There were many, no doubt, who were conscious of a kindly16 glow as they read beneath the formal words designating the holiday, and caught the pleasant and gracious significance of the Thanksgiving itself—strange and perverted17 survival as it is of a gloomy and unthankful festival. There were others, perhaps, who smiled a little at his Excellency’s shrewd effort to placate18 the rising and hostile workingmen’s movement and get credit from the farmers for the recent oleomargarine bill, and for the rest took the day merely as a welcome breathing spell, with an additional drink or two in the forenoon, and a more elaborate dinner than was usual.
In the Lawton household they troubled their heads neither about the text and tricks of the proclamations nor the sweet and humane19 meaning of the day. There were much more serious matters to think of.
The parable20 of the Prodigal21 Son has long been justly regarded as a model of terse22 and compact narrative23; but modern commentators24 of the analytical25 sort have a quarrel with the abruptness26 of its ending. They would have liked to learn what the good stay-at-home son said and did after his father had for a second time explained the situation to him. Did he, at least outwardly, agree that “it was meet that we should make merry and be glad”? And if he consented to go into the house, and even to eat some of the fatted calf27, did he do it with a fine, large, hearty28 pretence29 of being glad? Did he deceive the returned Prodigal, for example, into believing in the fraternal welcome? Or did he lie in wait, and, when occasion offered, quietly, and with a polite smile, rub gall30 and vinegar into the wayfarer’s wounds? Alas31, this we can only guess.
Poor Ben Lawton had been left in no doubt as to the attitude of his family toward the prodigal daughter. A sharp note of dissent32 had been raised at the outset, on the receipt of her letter—a note so shrill33 and strenuous34 that for the moment it almost scared him into begging her not to come. Then his better nature asserted itself, and he contrived35 to mollify somewhat the wrath36 of his wife and daughters by inventing a tortuous37 system of lies about Jessica’s intentions and affairs. He first established the fiction that she meant only to pay them a flying visit. Upon this he built a rambling38 edifice39 of falsehood as to her financial prosperity, and her desire to do a good deal toward helping40 the family. Lastly, as a crowning superstructure of deception41, he fabricated a theory that she was to bring with her a lot of trunks filled with costly42 and beautiful dresses, with citified bonnets43 and parasols and high-heeled shoes, beyond belief—all to be distributed among her sisters. Once well started, he lied so luxuriantly and with such a flowing fancy about these things, that his daughters came to partially44 believe him—him whom they had not believed before since they could remember—and prepared themselves to be civil to their half-sister.
There were five of these girls—the offspring of a second marriage Lawton contracted a year or so after the death of baby Jessica’s mother. The eldest45, Melissa, was now about twenty, and worked out at the Fairchild farm-house some four miles from Thessaly—a dull, discontented young woman, with a heavy yet furtive46 face and a latent snarl47 in her voice. Lucinda was two years younger, and toiled48 in the Scotch-cap factory in the village. She also was a commonplace girl, less obviously bad-tempered49 than Melissa, but scarcely more engaging in manner. Next in point of age was Samantha, who deserves some notice by herself, and after her came the twins, Georgiana and Arabella, two overgrown, coarse, giggling50 hoydens of fifteen, who obtained intermittent51 employment in the button factory.
Miss Samantha, although but seventeen, had for some time been tacitly recognized as the natural leader of the family. She did no work either in factory or on farm, and the local imagination did not easily conceive a condition of things in which she could find herself reduced to the strait of manual labor. Her method, baldly stated, was to levy52 more or less reluctant contributions upon whatever the rest of the family brought in. There was a fiction abroad that Samantha stayed at home to help her mother. The facts were that she was only visible at the Law-ton domicile at meal-times and during inclement53 weather, and that her mother was rather pleased than otherwise at this being the case.
Samantha was of small and slight figure, with a shrewd, prematurely-sapient face that was interesting rather than pretty, and with an eye which, when it was not all demure54 innocence55, twinkled coldly like that of a rodent56 of prey57. She had several qualities of mind and deportment which marked her as distinct from the mass of village girls; that which was most noticeable, perhaps, was her ability to invent and say sharp, comical, and cuttingly sarcastic58 things without herself laughing at them. This was felt to be a rare attainment59 indeed in Thessaly, and its possession gave her much prestige among the young people of both sexes, who were conscious of an insufficient60 command alike over their tongues and their boisterous61 tendencies. Samantha could have counted her friends, in the true, human sense of the word, upon her thumbs; but of admirers and toadies62 she swayed a regiment63. Her own elder sisters, Melissa and Lucinda, alternated between sulky fear of her and clumsy efforts at propitiation; the junior twins had never as yet emerged from a plastic state of subordination akin64 to reverence65. Samantha’s attitude toward them all was one of lofty yet observant criticism, relieved by lapses66 into half-satirical, half-jocose amiability67 as their pay-days approached. On infrequent occasions she developed a certain softness of demeanor68 toward her father, but to her mother she had been uniformly and contemptuously uncivil for years.
Of this mother, the second Mrs. Lawton, there is little enough to say. She was a pallid69, ignorant, helpless slattern, gaunt of frame, narrow of forehead, and bowed and wrinkled before her time. Like her husband, she came of an ancestry70 of lake and canal boatmen; and though twenty odd years had passed since increasing railroad competition forced her parents to abandon their over-mortgaged scow and seek a living in the farm country, and she married the young widower71 Ben Lawton in preference to following them, her notions of housekeeping and of existence generally had never expanded beyond the limits of a canal-boat cabin. She rose at a certain hour, maundered along wearily through such tasks of the day as forced themselves upon her, and got to bed again as early as might be, inertly72 thankful that the day was done. She rarely went out upon the street, and still more rarely had any clothes fit to go out in. She had a vague pride in her daughter Samantha, who seemed to her to resemble the heroines of the continued stories which she assiduously followed in the Fireside Weekly, and sometimes she harbored a formless kind of theory that if her baby boy Alonzo had lived, things would have been different; but her interest in the rest of the family was of the dimmest and most spasmodic sort. In England she would have taken to drink, and been beaten for it, and thus at least extracted from life’s pilgrimage some definite sensations. As it was, she lazily contributed vile73 cooking, a foully-kept house, and a grotesque74 waste of the pittances75 which came into her hands, to the general squalor which hung like an atmosphere over the Lawtons.
The house to which Jessica had come with her father the previous afternoon was to her a strange abode76. At the time of her flight, five years before, the family had lived on a cross-road some miles away; at present they were encamped, so to speak, in an old and battered77 structure which had been a country house in its time, but was now in the centre of a new part of Thessaly built up since war. The building, with its dingy78 appearance and poverty-stricken character, was an eyesore to the neighborhood, and everybody looked hopefully forward to the day when the hollow in which it stood should be filled up, and the house and its inhabitants cleared away out of sight.
Jessica upon her arrival had been greeted with constrained79 coolness by her stepmother, who did not even offer to kiss her, but shook hands limply instead, and had been ushered80 up to her room by her father. It was a low and sprawling81 chamber82, with three sides plastered, and the fourth presenting a time-worn surface of naked lathing83. In it were a bed, an old chest of drawers, a wooden chair, and a square piece of rag carpet just large enough to emphasize the bareness of the surrounding floor. This was the company bedroom; and after Ben had brought up all her belongings84 and set them at the foot of the bed, and tiptoed his way down-stairs again, Jessica threw herself into the chair in the centre of its cold desolation, and wept vehemently86.
There came after a time, while she still sat sobbing88 in solitude89, a soft rap at her door. When it was repeated, a moment later, she hastily attempted to dry her eyes, and answered, “Come in.” Then the door opened, and the figure of Samantha appeared. She was smartly dressed, and she had a half-smile on her face. She advanced readily toward the chair.
“Don’t you know me?” she said, as Jessica rose and looked at her doubtfully in the fading light. “I’m Samantha. Of course, I’ve grown a good deal; but Lord! I’d have known you anywhere. I’m glad to see you.”
Her tone betrayed no extravagance of heated enthusiasm, but still it was a welcome in its way; and as the two girls kissed each other, Jessica choked down the last of her sobs91, and was even able to smile a little.
“Yes, I think I should have known you,” she replied. “Oh, now I look at you, of course I should. Yes, you’ve grown into a fine girl. I’ve thought of you very, very often.”
“I’ll bet not half as often as I’ve thought of you,” Samantha made answer, cheerfully. “You’ve been living in a big city, where there’s plenty to take up your time; but it gets all-fired slow down here sometimes, and then there’s nothing to do but to envy them that’s been able to get out.”
Samantha had been moving the small pieces of luggage at the foot of the bed with her feet as she spoke92. With her eyes still on them she asked, in a casual way:
“Father gone for the rest of your things? It’s like him to make two jobs of it.”
“This is all I have brought; there is nothing more,” said Jessica.
“What!”
Samantha was eying her sister with open-mouthed incredulity. She stammered93 forth94, after a prolonged pause of mental confusion:
“You mean to say you ain’t brought any swell95 dresses, or fancy bonnets, or silk wrappers, or sealskins, or—or anything? Why, dad swore you was bringing whole loads of that sort of truck with you!” She added, as if in angry quest for consolation96: “Well, there’s one comfort, he always was a liar97!”
“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed,” said Jessica, stiffly; “but this is all I’ve brought, and I can’t help it.”
“But you must have had no end of swell things,” retorted the younger girl. “It stands to reason you must. I know that much. And what have you done with ’em?” She broke out in loud satire98: “Oh, yes! A precious lot you thought about me and the rest of us! I daresay it kept you awake nights, thinking about us so much!”
Jessica gazed in painful astonishment99 at this stripling girl, who had regarded her melancholy100 home-coming merely in the light of a chance to enjoy some cast-off finery. All the answers that came into her head were too bitter and disagreeable. She did not trust herself to reply, but, still wearing her hat and jacket, walked to the window and looked out down the snowy road. The impulse was strong within her to leave the house on the instant.
Samantha had gone away, slamming the door viciously behind her, and Jessica stood for a long time at the window, her mind revolving101 in irregular and violent sequence a score of conflicting plans and passionate102 notions. There were moments in this gloomy struggle of thought when she was tempted90 to throw everything to the winds—her loyalty103 to pure-souled Annie Fairchild, her own pledges to herself, her hopes and resolves for the future, everything—and not try any more. And when she had put these evil promptings behind her, that which remained was only less sinister104.
As she stood thus, frowning down through the unwashed panes105 at the white, cheerless prospect106, and tearing her heart in the tumultuous revery of revolt, the form of a man advancing up the road came suddenly under her view. He stopped when he was in front of the Lawton house, and looked inquiringly about him. The glance which he directed upwards107 fell full upon her at the window. The recognition was mutual108, and he turned abruptly109 from the road and came toward the house. Jessica hurriedly took off her hat and cloak. Reuben Tracy had come to see her!
It was her stepmother who climbed the stairs to notify her, looking more lank110 and slatternly than ever, holding the bedroom door wide open, and saying sourly: “There’s a man down-stairs to see you already,” as if the visit were an offence, and Jessica could not pretend to be surprised. “Yes, I saw him,” she answered, and hurried past Mrs. Lawton, and down to the gaunt, dingy front room, with its bare walls, scant111 furniture, and stoveless discomfort112, which not even Samantha dared call a parlor113.
She could remember afterward114 that Reuben stood waiting for her with his hat in his left hand, and that he had taken the glove from his right to shake hands with her; and this she recalled more distinctly than anything else. He had greeted her with grave kindness, had mentioned receiving notice from the Fairchilds of her coming, and had said that of course whatever he could do to help her he desired to do. Then there had been a pause, during which she vaguely115 wavered between a wish that he had not come, and a wild, childish longing85 to hide her flushed face against his overcoat, and weep out her misery116. What she did do was to point to a chair, and say, “Won’t you take a seat?”
“It is very kind of you to come,” she went on, “but—” She broke off suddenly and looked away from him, and through the window at the snow-banks outside. “How early the winter has closed in,” she added, with nervous inconsequence.
Reuben did not even glance out at the snow. “I’m bound to say that it isn’t very clear to me what use I can be to you,” he said. “Of course, I’m all in the dark as to what you intend to do. Mr. Fairchild did not mention that you had any definite plans.”
“I had thought some of starting a milliner’s shop, of course very small, by myself. You know I have been working in one for some months at Tecumseh, ever since Mrs. Fairchild—ever since she—”
The girl did not finish the sentence, for Reuben nodded gravely, as if he understood, and that seemed to be all that was needed.
“That might do,” he said, after a moment’s thought, and speaking even more deliberately117 than usual. “I suppose I ought to tell you this doesn’t seem to me a specially118 wise thing, your coming back here. Don’t misunderstand me; I wouldn’t say anything to discourage you, for the world. And since you have come, it wasn’t of much use, perhaps, to say that. Still, I wanted to be frank with you, and I don’t understand why you did come. It doesn’t appear that the Fairchilds thought it was wise, either.”
“She did,” answered Jessica, quickly, “because she understood what I meant—what I had in mind to do when I got here. But I’m sure he laughed at it when she explained it to him; she didn’t say so, but I know he did. He is a man, and men don’t understand.”
Reuben smiled a little, but still compassionately119. “Then perhaps I would better give it up in advance, without having it explained at all,” he said.
“No; when I saw your name on the sign, down on Main Street, this afternoon, I knew that you would see what I meant. I felt sure you would: you are different from the others. You were kind to me when I was a girl, when nobody else was. You know the miserable120 childhood I had, and how everybody was against me—all but you.”
Jessica had begun calmly enough, but she finished with something very like a sob87, and, rising abruptly, went to the window.
Reuben sat still, thinking over his reply. The suggestion that he differed from the general run of men was not precisely121 new to his mind, but it had never been put to him in this form before, and he was at a loss to see its exact bearings. Perhaps, too, men are more nearly alike in the presence of a tearful young woman than under most other conditions. At all events, it took him a long time to resolve his answer—until, in fact, the silence had grown awkward.
“I’m glad you have a pleasant recollection of me,” he said at last. “I remember you very well, and I was very sorry when you left the school.” He had touched the painful subject rather bluntly, but she did not turn or stir from her post near the window, and he forced himself forward. “I was truly much grieved when I heard of it, and I wished that I could have talked with you, or could have known the circumstances in time, or—that is to say—that I could have helped you. Nothing in all my teacher experience pained me more. I—”
“Don’t let us talk of it,” she broke in. Then she turned and came close beside him, and lifted her hand as if to place it on his shoulder by a frank gesture of friendship. The hand paused in mid-air, and then sank to her side. “I know you were always as good as good could be. You don’t need to tell me that.”
“And I wasn’t telling you that, I hope,” he rejoined, speaking more freely now. “But you have never answered my question. What is it that Seth Fairchild failed to understand, yet which you are sure I will comprehend? Perhaps it is a part of your estimate of me that I should see without being told; but I don’t.”
“My reason for coming back? I hardly know how to explain it to you.”
Reuben made no comment upon this, and after a moment she went on:
“It sounds unlikely and self-conceited, but for months back I have been full of the idea. It was her talk that gave me the notion. I want to be a friend to other girls placed as I was when I went to your school, with miserable homes and miserable company, and hating the whole thing as I hated it, and aching to get away from it, no matter how; and I want to try and keep them from the pitch-hole I fell into. That’s what I want—only I can’t explain it to you as I could to her; and you think it’s silly, don’t you? And I—begin to think—so—myself.”
Reuben had risen now and stood beside her, and put his hand lightly on her shoulder as she finished with this doleful confession122. He spoke with grave softness:
“No, not silly: it seems to me a very notable kind of wisdom. I had been thinking only of you, and that you could live more comfortably and happily elsewhere. But it seems that you were thinking of matters much greater than your own. And that surprises me, and pleases me, and makes me ashamed of my own view. Think you silly? My dear child, I think you are superb. Only”—he spoke more slowly, and in a less confident tone—“unfortunately, though it is wisdom to do the right thing, it doesn’t always follow that it is easy, or successful for that matter. You will need to be very strong, in order to stand up straight under the big task you have undertaken—very strong and resolute123 indeed.”
The touch of his hand upon her shoulder had been more to Jessica than his words, the line of which, in truth, she had not clearly followed. And when he ended with his exhortation124 to robust125 bravery, she was conscious of feeling weaker than for months before. The woman’s nature that was in her softened126 under the gentle pressure of that strong hand, and all the nameless feminine yearnings for wardenship127 and shelter from life’s battle took voice and pleaded in her heart. Ah, yes! he spoke of her being strong, and the very sound of his voice unnerved her. She could not think; there was no answer to be made to his words, for she had scarcely heard them. No reply of any kind would come to her lips. In place of a mind, she seemed to have only a single sense—vast, overpowering, glorious—and that was of his hand upon her shoulder. And enwrapped, swallowed up in this sense, she stood silent.
Then lo! the hand was gone, and with a start her wits came back. The lawyer was buttoning his overcoat, and saying that he must be going.
She shook hands with him mechanically, in confused apprehension128 lest she should think of nothing more to say to him before he departed. She followed him to the hall, and opened the front door for him. On the threshold the words she wanted came to her.
“I will try to be strong,” she said, “and I thank you a thousand times for coming.”
“Now, you will let me help you; you will come to me freely, won’t you?” Reuben said as he lifted his hat.
“Good-by,” answered Jessica, slowly, as she closed the door.
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1
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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2
accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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5
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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16
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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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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placate
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| v.抚慰，平息(愤怒) | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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abruptness
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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gall
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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43
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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44
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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45
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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46
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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47
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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48
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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49
bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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50
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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52
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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53
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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54
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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55
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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56
rodent
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| n.啮齿动物；adj.啮齿目的 | |
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57
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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58
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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59
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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60
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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61
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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62
toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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64
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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65
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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66
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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67
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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68
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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69
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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70
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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71
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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72
inertly
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| adv.不活泼地，无生气地 | |
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73
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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74
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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75
pittances
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| n.少量( pittance的名词复数 )；少许；微薄的工资；少量的收入 | |
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76
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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77
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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78
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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80
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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82
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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83
lathing
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| 覆以板条，板条 | |
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84
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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85
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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86
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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87
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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88
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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89
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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90
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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91
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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92
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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93
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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96
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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97
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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98
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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99
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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100
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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101
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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102
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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103
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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104
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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105
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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106
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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107
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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108
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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109
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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110
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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111
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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112
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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113
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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114
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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115
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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116
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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117
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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118
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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119
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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120
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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121
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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122
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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123
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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124
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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125
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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126
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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127
wardenship
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| n.warden之职权（或职务） | |
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128
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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