacob, you know that!" exclaimed the Duchess, impatient with him. "I've told you scores of times."
"I'm not in the least interested in Miss Moffatt's affairs."
"But you ought to be, for they concern Julie," cried the Duchess. "Can't you imagine what kind of things people are saying? Lady Henry has spread it about that it was all to see him she bribed9 the Bruton Street servants to let her give the Wednesday party as usual--that she had been flirting10 with him abominably11 for months, and using Lady Henry's name in the most impertinent ways. And now, suddenly, everybody seems to know something about this Indian engagement. You may imagine it doesn't look very well for our poor Julie. The other night at Chatton House I was furious. I made Julie go. I wanted her to show herself, and keep up her friends. Well, it was horrid! One or two old frights, who used to be only too thankful to Julie for reminding Lady Henry to invite them, put their noses in the air and behaved odiously12. And even some of the nicer ones seemed changed--I could see Julie felt it."
"Nothing of all that will do her any real harm," said Jacob, rather contemptuously.
"Well, no. I know, of course, that her real friends will never forsake13 her--never, never! But, Jacob"--the Duchess hesitated, her charming little face furrowed14 with thought--"if only so much of it weren't true. She herself--"
"Please, Evelyn," said Delafield, with decision, "don't tell me anything she may have said to you."
The Duchess flushed.
"I shouldn't have betrayed any confidence," she said, proudly. "And I must consult with some one who cares about her. Dr. Meredith lunched with me to-day, and he said a few words to me afterwards. He's quite anxious, too--and unhappy. Captain Warkworth's always there--always! Even I have been hardly able to see her the last few days. Last Sunday they took the little lame16 child and went into the country for the whole day--"
"Well, what is there to object to in that?" cried Jacob.
"I didn't say there was anything to object to," said the Duchess, looking at him with eyes half angry, half perplexed17. "Only it's so unlike her. She had promised to be at home that afternoon for several old friends, and they found her flown, without a word. And think how sweet Julie is always about such things--what delicious notes she writes, how she hates to put anybody out or disappoint them! And now, not a word of excuse to anybody. And she looks so ill--so white, so fixed18--like a person in a dream which she can't shake off. I'm just miserable19 about her. And I hate, hate that man--engaged to her own cousin all the time!" cried the little Duchess, under her breath, as she passionately20 tore some violets at her waist to pieces and flung them out of the carriage. Then she turned to Jacob.
"But, of course, if you don't care twopence about all this, Jacob, it's no good talking to you!"
Her taunt22 fell quite unnoticed. Jacob turned to her with smiling composure.
"You have forgotten, my dear Evelyn, all this time, that Warkworth goes away--to mid-Africa--in little more than two weeks."
"I wish it was two minutes," said the Duchess, fuming23.
Delafield made no reply for a while. He seemed to be studying the effect of a pale shaft24 of sunlight which had just come stealing down through layers of thin gray cloud to dance upon the Serpentine25. Presently, as they left the Serpentine behind them, he turned to his companion with more apparent sympathy.
"We can't do anything, Evelyn, and we've no right whatever to talk of alarm, or anxiety--to talk of it, mind! It's--it's disloyal. Forgive me," he added, hastily, "I know you don't gossip. But it fills me with rage that other people should be doing it."
The brusquerie of his manner disconcerted the little lady beside him. She recovered herself, however, and said, with a touch of sarcasm26, tempered by a rather trembling lip:
"Your rage won't prevent their gossiping, Mr. Jacob, I thought, perhaps, your friendship might have done something to stop it--to--to influence Julie," she added, uncertainly.
"My friendship, as you call it, is of no use whatever," he said, obstinately27. "Warkworth will go away, and if you and others do their best to protect Miss Le Breton, talk will soon die out. Behave as if you had never heard the man's name before--stare the people down. Why, good Heavens! you have a thousand arts! But, of course, if the little flame is to be blown into a blaze by a score of so-called friends--"
He shrugged28 his shoulders.
The Duchess did not take his rebukes29 kindly30, not having, in truth, deserved them.
"You are rude and unkind, Jacob," she said, almost with the tears in her eyes. "And you don't understand--it is because I myself am so anxious--"
"For that reason, play the part with all your might," he said, unyieldingly. "Really, even you and I oughtn't to talk of it any more. But there is one thing I want very much to know about Miss Le Breton."
He bent towards her, smiling, though in truth he was disgusted with himself, vexed31 with her, and out of tune32 with all the world.
The Duchess made a little face.
"All very well, but after such a lecture as you have indulged in, I think I prefer not to say any more about Julie."
"Do. I'm ashamed of myself--except that I don't retract33 one word, not one. Be kind, all the same, and tell me--if you know--has she spoken to Lord Lackington?"
The Duchess still frowned, but a few more apologetic expressions on his part restored a temper that had always a natural tendency to peace. Indeed, Jacob's boutades never went long unpardoned. An only child herself, he, her first cousin, had played the part of brother in her life, since the days when she first tottered34 in long frocks, and he had never played it in any mincing35 fashion. His words were often blunt. She smarted and forgave--much more quickly than she forgave her husband. But then, with him, she was in love.
So she presently vouchsafed36 to give Jacob the news that Lord Lackington at last knew the secret--that he had behaved well--had shown much feeling, in fact--so that poor Julie--
But Jacob again cut short the sentimentalisms, the little touching37 phrases in which the woman delighted.
"What is he going to do for her?" he said, impatiently. "Will he make any provision for her? Is there any way by which she can live in his house--take care of him?"
The Duchess shook her head.
"At seventy-five one can't begin to explain a thing as big as that. Julie perfectly38 understands, and doesn't wish it."
"But as to money?" persisted Jacob.
"Julie says nothing about money. How odd you are, Jacob! I thought that was the last thing needful in your eyes."
Jacob did not reply. If he had, he would probably have said that what was harmful or useless for men might be needful for women--for the weakness of women. But he kept silence, while the vague intensity39 of the eyes, the pursed and twisted mouth, showed that his mind was full of thoughts.
Suddenly he perceived that the carriage was nearing Victoria Gate. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out.
"Good-bye, Evelyn. Don't bear me malice40. You're a good friend," he said in her ear--"a real good friend. But don't let people talk to you--not even elderly ladies with the best intentions. I tell you it will be a fight, and one of the best weapons is"--he touched his lips significantly, smiled at her, and was gone.
The Duchess passed out of the Park. Delafield turned as though in the direction of the Marble Arch, but as soon as the carriage was out of sight he paused and quickly retraced41 his steps towards Kensington Gardens. Here, in this third week of March, some of the thorns and lilacs were already in leaf. The grass was springing, and the chatter3 of many sparrows filled the air. Faint patches of sun flecked the ground between the trees, and blue hazes43, already redeemed44 from the dreariness45 of winter, filled the dim planes of distance and mingled46 with the low, silvery clouds. He found a quiet spot, remote from nursery-maids and children, and there he wandered to and fro, indefinitely, his hands behind his back. All the anxieties for which he had scolded his cousin possessed47 him, only sharpened tenfold; he was in torture, and he was helpless.
However, when at last he emerged from his solitude48, and took a hansom to the Chudleigh estate office in Spring Gardens, he resolutely49 shook off the thoughts which had been weighing upon him. He took his usual interest in his work, and did it with his usual capacity.
Towards five o'clock in the afternoon, Delafield found himself in Cureton Street. As he turned down Heribert Street he saw a cab in front of him. It stopped at Miss Le Breton's door, and Warkworth jumped out. The door was quickly opened to him, and he went in without having turned his eyes towards the man at the far corner of the street.
Delafield paused irresolute50. Finally he walked back to his club in Piccadilly, where he dawdled51 over the newspapers till nearly seven.
Then he once more betook himself to Heribert Street.
"Is Miss Le Breton at home?"
Thérèse looked at him with a sudden flickering52 of her clear eyes.
"I think so, sir," she said, with soft hesitation53, and she slowly led him across the hall.
The drawing-room door opened. Major Warkworth emerged.
"Ah, how do you do?" he said, shortly, staring in a kind of bewilderment as he saw Delafield. Then he hurriedly looked for his hat, ran down the stairs, and was gone.
"Announce me, please," said Delafield, peremptorily54, to the little girl. "Tell Miss Le Breton that I am here." And he drew back from the open door of the drawing-room. Thérèse slipped in, and reappeared.
"Please to walk in, sir," she said, in her shy, low voice, and Delafield entered. From the hall he had caught one involuntary glimpse of Julie, standing55 stiff and straight in the middle of the room, her hands clasped to her breast--a figure in pain. When he went in, she was in her usual seat by the fire, with her embroidery56 frame in front of her.
"May I come in? It is rather late."
"Oh, by all means! Do you bring me any news of Evelyn? I haven't seen her for three days."
He seated himself beside her. It was hard, indeed, for him to hide all signs of the tumult57 within. But he held a firm grip upon himself.
"I saw Evelyn this afternoon. She complained that you had had no time for her lately."
Julie bent over her work. He saw that her fingers were so unsteady that she could hardly make them obey her.
"There has been a great deal to do, even in this little house. Evelyn forgets; she has an army of servants; we have only our hands and our time."
She looked up, smiling. He made no reply, and the smile died from her face, suddenly, as though some one had blown out a light. She returned to her work, or pretended to. But her aspect had left him inwardly shaken. The eyes, disproportionately large and brilliant, were of an emphasis almost ghastly, the usually clear complexion58 was flecked and cloudy, the mouth dry-lipped. She looked much older than she had done a fortnight before. And the fact was the more noticeable because in her dress she had now wholly discarded the touch of stateliness--almost old-maidishness--which had once seemed appropriate to the position of Lady Henry's companion. She was wearing a little gown of her youth, a blue cotton, which two years before had been put aside as too slight and juvenile59. Never had the form within it seemed so girlish, so appealing. But the face was heart-rending.
After a pause he moved a little closer to her.
"Do you know that you are looking quite ill?"
"Then my looks are misleading. I am very well."
"I am afraid I don't put much faith in that remark. When do you mean to take a holiday?"
"Oh, very soon. Léonie, my little housekeeper60, talks of going to Bruges to wind up all her affairs there and bring back some furniture that she has warehoused. I may go with her. I, too, have some property stored there. I should go and see some old friends--the soeurs, for instance, with whom I went to school. In the old days I was a torment61 to them, and they were tyrants62 to me. But they are quite nice to me now--they give me patisserie, and stroke my hands and spoil me."
And she rattled63 on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow, perfunctory way, which set him on edge.
"I don't see that anything of that kind will do you any good. You want rest of mind and body. I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry cost you more than you knew. There are wounds one does not notice at the time--"
"Which afterwards bleed inwardly?" She laughed. "No, no, I am not bleeding for Lady Henry. By-the-way, what news of her?"
"Sir Wilfrid told me to-day that he had had a letter. She is at Torquay, and she thinks there are too many curates at Torquay. She is not at all in a good temper."
Julie looked up.
"You know that she is trying to punish me. A great many people seem to have been written to."
"That will blow over."
"I don't know. How confident I was at one time that, if there was a breach64, it would be Lady Henry that would suffer! It makes me hot to remember some things I said--to Sir Wilfrid, in particular. I see now that I shall not be troubled with society in this little house."
"It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind."
"Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Those who meant to stand by me would have called, don't you think?"
The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob's eyes.
"Oh, people take their time," he said, trying to speak lightly.
She shook her head.
"It's ridiculous that I should care. One's self-love, I suppose--that bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little house-warming. She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House the other night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me. And this, too, will be a mistake--and a failure."
"You were kind enough to send me a card."
"Yes--and you must come?"
She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tug65 on his self-control.
"Of course I shall come."
"Do you remember your own saying--that awful evening--that I had devoted66 friends? Well, we shall soon see."
"That depends only on yourself," he replied, with gentle deliberation.
She started--threw him a doubtful look.
"If you mean that I must take a great deal of trouble, I am afraid I can't. I am too tired."
And she sank back in her chair.
The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary, unconscious.
"I didn't mean that--altogether," he said, after a moment.
She moved restlessly.
"Then, really, I don't know what you meant. I suppose all friendship depends on one's self."
She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left to wonder at his own audacity67. "Do you know," she said, presently, her eyes apparently68 busy with her silks, "that I have told Lord Lackington?"
"Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?"
"Oh, very well--most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of 'dropping in' upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times and seasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves69 about young Mrs. Delaray--you know he is painting her portrait, for the famous series?--and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He recites his speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenants70 or his miners. In short, I'm adopted--I'm almost the real thing."
She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her sigh--a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in his ear--the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn71 as it were from the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words.
"Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?" he asked her, presently, not looking at her.
A sharp crimson72 color rushed over her face.
"Not much. He and Lady Blanche are not great friends. And I have made him promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave to tell it."
"It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?"
"Perhaps," she said, impatiently. "Perhaps, when I can make up my mind."
Then she pushed aside her frame and would talk no more about Lord Lackington. She gave him, somehow, the impression of a person suffocating73, struggling for breath and air. And yet her hand was icy, and she presently went to the fire, complaining of the east wind; and as he put on the coal he saw her shiver.
"Shall I force her to tell me everything?" he thought to himself.
Did she divine the obscure struggle in his mind? At any rate she seemed anxious to cut short their tête-à-tête. She asked him to come and look at some engravings which the Duchess had sent round for the embellishment of the dining-room. Then she summoned Madame Bornier, and asked him a number of questions on Léonie's behalf, with reference to some little investment of the ex-governess's savings74, which had been dropping in value. Meanwhile, as she kept him talking, she leaned herself against the lintel of the door, forgetting every now and then that any one else was there, and letting the true self appear, like some drowned thing floating into sight. Delafield disposed of Madame Bornier's affairs, hardly knowing what he said, but showing in truth his usual conscience and kindness. Then when Léonie was contented75, Julie saw the little cripple crossing the hall, and called to her.
"Ah, ma chérie! How is the poor little foot?"
And turning to Delafield, she explained volubly that Thérèse had given herself a slight twist on the stairs that morning, pressing the child to her side the while with a tender gesture. The child nestled against her.
"Shall maman keep back supper?" Thérèse half whispered, looking at Delafield.
"No, no, I must go!" cried Delafield, rousing himself and looking for his hat.
"I would ask you to stay," said Julie, smiling, "just to show off Léonie's cooking; but there wouldn't be enough for a great big man. And you're probably dining with dukes."
Delafield disclaimed76 any such intention, and they went back to the drawing-room to look for his hat and stick. Julie still had her arm round Thérèse and would not let the child go. She clearly avoided being left alone with him; and yet it seemed, even to his modesty77, that she was loath78 to see him depart. She talked first of her little ménage, as though proud of their daily economies and contrivances; then of her literary work and its prospects79; then of her debt to Meredith. Never before had she thus admitted him to her domestic and private life. It was as though she leaned upon his sympathy, his advice, his mere15 neighborhood. And her pale, changed face had never seemed to him so beautiful--never, in fact, truly beautiful till now. The dying down of the brilliance80 and energy of the strongly marked character, which had made her the life of the Bruton Street salon81, into this mildness, this despondency, this hidden weariness, had left her infinitely82 more lovely in his eyes. But how to restrain himself much longer from taking the sad, gracious woman in his arms and coercing83 her into sanity84 and happiness!
At last he tore himself away.
"You won't forget Wednesday?" she said to him, as she followed him into the hall.
"No. Is there anything else that you wish--that I could do?"
"No, nothing. But if there is I will ask."
Then, looking up, she shrank from something in his face--something accusing, passionate21, profound.
He wrung85 her hand.
"Promise that you will ask."
She murmured something, and he turned away.
She came back alone into the drawing-room.
"Oh, what a good man!" she said, sighing. "What a good man!"
And then, all in a moment, she was thankful that he was gone--that she was alone with and mistress of her pain.
The passion and misery86 which his visit had interrupted swept back upon her in a rushing swirl87, blinding and choking every sense. Ah, what a scene, to which his coming had put an end--scene of bitterness, of recrimination, not restrained even by this impending88 anguish89 of parting!
It came as a close to a week during which she and Warkworth had been playing the game which they had chosen to play, according to its appointed rules--the delicacies90 and restraints of friendship masking, and at the same time inflaming91, a most unhappy, poisonous, and growing love. And, finally, there had risen upon them a storm-wave of feeling--tyrannous, tempestuous92--bursting in reproach and agitation93, leaving behind it, bare and menacing, the old, ugly facts, unaltered and unalterable.
Warkworth was little less miserable than herself. That she knew. He loved her, as it were, to his own anger and surprise. And he suffered in deserting her, more than he had ever suffered yet through any human affection.
But his purpose through it all remained stubbornly fixed; that, also, she knew. For nearly a year Aileen Moffatt's fortune and Aileen Moffatt's family connections had entered into all his calculations of the future. Only a few more years in the army, then retirement94 with ample means, a charming wife, and a seat in Parliament. To jeopardize95 a plan so manifestly desirable, so easy to carry out, so far-reaching in its favorable effects upon his life, for the sake of those hard and doubtful alternatives in which a marriage with Julie would involve him, never seriously entered his mind. When he suffered he merely said to himself, steadily96, that time would heal the smart for both of them.
"Only one thing would be absolutely fatal for all of us--that I should break with Aileen."
Julie read these obscure processes in Warkworth's mind with perfect clearness. She was powerless to change them; but that afternoon she had, at any rate, beaten her wings against the bars, and the exhaustion97 and anguish of her revolt, her reproaches, were still upon her.
The spring night had fallen. The room was hot, and she threw a window open. Some thorns in the garden beneath had thickened into leaf. They rose in a dark mass beneath the window. Overhead, beyond the haze42 of the great city, a few stars twinkled, and the dim roar of London life beat from all sides upon this quiet corner which still held Lady Mary's old house.
Julie's eyes strained into the darkness; her head swam with weakness and weariness. Suddenly she gave a cry--she pressed her hands to her heart. Upon the darkness outside there rose a face, so sharply drawn, so life-like, that it printed itself forever upon the quivering tissues of the brain. It was Warkworth's face, not as she had seen it last, but in some strange extremity98 of physical ill--drawn, haggard, in a cold sweat--the eyes glazed99, the hair matted, the parched100 lips open as though they cried for help. She stood gazing. Then the eyes turned, and the agony in them looked out upon her.
Her whole sense was absorbed by the phantom101; her being hung upon it. Then, as it faded on the quiet trees, she tottered to a chair and hid her face. Common sense told her that she was the victim of her own tired nerves and tortured fancy. But the memory of Cousin Mary Leicester's second sight, of her "visions" in this very room, crept upon her and gripped her heart. A ghostly horror seized her of the room, the house, and her own tempestuous nature. She groped her way out, in blind and hurrying panic--glad of the lamp in the hall, glad of the sounds in the house, glad, above all, of Thérèse's thin hands as they once more stole lovingly round her own.
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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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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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abominably
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odiously
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| Odiously | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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perplexed
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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shaft
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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28
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
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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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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32
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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33
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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34
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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35
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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36
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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37
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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38
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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39
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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40
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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41
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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42
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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43
hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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44
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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45
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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46
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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49
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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50
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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51
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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53
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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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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56
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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57
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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58
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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59
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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61
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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62
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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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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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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68
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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69
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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70
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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72
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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73
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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74
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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75
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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76
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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78
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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79
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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80
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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81
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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82
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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83
coercing
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| v.迫使做( coerce的现在分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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84
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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85
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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86
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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87
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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88
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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89
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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90
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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91
inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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92
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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93
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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94
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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95
jeopardize
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| vt.危及，损害 | |
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96
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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97
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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98
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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99
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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100
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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101
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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