True, the cough which had tormented5 her all winter attacked her in the shady cloister6, but she had learned to use her wooden foot, and with a cane7 in one hand and her little bundle in the other she moved sturdily on. After making her pilgrimage to Compostella, she intended to seek her old employer, Loni. Perhaps he could give her a place as crier, or if the cough prevented that, in collecting the money or training the children. He was a kind-hearted man. If he were even tolerably prosperous he would certainly let her travel with the band, and give the girl who was injured in his service the bit of food she required. Besides, in former days, when she scattered8 gold with lavish9 hands, he had predicted what had now befallen her, and when he left Augsburg he had asked the nuns10 to tell her that if she should ever be in want she must remember Loni.
With the Emperor's five heller pounds, and the two florins which she had received as a viaticum from the convent, she could journey a long distance through the world; for there were plenty of carriers and travellers with carts and wagons12 who would take her for a trifle, and the vagabonds on the highway rarely left people like her in the lurch14.
Probably, in former days, she had looked forward to the future with greater strength and different expectations, yet, even as it was, in spite of the cough and the painful pricking15 in her scars, she found it pleasant so long as she was free and could follow whatever way she chose. She knew the city, and limped through the streets and alleys16 toward the tavern17 where the strolling players usually lodged18.
On the way she met a gentleman in a suit of light armour19, whom she recognised in the distance as the Knight20 of Neckerfels, who had been paying court to her before her fall. He was walking alone and looked her directly in the face, but he did not have the slightest idea that he had met madcap Kuni. It was only too evident that he supposed her to be a total stranger. Yet it would have been impossible for any one to recognise her.
Mirrors were not allowed in the convent, but a bright new tin plate had showed her her emaciated21 face with the broad scar on the forehead, the sunken eyes, and the whole narrow head, where the hair, which grew out again very slowly, was just an ugly length. Now the sight of the bony hand which grasped the cane brought a half-sorrowful, half-scornful, smile to her lips. Her arm had been plump and round, but was now little larger than a stick. Pretty Kuni, the ropedancer, no longer existed; she must become accustomed to have the world regard her as a different and far less important personage, whom Lienhard, too—and this was fortunate—would not have deemed worthy22 of a glance.
And yet, if the inner self is the true one, there was little change in her. Her soul was moved by the same feelings, only there was now a touch of bitterness. One great advantage of her temperament23, it is true, had vanished with her physical beauty and strength—the capacity to hope for happiness and joy. Perhaps it would never return; an oppressive feeling of guilt24, usually foreign to her careless nature, had oppressed her ever since she had heard recently in the convent that the child on whom she had called down death and destruction was lying hopelessly ill, and would scarcely live till the joyous4 Whitsuntide.
This now came back to her mind. The jubilant sense of freedom deserted25 her; she walked thoughtfully on until she reached the neighbourhood of Jacob Fugger's house.
A long funeral procession was moving slowly toward her. Some very exalted26 and aristocratic person must be taking the journey to the grave, for it was headed by all the clergy27 in the city. Choristers, in the most elaborate dress, swinging incense28 holders29 by delicate metal chains and bearing lanterns on long poles, surrounded the lofty cross.
Every one of distinction in Augsburg, all the children who attended school, and all the members of the various ecclesiastical orders and guilds30 in the city marched before the bier. Kuni had never seen such a funeral procession. Perhaps the one she witnessed in Milan, when a great nobleman was buried, was longer, but in this every individual seemed to feel genuine grief. Even the schoolboys who, on such solemn occasions, usually play all sorts of secret pranks31, walked as mournfully as if each had lost some relative who was specially32 dear to him. Among the girls there were few whose rosy33 cheeks were not constantly wet with tears.
From the first Kuni had believed that she knew who was being borne to the grave. Now she heard several women whispering near her mention the name of Juliane Peutinger. A pale-faced gold embroiderer34, who had recently bordered a gala dress with leaves and tendrils for the dead girl's sister, described, sobbing35, the severe suffering amid which this fairest blossom of Augsburg girlhood had withered36 ere death finally broke the slender stem.
Suddenly she stopped; a cry of mingled37 astonishment38, lamentation39, and delight, sometimes rising, sometimes falling, ran through the crowd which had gathered along the sides of the street.
The bier was in sight.
Twelve youths bore the framework, covered with a richly embroidered40 blue cloth, on which the coffin41 rested. It was open, and the dead girl's couch was so high that it seemed as though the sleeper42 was only resting lightly on the white silk pillow. A wreath again encircled her head, but this time blossoming myrtles blended with the laurel in the brown curls that lay in thick, soft locks on the snowy pillows and the lace-trimmed shroud43.
Juliane's eyes were closed. Ah! how gladly Kuni would have kissed those long-lashed lids to win even one look of forgiveness from her whom her curse had perhaps snatched from the green spring world!
She remembered the sunny radiance with which this sleeper's eyes had sparkled as they met Lienhard's. They were the pure mirror of the keen, mobile intellect and the innocent, loving soul of this rare child. Now death had closed them, and Juliane's end had been one of suffering. The pale embroiderer had said so, and the sorrowful droop45 of the sweet little mouth, which gave the wondrously46 beautiful, delicate, touching47 little face so pathetic an expression, betrayed it. If the living girl had measured her own young intellect with that of grown people, and her face had worn the impress of precocious48 maturity49, now it was that of a charming child who had died in suffering.
Kuni also felt this, and asked herself how it had been possible for her heart to cherish such fierce hatred50 against this little one, who had numbered only eleven years.
But had this Juliane resembled other children?
No, no! No Emperor's daughter of her age would have been accompanied to the churchyard with such pageantry, such deep, universal grief.
She had been the jewel of a great city. This was proclaimed by many a Greek and Latin maxim51 on tablets borne by the friends of the great humanist who, with joyful52 pride, called her his daughter.
Kuni could not read, but she heard at least one sentence translated by a Benedictine monk53 to the nun11 at his side: "He whose death compels those who knew him to weep, has the fairest end."—[Seneca, Hippol., 881.]
If this were true, Juliane's end was indeed fair; for she herself, whom the child had met only to inflict54 pain, had her eyes dimmed by tears, and wherever she turned she saw people weeping.
Most of those who lined the street could have had no close relations with the dead girl. But yonder black-robed mourners who followed the bier were her parents, her brothers and sisters, her nearest relatives, the members of the Council, and the family servants. And she, the wretched, reckless, sinful, crippled strolling player, for whom not a soul on earth cared, whose death would not have drawn55 even a single tear from any eye, to whom a speedy end could be only a benefit, was perhaps the cause of the premature56 drying up of this pure fountain of joy, which had refreshed so many hearts and animated57 them with the fairest hopes.
The tall lady, whose noble face and majestic58 figure were shrouded59 in a thick veil, was Juliane's mother—and she had offered the sick ropedancer a home in her wealthy household.
"If she had only known," thought Kuni, "the injury I was inflicting60 upon her heart's treasure, she would rather have hunted me with dogs from her threshold."
In spite of the veil which floated around the stately figure of the grieving mother, she could see her bosom61 rise and fall with her sobs62 of anguish63. Kuni's compassionate64 heart made it impossible for her to watch this sorrow longer, and, covering her face with her hands, she turned her back upon the procession and, weeping aloud, limped away as fast as her injured foot would let her. Meanwhile she sometimes said to herself that she was the worst of all sinners because she had cursed the dead girl and called down death and destruction upon her head, sometimes she listened to the voice within, which told her that she had no reason to grieve over Juliane's death, and completely embitter65 her already wretched life by remorse66 and self-accusations; the dead girl was the sole cause of her terrible fall. But the defiant67 rebellion against the consciousness of guilt, which moved her so deeply, always ceased abruptly68 as soon as it raised its head; for one fact was positive, if the curse she had called down upon the innocent child, who had done her no intentional69 wrong, had really caused Juliane's end, a whole life was not long enough to atone70 for the sin which she had committed. Yet what atonement was still in her power, after the death which she had summoned had performed its terrible work of executioner?
"Nothing, nothing at all!" she said to herself angrily, resolving, as she had so often done with better success, to forget what had happened, cast the past into oblivion, and live in the present as before. But ere she could attempt to fulfil this determination, the image of the tall, grief-bowed figure of the woman who had called Juliane her dear child rose before her mind, and it seemed as if a cold, heavy hand paralyzed the wings of the light-hearted temperament which had formerly71 borne her pleasantly over so many things. Then she told herself that, in order not to go to perdition herself, she must vow72, sacrifice, undertake everything for the salvation73 of the dead girl and of her own heavily burdened soul. For the first time she felt a longing74 to confide75 her feelings to some one. If Lienhard had been within reach and disposed to listen to her, he would have understood, and known what course to advise.
True, the thought that he was not looking at her when she took the fatal leap still haunted her. He could not have showed more offensively how little he cared for her—but perhaps he was under the influence of a spell; for she must be something to him. This was no vain self-deception; had it not been so, would he have come in person to her couch of pain, or cared for her so kindly76 after the accident?
In the convent she had reached the conviction that it would be degrading to think longer of the man who, in return for the most ardent77 love, offered nothing but alms in jingling78 coin; yet her poor heart would not cease its yearning79.
Meanwhile she never wearied of seeking motives80 that would place his conduct in a more favourable81 light. Whatever he might have withheld82 from her, he was nevertheless the best and noblest of men, and as she limped aimlessly on, the conviction strengthened that the mere83 sight of him would dispel84 the mists which, on this sunny spring day, seemed to veil everything around and within her.
But he remained absent, and suddenly it seemed more disgraceful to seek him than to stand in the stocks.
Yet the pilgrimage to Compostella, of which the confessor had spoken? For the very reason that it had been described to her as unattainable, it would perhaps be rated at a high value in heaven, and restore to her while on earth the peace she had lost.
She pondered over this thought on her way to the tavern, where she found a corner to sleep, and a carrier who, on the day after the morrow, would take her to the sea for a heller pound. Other pilgrims had also engaged passage at Antwerp for Corunna, the harbour of Compostella, and her means were sufficient for the voyage. This assurance somewhat soothed85 her while she remained among people of her own calling.
But she spent a sleepless86 night; for again and again the dead child's image appeared vividly87 before her. Rising from the soft pillows in the coffin, she shook her finger threateningly at her, or, weeping and wailing88, pointed89 down to the flames—doubtless those of purgatory90—which were blazing upward around her, and had already caught the hem44 of her shroud.
Kuni arose soon after sunrise with a bewildered brain. Before setting out on her pilgrimage she wished to attend mass, and—that the Holy Virgin91 might be aware of her good intentions—repeat in church some of the paternosters which her confessor had imposed.
She went out with the simple rosary that the abbess had given her upon her wrist, but when she had left the tavern behind she saw a great crowd in front of the new St. Ulrich's Church, and recognised among the throngs92 of people who had flocked thither94 her companion in suffering at the convent, the keeper of the bath-house, who had been cured of her burns long before.
She had left her business to buy an indulgence for her own sins, and to purchase for the soul of her husband—whose death-bed confession95, it is true, had been a long one—for the last time, but for many centuries at once, redemption from the fires of purgatory. The Dominican friar Tetzel, from Nuremberg, was here with his coffer, and carried written promises which secured certain remission of punishment for all sins, even those committed long ago, or to be committed in the future. The woman had experienced the power of his papers herself. Tetzel had come to Augsburg about a year after her husband's death, and, as she knew how many sins he had committed, she put her hand into her purse to free him from the flames. They must have burned very fiercely; for, while awake at night and in her dreams, she had often heard him wailing and complaining piteously. But after she bought the paper he became quiet and, on the third night, she saw him with her own eyes enter the room, and heard him promise her a great happiness in return for her faithful remembrance.
The very next Sunday, Veit Haselnuss, the bath-house proprietor97, a well-to-do man who owned another house besides the one where he lived, invited her to take a walk with him. She knew instantly that her late husband was beginning to pay his debt of gratitude98 with this visitor and, in fact, a short time after, the worthy man asked her to be his wife, though she had three little children, and his oldest daughter by his first wife was already able to look after the housekeeping. The wedding took place on Whitsunday, and she owed this great happiness entirely99 to the dispensation which had released the dead man's soul from the fires of purgatory and induced him to show his thankfulness.
Kuni listened to her companion's rapid flood of talk, until she herself enjoined100 silence to hear the black-robed priest who stood beside the coffer.
He was just urging his hearers, in a loud voice, to abandon the base avarice101 which gathers pence. There was still time to gain, in exchange for dead florins, living salvation.
Let those who repented102 sin listen, and they would hear the voices of wailing parents, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, and children, who had preceded them to the other world. Whose heart was so utterly103 turned to stone, whose parsimony104, spite of all his love of money, was so strong that he would allow these tortured souls to burn and suffer in the flames, when it was in his power, by putting his hand into his purse, to buy a dispensation which would as surely redeem105 them from the fires of purgatory as his Imperial Majesty's pardon would release an imprisoned106 thief from jail?
Scales seemed to fall from Kuni's eyes. She hastily forced her way to the Dominican, who was just wiping the perspiration107 from his brow with the hem of the white robe under his black cowl.
Coughing and panting, he was preparing his voice for a fresh appeal, meanwhile opening the iron-bound box, and pointing out to the throng93 the placard beside his head, which announced that the money obtained by the indulgences was intended for the Turkish war. Then, in fluent language, he explained to the bystanders that this meant that the Holy Father in Rome intended to drive the hereditary108 foe109 of Christianity back to the steppes and deserts of the land of Asia, where he belonged. In order to accomplish this work, so pleasing to the Lord, the Church was ready to make lavish use of the treasures of mercy intrusted to her. Deliverance from the flames of purgatory would never be more cheaply purchased than at this opportunity. Then he thrust his little fat hand, on which several valuable rings glittered, into the box, and held out to the bystanders a small bundle of papers like an open pack of cards.
Kuni summoned up her courage and asked whether they would also possess the power to remove a curse. Tetzel eagerly assented110, adding that he had papers which would wash the soul as white from every sin as soap would cleanse111 a sooty hand, even though, instead of "curse," its name was "parricide112."
The most costly113 had the power to transfer scoundrels roasting in the hottest flames of purgatory to the joys of paradise, as yonder sparrow had just soared from the dust of the street to the elm bough96.
Kuni timidly asked the price of an indulgence, but the Dominican unctuously114 explained that they were not sold like penny rolls at the baker's; the heavier the sin, the higher the fine to be paid. First of all, she must confess sincere contrition115 for what had been done and inform him how, in spite of her youth, she had been led into such heinous116 guilt. Kuni replied that she had long mourned her error most deeply, and then began to whisper to Tetzel how she had been induced to curse a fellow-mortal. She desired nothing for herself. Her sole wish was to release the dead girl from the flames of purgatory, and the curse which, by her guilt, burdened her soul. But the Dominican had only half listened, and as many who wanted indulgences were crowding around his box, he interrupted Kuni by offering her a paper which he would make out in the name of the accursed Juliane Peutinger—if he had heard correctly.
Such cases seemed to be very familiar to him, but the price he asked was so large that the girl grew pale with terror.
Yet she must have the redeeming117 paper, and Tetzel lowered his price after her declaration that she possessed118 only five heller pounds and the convent viaticum. Besides, she stated that she had already bargained with the carrier for the journey to the sea.
This, however, had no influence upon the Dominican, as the indulgence made the pilgrimage to Compostella unnecessary. Since it would redeem the accursed person from the fires of purgatory, she, too, was absolved119 from the vow which drew her thither.
With stern decision he therefore insisted upon demanding the entire sum in her possession. He could only do it so cheaply because her face and her lost foot showed that she was destined120 to suffer part of the eternal torture here on earth.
Then Kuni yielded. The paper was made out in the name of Juliane, she gave up her little store, and returned to the inn a penniless beggar, but with a lighter121 heart, carrying the precious paper under the handkerchief crossed over her bosom. But there the carrier refused her a seat without the money which she had promised him, and the landlord demanded payment for her night's lodging122 and the bit of food she had eaten.
Should she go back to the convent and ask for the little sum which Lienhard had left there for her?
The struggle was a hard one, but pride finally conquered. She renounced123 the kindly meant gift of her only friend. When the abbess returned the money to him, he could not help perceiving that she was no beggar and scorned to be his debtor124. If he then asked himself why, he would find the right answer. She did not confess it to herself in plain words, but she wished to remain conscious that, whether he desired it or not, she had given her heart's best love to this one man without reward, merely because it was her pleasure to do it. At last she remembered that she still possessed something valuable. She had not thought of it before, because it had been as much a part of herself as her eyes or her lips, and it would have seemed utterly impossible to part with it. This article was a tolerably heavy gold ring, with a sparkling ruby125 in the centre. She had drawn it from her father's finger after he had taken his last leap and she was called to his corpse126. She did not even know whether he had received the circlet as a wedding ring from the mother of whom she had no remembrance, or where he obtained it. But she had heard that it was of considerable value, and when she set off to sell the jewel, she did not find it very hard to gave it up. It seemed as if her father, from the grave, was providing his poor child with the means she needed to continue to support her life.
She had heard in the convent of Graslin, the goldsmith, who had bestowed127 on the chapel128 a silver shrine129 for the relics130, and went to him.
When she stood before the handsome gableroofed house which he occupied she shrank back a little. At first he received her sternly and repellantly enough, but, as soon as she introduced herself as the ropedancer who had met with the accident, he showed himself to be a kindly old gentleman.
After one of the city soldiers had said that she told the truth and had just been dismissed from the convent, he paid her the full value of the ring and added a florin out of sympathy and the admiration131 he felt for the charm which still dwelt in her sparkling blue eyes.
But Compostella was indeed far away. Her new supply of money was sufficient for the journey there, but how could she return? Besides, her cough troubled her very seriously, and it seemed as though she could not travel that long distance alone. The dealer132 in indulgences had said that the paper made the pilgrimage unnecessary, and the confessor in the convent had only commanded her to go to Altotting. With this neighbouring goal before her, she turned her back upon Augsburg the following morning.
Her hope of meeting on the way compassionate people, who would give her a seat in their vehicles, was fulfilled. She reached Altotting sooner than she had expected. During the journey, sometimes in a peasant's cart, sometimes in a freight wagon13, she had thought often of little Juliane, and always with a quiet, nay133, a contented134 heart. In the famous old church, at the end of her pilgrimage, she saw a picture in which the raked souls of children were soaring upward to heaven from the flames blazing around them in purgatory.
The confessor had sent her to the right place.
Here a fervent135 prayer had the power to rescue a child's soul from the fires of purgatory. Many other votive pictures, the pilgrims at the inn, and a priest whom she questioned, confirmed it. She also heard from various quarters that she had not paid too high a price for the indulgence. This strengthened her courage and henceforward, nay, even during the time of sore privation which she afterward136 endured, she blessed a thousand times her resolve to buy the ransoming137 paper from Tetzel, the Dominican; for she thought that she daily experienced its power.
Whenever Juliane appeared, her face wore a friendly expression—nay, once, in a dream, she floated before her as if she wished to thank her, in the form of a beautiful angel with large pink and white wings. She no longer needed to fear the horrible curse which she had called down upon the little one, and once more thought of Lienhard with pleasure. When he learned in the other world how she had atoned138 for the wrong which she had done his little favourite, she would be sure of his praise.
To be held in light esteem139, nay, even despised, was part of her calling, like her constant wandering. She had longed for applause in her art, but for herself she had desired nothing save swift draughts140 of pleasure, since she had learned how little she was regarded by the only person whose opinion she valued. She could never have expected that he would hold her in high esteem, since he was so indifferent to her art that he did not even think it worth while to lift his eyes to the rope. Yet the idea that he placed her in the same rank with others in her profession seemed unendurable. But she need grieve over this no longer, and when she remembered that even the sorest want had not been able to induce her to touch his alms, she could have fairly shouted for joy amid all her misery141. The conviction that one man, who was the best and noblest of his sex, might deem her a poor, unfortunate girl, but never a creature who deserved contempt, was the beam to which she clung, when the surges of her pitiable, wandering life threatened to close over her and stifle142 her.
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1
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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2
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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3
joyously
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ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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4
joyous
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adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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5
tormented
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饱受折磨的 | |
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cloister
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n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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7
cane
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n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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8
scattered
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adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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9
lavish
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adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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10
nuns
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n.(通常指基督教的)修女, (佛教的)尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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11
nun
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n.修女,尼姑 | |
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12
wagons
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n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 );铁路货车;小手推车 | |
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13
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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14
lurch
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n.突然向前或旁边倒;v.蹒跚而行 | |
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15
pricking
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刺,刺痕,刺痛感 | |
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16
alleys
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胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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17
tavern
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n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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18
lodged
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v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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19
armour
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(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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20
knight
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n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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21
emaciated
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adj.衰弱的,消瘦的 | |
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22
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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23
temperament
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n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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24
guilt
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n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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25
deserted
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adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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26
exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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27
clergy
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n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
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28
incense
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v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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29
holders
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支持物( holder的名词复数 ); 持有者; (支票等)持有人; 支托(或握持)…之物 | |
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30
guilds
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行会,同业公会,协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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31
pranks
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n.玩笑,恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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32
specially
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adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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33
rosy
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adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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34
embroiderer
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刺绣工 | |
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35
sobbing
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<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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36
withered
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adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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38
astonishment
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n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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39
lamentation
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n.悲叹,哀悼 | |
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40
embroidered
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adj.绣花的 | |
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41
coffin
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n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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42
sleeper
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n.睡眠者,卧车,卧铺 | |
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43
shroud
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n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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44
hem
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n.贴边,镶边;vt.缝贴边;(in)包围,限制 | |
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45
droop
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v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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46
wondrously
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adv.惊奇地,非常,极其 | |
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47
touching
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adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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48
precocious
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adj.早熟的;较早显出的 | |
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49
maturity
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n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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50
hatred
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n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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51
maxim
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n.格言,箴言 | |
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52
joyful
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adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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53
monk
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n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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54
inflict
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vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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55
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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56
premature
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adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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57
animated
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adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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58
majestic
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adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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59
shrouded
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v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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60
inflicting
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把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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61
bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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62
sobs
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啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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63
anguish
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n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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64
compassionate
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adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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65
embitter
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v.使苦;激怒 | |
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66
remorse
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n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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67
defiant
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adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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68
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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69
intentional
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adj.故意的,有意(识)的 | |
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70
atone
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v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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71
formerly
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adv.从前,以前 | |
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72
vow
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n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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73
salvation
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n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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74
longing
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n.(for)渴望 | |
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75
confide
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v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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76
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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77
ardent
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adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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78
jingling
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叮当声 | |
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79
yearning
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a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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80
motives
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n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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81
favourable
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adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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82
withheld
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withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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83
mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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84
dispel
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vt.驱走,驱散,消除 | |
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85
soothed
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v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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86
sleepless
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adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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87
vividly
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adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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88
wailing
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v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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89
pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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90
purgatory
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n.炼狱;苦难;adj.净化的,清洗的 | |
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91
virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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92
throngs
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n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群,挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
throng
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n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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94
thither
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adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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95
confession
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n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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96
bough
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n.大树枝,主枝 | |
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97
proprietor
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n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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98
gratitude
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adj.感激,感谢 | |
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99
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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100
enjoined
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v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
avarice
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n.贪婪;贪心 | |
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102
repented
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对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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104
parsimony
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n.过度节俭,吝啬 | |
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105
redeem
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v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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106
imprisoned
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下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
perspiration
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n.汗水;出汗 | |
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108
hereditary
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adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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109
foe
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n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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110
assented
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同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
cleanse
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vt.使清洁,使纯洁,清洗 | |
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112
parricide
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n.杀父母;杀亲罪 | |
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113
costly
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adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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114
unctuously
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adv.油腻地,油腔滑调地;假惺惺 | |
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115
contrition
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n.悔罪,痛悔 | |
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116
heinous
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adj.可憎的,十恶不赦的 | |
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117
redeeming
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补偿的,弥补的 | |
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118
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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119
absolved
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宣告…无罪,赦免…的罪行,宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 ); 不受责难,免除责任 [义务] ,开脱(罪责) | |
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120
destined
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adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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121
lighter
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n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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122
lodging
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n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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123
renounced
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v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 );宣布放弃;宣布与…决裂;宣布摒弃 | |
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124
debtor
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n.借方,债务人 | |
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125
ruby
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n.红宝石,红宝石色 | |
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126
corpse
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n.尸体,死尸 | |
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127
bestowed
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赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
chapel
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n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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129
shrine
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n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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130
relics
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[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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131
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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132
dealer
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n.商人,贩子 | |
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133
nay
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adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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134
contented
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adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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135
fervent
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adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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136
afterward
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adv.后来;以后 | |
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137
ransoming
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付赎金救人,赎金( ransom的现在分词 ) | |
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138
atoned
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v.补偿,赎(罪)( atone的过去式和过去分词 );补偿,弥补,赎回 | |
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139
esteem
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n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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140
draughts
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n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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141
misery
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n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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142
stifle
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vt.使窒息;闷死;扼杀;抑止,阻止 | |
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