To try to sleep did not enter his head. He sat for a long time on the side of the bed, seeking to evolve something like order from the chaos8 of his wits, but he could not think. Had he tried to write, to discuss the thing in a letter, the simple familiar operation of the pen might have led him out of the cul de sac. As it was, whichever turn his mind sought to take, there rose an impassable barrier of shame, or rage or self-recrimination. In whatever light he tried to view the situation, it was all pain. He had been curtly9, cruelly thrown off by his brother—the man to whom he owed everything—and he had had to listen to the most cutting, insulting language from this brother before they parted. Then, as he clenched10 his fists and fumed11 with impotent anger at the recollection of this language, there would come to divert this wrath12, and turn it back upon himself, the facts that he had interposed his own boyish vanity and conceit13 to balk14 this brother’s purposes, and had been caught trembling on the very brink15 of making love to this brother’s wife. Did he not richly merit Albert’s scorn? He could remember—should he ever forget?—the exact words of Albert’s contemptuous characterization: “A conceited16, presumptuous17, offensive fool.” Did he not deserve them all? He owed this brother everything: the honest boy insisted upon saying this to himself over and over again, as the basis of all argument on the subject; the opportunity came for him to repay something of this debt. How had he improved it? By setting himself up to oppose this brother in the chief object of his life, and, as if this were not enough, by yielding weakly to the temptation to rob him of his domestic honor as well! “I must be a villain18 as well as a fool, must I!” the youngster growled19 between his set teeth, as he threw himself from the bed, and began the gloomy pacing up and down again.
He had not lighted his lamp. The soft half-darkness of the starlight, sufficing barely to render objects visible in the room, suited his mood. He heard the sound of wheels now on the gravel20 below. Looking out, he could see that the grays were being driven out; as they turned the corner of the house, the full moonlight fell upon them and the carriage, and Seth saw distinctly that it was his brother who was driving, and that he was wrapped as for an all-night ride.
“He won’t even stay under the same roof with me!” he said half-aloud, with a fresh bitterness of self-accusation—and then the torment21 of reproaching voices began in his breast again.
As he turned from the window he heard a low rapping at his door; a minute later, he heard Isabel’s voice, almost a whisper:
“Seth! Don’t open the door, but tell me, who was it that went out with the carriage just now? I heard it, but from my window I could see nothing. Was it he?”
Seth answered, as calmly as he could: “Yes, I am sure of it. I recognized him.” He stood close to the door, and the thought that only the thin pine panels divided him from her was uppermost in his mind.
There was a little pause. Once his hand involuntarily moved toward the latch22, but he drew it back. Then she spoke23 again:
“You had a terrible quarrel, didn’t you, and all for me! I heard your answer, Seth, way up here. How nobly you spoke! It went straight to my heart, to hear his brutality24 rebuked25 in that manly26 way. I shan’t forget it.”
There was a moment’s silence; then she whispered with a lingering softness, “Good night!” and he heard the faint rustling27 of her garments down the hall.
Brief as the interruption was, it had changed the whole spirit of his thoughts. The vindictive28 accusing demons30 had vanished, and left no more than a numbing31 sense of past torture in his breast. The anguish32 of self-condemnation, the crushing burden of self-humiliation, had passed away. The moonlight, as it spread over the slope toward Thessaly village, seemed to bring healing in its peaceful radiance. His own provocation33 grew mountain high; his brother’s justification34 for his insults and barbarity diminished. “I was doing only my duty in opposing him,” he said confidently, and there was no voice of dissent35 now. “Still more was I right in defending poor Isabel from his unmanly imputations. If a man is incapable36 of appreciating such a wife——.”
He did not follow out his thought, but surrendered himself instead to calling up, and enjoying in detail, the sweet scene which Albert’s coming had so rudely broken into. How delicious it all was, as fancy now limned37 its outlines—yet not all the dainty graces of imagination and memory could reproduce in its full charm the original. He could think, and think, until the whole room seemed instinct with her presence, but how poor a counterfeit38 it all was, lacking the perfume of her hair and laces, the deep, languorous39 glow of her eyes, the thrilling melody of her low voice. The tender, caressing40 prolongation of syllables41 in that whispered “good night” made soft soul-music still in his ears. The insane thought—he did not dare ask himself if it were also a hope—that she might come again, took possession of him, and he stood for a long time close by the door, listening, waiting.
It was while Seth stood thus, seeing only with the eyes of the mind, that Milton stole past on the grass below, with the black mare42, on his mission of murder. Had the young man been at the window instead, much that followed might have been different.
Seth stood at the door for what seemed to him a long time, until gradually the futility43 of the action became apparent to him. “Of course she would not come!” he said, and resumed his pacing once more.
The Faust-like vision began to dance before his eyes again, but with a witchery now which was uncanny. The calm of waiting had brought him enough strength of control to feel the presence of the cloven hoof44 in it all. The temptation was more urgent, strenuous45 than ever, but he was conscious of a deeper, more dogged spirit of resistance within him than ever, as well. There was no renewal46 of the savage47, chaotic48 war of emotions under which he had suffered at the outset, groaning49 in the self-infliction of purposeless pain. This was a definite, almost scientific, struggle between two distinct forces, and though they fought their battle with all manner of sophistical weapons, and employed feints, pretended retreats and false advances in highest strategical form, he was never deceived for a moment as to which was the bad and which the good.
The issue forced itself upon him, finally, with a demand for decision which was imperative50. He could stay no longer in his room. There was neither sleep nor rest of any kind there for him.
He went to the door, and opened it. Through the blackness he could see a faint vertical51 line of light at the front end of the low hall, as of a lamp burning, and a door left ajar. The yellow ray gleamed as he looked at it, and seemed to wave itself in fascinating motions of enticement52. He stood for a moment undecided, all his impulses strongly swaying towards the temptation, all his resisting reasons growing weaker in their obstruction53, and some even turning coward, and whispering, as they laid down their arms, “After all, youth has its rights.” Then he squared his shoulders, with the old gesture of resolution, and walked steadily away from the line of light, down the stairs, and out of the door, bareheaded under the stars.
He had walked for a long, long time, before he became conscious that he had left his hat behind. The night air was exceptionally mild for the season, but it grew cool enough to bring this fact to his notice. As he put his hand to his head, and stopped short at the discovery, his whole mind seemed to clarify itself. He had been walking aimlessly, almost unconsciously—it must have been for much more than an hour. In a vague way, he knew where his steps had led him. He had walked through the orchard54 to his mother’s grave, and stood for some time by the brier-clad wall and fence which surrounded it, thinking of his boyhood, and of her. Then he had struck across through Sir Thomas’s pasture, to the main road; thence by the way of the school-house, and skirting the hill, to the Burfield road, at the farthermost end of the line of poplars.
As he stopped here now collecting his thoughts, awakening55 himself as it were, the sound of chorussinging reached him, faint at first, then growing more distinct. A wagon56-load of young people were returning from Leander Crump’s husking, enjoying themselves in the fair moonlight. From the sounds, they must have been about in front of the Fairchild homestead, and they were coming rapidly toward Seth. If he remained in the road, they must pass and recognize him.
There was a division line of thorn hedge, long since grown into tall young trees, coming to the road here, and a path beside it leading to a rude stile in the turnpike fence. This path went straight to Mrs. Warren’s house, as Seth had known from boyhood, but he gave this no thought as he stepped over the stile, and moved along in the shadow of the thorns. He walked a score of yards or so, and then stepped closer into the obscurity of the hedge, to wait till the hay-wagon and its caroling crew had passed by on the road outside. He was feeling very cold now, and tired to boot, and said to himself that as soon as the road was clear he would go home and go to bed.
To his surprise the singing came to an abrupt57 halt, just as the wagon approached the end of the hedge.
There was a chorus of merry “whoas!” as the horses drew up, and through the clear air Seth could hear a confused babel of voices, all jovially58 discussing something. One male voice, louder than the rest, called out:
“You’d better let me come along with you!”
There was some giggling59 audible, out of which rose a clear, fresh girlish voice which Seth knew:
“No, thanks! I can cut across by this path in less than no time. I’m not afraid. The tramps are all abed and asleep by this time, like other honest people.”
With more laughter, and a salvo of “good nights!” the wagon started off again, and Annie Fairchild, singing lightly to herself the refrain of the chorus, and holding her face up to catch the full radiance of the moonlight, came walking briskly down the path.
Despite her valiant60 confidence the young woman gave a visible start of alarm as Seth stepped out from the shadows to speak to her. She threw herself forward as if to run, then looked again, stopped, and then gave a little tremulous laugh, and cried:
“Why, Seth! is that you. Mercy! How you frightened me!”
He could think of nothing better than a feeble parody61 of her words: “Yes, it is time all honest people were abed and asleep.”
He said this with a half-smile, but the girl’s face grew more serious still as she looked at her cousin. She spoke eagerly:—
“Why, what’s the matter with you to-night? Where is your hat? You look as white as a ghost! Oh—have you come from our house? Is it something about grandmother?”
“No, it’s nothing about her. I haven’t been nearer your place than this. I only stepped in here so as to avoid the wagon. I didn’t want them to see me like this.”
“But why should you be like this? Now, Seth, I know something has happened. What is it? Am I wanted? Can I do anything?”
“Let me walk with you to your house,” he said, and they turned together down the path. “Something has happened. I don’t know that I can tell you what it is, but only to be with you like this rests and comforts me.”
He was walking in the shadow; the strong light, which only tipped his shoulder occasionally, enveloped62 her. He watched her furtively63 as they moved along, and, just in proportion as he found relief and solace64 in the contemplation of her clear, frank, serene65 face, he shrank from confiding66 his own weak woes67 to her. But, as he said, it was a comfort to be with her.
They had walked almost to within sight of the Warren farmhouse68 before he broke the silence. She had scarcely looked at him since they started, but kept her gray eyes straight ahead, as if viewing some fixed69, distant object. Her lips were tightly pressed together—the only sign of emotion on her face—and this proof that she was hard at work thinking tended further to embarrass him.
“I truly don’t know how to tell you, Annie,” he said at last. “But Albert and I have—have had words together; in fact—we’ve quarrelled.”
Her lips quivered a little. She did not turn her face toward him, but said, nervously70: “I have been expecting that.”
Seth did not ask himself the cause of his cousin’s anticipatory71 confidence, but went on gloomily: “Well, it has come. We had it out, this evening, to the very last word. And then, as if that were not enough, the devil himself got hold of me afterward72, and tugged73 and tore at me to—but I can’t tell you that. I can scarcely realize myself what I’ve been through this night. Why, I’ve been wandering about here on the hill-side for hours, not knowing where I was going, or even what I was thinking of, like a mad man. You can see how my hands are scratched, and my clothes torn; that is from the berry-bushes, I suppose, up by mother’s grave. I remember being there. I didn’t even know that my head was bare, until just before the wagon came up.” Before this remarkable74 recital75 of insane things, Annie was properly silent.
Seth added, after a pause, “But it is all over now. And I can’t tell you, you can’t begin to guess, how it brings me to my senses, and soothes76 and restores me to have met you like this.”
As he paused suddenly, they both turned to listen and look. From the knoll77 to the east, where the turnpike ran through a cutting, there came a curiously78 muffled79 sound, like yet unlike the first measured drumming of a partridge. It swelled80 a second later into something more definite, as they saw a dark horse, the rider crouching81 low over its neck, galloping82 like the wind along the high-road toward Thessaly. The pace was something prodigious—the horse had vanished like an apparition83 before they could look twice. But there had been nothing like a commensurate volume of sound.
“The horse was running on the grass beside the road,” Seth remarked.
“Probably going for a doctor,” was her comment. “I wonder who is ill!”
“It looked to me more like the headless horseman than a sick-messenger.”
As he said this, and they turned to walk again, his face lighted up once more. The thought seemed to please him, and he smiled on her as he added:
“Let me be superstitious84 enough to fancy that the thing which just flashed by, in a rumble85 of low thunder, was the demon29 that has been torturing me all this while. We will say that he has been defeated, baffled, and has fled in despair, and that”—he looked still more smilingly at her—“the fiend has been beaten and driven away by you. Do you know, Annie, that here in this lovely light you are the very picture of a good angel? Perhaps angels don’t wear seal-skin cloaks, or have such red cheeks, but if they knew how becoming they were, they would.”
Annie’s face, which had been immobile in thought, softened86 a little. She was accustomed to her cousin’s hyperbole.
“I am delighted if you feel better,” she laughed back. “But it is no credit specially87 to me. Contact with any other rational human being would probably have had the same effect upon you. If I had helped you in any way, or advised you, perhaps I might own the angelic impeachment88. But I don’t even know the first thing about your trouble, except that you’ve quarrelled with Albert, and—and had a temptation.”
She had begun gayly enough, but she uttered the last words soberly, almost gravely. Instinct and observation alike told her that Seth’s experiences had been of a deeply serious nature.
He sighed heavily, and looked on the ground. How much could he tell her?—in what words should he put it? Even as he sought in his mind for safe and suitable phrases, an Idea—a great, luminous89, magnificent Idea—unfolded itself before his mental vision. It was not new to him—years ago he had often entertained and even nourished it—yet it had been hidden, dormant90 so long, and it burst forth91 now so grandly transformed and altered, that for an instant he stopped abruptly92, and put his hand to his breast as if to catch his breath. Then he walked on again, still with his eyes on the ground. He fancied that he was meditating93; instead, he was marvelling94 at the apotheosized aptness of the Providence95 which had sent this Idea at just this time, and swearing grateful fealty96 to it with all the earnestness of his being.
He looked up at last, and drew her arm through his. They were near the house now. “I am going to make a clean breast of it, Annie,” he said. “If I have not finished when we get to the bars, shall we turn back? I want you to hear it all.”
“It is pretty late, Seth,” she said, but neither in tone, nor in the manner in which she allowed her arm to be taken, was there the kind of refusal which dismays.
There was no need now to seek words. They came fast, keeping pace with the surge of his thoughts.
“Annie,” he began, “I have been as near the gates of hell to-night as it is given to a man to go, and bring back his soul. I have fancied all this while that I was strong because I was successful; that I was courageous97 because I happened to be clever. I found myself put to the test to-night, and I was weak as water. I am afraid of myself. More, I have been making a fool of myself. I know now the measure of my weakness. I have the brains, perhaps, but I have no balance-wheel. I fly off; I do insensate things; I throw myself away. I need a strong, sweet, wise nature to lean upon, to draw inspiration from. Oh if you could realize the peace, the happiness your simple presence brought me this evening! I haven’t said it yet, Annie, but you have guessed it—I want to pledge myself to you, to swear that you are to be my wife.”
The girl had drawn98 her arm from his before the last sentence was finished, and stood facing him. They were within call of the house, but she did not offer to renew the walk. She answered him with no trace of excitement, looking him candidly99 in the face:
“I am not sure just how to answer you, Seth. Hardly any girl would know, I think, how to treat such a declaration as that. Wait a moment—let me finish! In the first place, I am in doubt whether I ought to treat it seriously at all. You are disturbed, excited, to-night; when we first met you looked and acted like a madman. And then again—understand, I am trying to talk to you as a friend of all your life, instead of a mere100 girl acquaintance—I would not marry any man who I did not firmly believe loved me. You have not even pretended that you love me. You have simply complimented me on my disposition101, and pledged yourself to a partnership102 in which I was to be a balance-wheel.”
“You are laughing at me!”
“No, Seth, my dear cousin, not at all. I am only showing you the exact situation. You are too excited, or too unpractical, to see it for yourself. You talk now about being at the gates of hell and expressions like that—wild words which signify only that you have had trouble during the evening. I fancy that all men are apt to exaggerate such things—I know you are. Why, do you even know what trouble is? Have I had no trouble? Have I not lived a whole life of trial here with a bed-ridden invalid103? And there are other things that—that I might speak of, if I chose to complain. For instance”—her face brightened as she spoke, now, and a suggestion of archness twinkled in her eyes—“was it not a terrible thing that I should have waded104 into the water, that day of the fishing party, and got you out all by myself, and then heard the credit coolly given to another—person, who never got so much as the soles of her shoes wet?”
Annie had begun seriously enough, but the softness of her real mood toward her cousin, together with the woman’s natural desire to have justice done her in affairs of the heart, had led her into a halfplayful revelation of pique105. Seth would have answered here, but she held up her hand, and went on: “Wait till I am through. You didn’t know the truth in that matter of the log-jam. I understand that. There are a good many other things the truth of which you don’t know. You don’t, for instance, know the real facts about your own mind. You have had trouble to-night—for all your talk about making a clean breast of it you haven’t told me yet what it was—and your imagination makes a mountain out of what was probably a molehill, and you straightway rush off bareheaded to wander about like a ghost, and frighten people out of their wits; and then, happening to meet a girl who, by the deceptive106 light of the moon, looks as if she had some sense about her, you take without consideration the most important step a man can take in his whole life. Isn’t that a fair statement of the case? And, thinking it all over, don’t you agree with me that you would better tie my handkerchief about your head and go home and go to bed?”
Seth laughed—a reluctant, in-spite-of-himself laugh. “You always would make fun of me when I tried to be serious. But if I ever was serious in my life, it is now. Listen to me, Annie! It is not my fault if I see you now, truly as you are, for the first time. I have been a fool. I know it I said so at the start. But a man is the creature of circumstances, you know. Things have happened tonight which have opened my eyes. I realize now that you have been closest to my heart all the while, that I have loved you all——”
Annie stopped him, with her hand upon his arm.
“I don’t want you to finish that to-night. Please don’t, Seth. It would not be fair to me—or to yourself. Perhaps some other time when you have thought it over calmly—we will talk about it—that is, if you are of the same mind. If you are not, why, everything shall be just as it was before. And more than that, Seth, you—you mustn’t feel in the least bound by what has been said to-night. You know that I am older than you—two whole months! That isn’t as much as four years”—the meekest107 of her sex could scarcely have foregone that shaft—“but it gives me some sort of authority over you. And I am going to use it for your good. If it becomes necessary, I shall treat you like a perverse108 little boy, who doesn’t in the least know what is good for him.”
There was no discouragement to Seth in the tones of her speech, however non-committal its text might be. He put his arm about her and murmured:
“To think that I never knew until now! Ah, you make me very happy, Annie. And shall you be happy, too, do you think, happier than if we hadn’t met?”
She smiled as she disengaged herself, and gave him both hands to say that they must separate: “Happier at least than on the night of the fishing party. I cried myself to sleep that night.”
Seth found the house wholly dark, upon his return. He had no difficulty in getting to sleep, and his heavy slumber109 lasted until long after the breakfast hour the following forenoon.
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1
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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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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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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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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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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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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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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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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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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41
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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42
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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43
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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45
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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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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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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52
enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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53
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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54
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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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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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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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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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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85
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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88
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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93
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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94
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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95
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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96
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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97
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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98
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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99
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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100
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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101
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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102
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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103
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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104
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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106
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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107
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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108
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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109
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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