Being bent2 and old he walked slowly, but as the tavern from which he had emerged was near the end of the street, it was not long before he came upon the big church at the corner, beyond which was the open country and circling highroad.
“They spoke3 of a graveyard4,” murmured he, pausing and gazing about him with eyes which seemed to have lost none of their penetration5, however bent his figure or aged6 his face. “Ah! I think I see it!” And he rambled7 on in the darkness till he came to a picket8 fence. But this fence enclosed a dwelling-house, whose large and imposing9 bulk rose in deepest shadow beyond him, and he had to walk several rods farther before he came to the spot of glimmering10 headstones and drooping11 willows12. A faint moon lent a ghostly light to the place, and as he stopped and bent his head over the intervening wall, weird13 glimpses were given him of snowy shafts14 and rounded hillocks, which may have accounted for the length of time he clung there without movement or sound.
But finally the dog whining16 at his heels, or the gleam of a light shining in the distance, recalled him to himself, and he moved, taking the direction of that light, though it led him over the cemetery17 wall and across such of the graves as lay along the border of the yard adjoining the large house of which I have previously18 spoken. The dog, who had not left him a moment since he joined him at the cave, shrank as he climbed the wall, and the old man took his course alone, treading as softly as he could, but yet making some noise as a broken twig19 snapped under his foot or he pressed down some tiny aspiring20 bush in his rude advance.
He was making for the light which shone from the window near the ground in the huge side of the great and otherwise unilluminated house he had passed a few minutes before. He had expected to be met by a fence like the one in front, but to his surprise he soon saw that the graveyard pressed close up to the house, and that there was a monument not ten yards from the very window he was approaching. He had paused at this monument, and was vainly trying to read the inscription22 which was cut deeply into the side turned toward the moon, when he heard a sudden sound, and, looking toward the house, saw that a door had opened in the blank side of the wall, and that the light had shifted from the window to this open square, where it was held high above the head of a remarkable24 looking man who was looking directly his way.
Convinced that this was Dr. Izard, he held his breath, and slunk as much into the shadow of the shaft15 as possible. Meanwhile he stared at the picture presented to his notice, and noted25 every outline of the noble head and small but finely proportioned form, that filled the illuminated21 gap before him. The face he could not see, but the attitude was eloquent26, and conveyed so vividly27 an expression of strained listening and agitated28 doubt, that this by no means careless observer felt that his step had been heard, and that something more than common curiosity had drawn29 the doctor to the spot.
A sudden sense of his position among the graves, or the chill imparted by his close contact with the stone shaft against which he had flung himself, made the aged wanderer shiver, but his emotion, however occasioned, did not last long, for with a sigh that could be plainly heard across the short space, Dr. Izard withdrew his head and closed the door, leaving nothing to be seen in the dim blackness of the houseside but the one square of light which had previously attracted the stranger’s attention.
With careful step and bated breath, the latter left the tomb by which he had sought refuge, and advanced to this same wall, along which he crept till he reached this uncurtained window. A glimpse of the interior was what he wanted, but, as he stopped to listen, he found that he was likely to obtain more than this, for plainly to be heard in the almost death-like quiet, came the sound of two voices conversing30, and he knew, perhaps by instinct, perhaps by ready reasoning, that they were the voices of the doctor and the pretty new heiress, Polly Earle.
To listen might have been a temptation to any man, but to this one it was almost a necessity. His first desire, however, was to see what was before him, and so, with more skill than one would expect, he bent a branch of the vine swaying about him, and, from behind its cover, peered into the shining panes31 that opened so invitingly32 beside him.
The first thing he saw was the room with its shelves upon shelves of books, piled high to the ceiling. As it answered the triple purpose of doctor’s office, student’s study, and a misanthrope’s cell, it naturally presented an anomalous33 appearance, which was anything but attractive at first sight. Afterward34, certain details stood out, and it became apparent that those curious dangling35 things which disfigured the upper portion of the room belonged entirely36 to the medical side of the occupant’s calling, while the mixture of articles on the walls, some beautiful, but many of them grotesque37 if not repellant, bespoke38 the man of taste whose nature has been warped39 by solitude40. A large door painted green filled up a considerable space of the wall on the left, but judging from the two heavy bars padlocked across it, it no longer served as a means of communication with the other parts of the house. On the contrary it had been fitted from top to bottom with shelves, upon which were ranged a doctor’s usual collection of phials, boxes, and surgical41 appliances, with here and there a Chinese image or an Indian god. A rude settle showed where he slept at night, and on the table in the middle of the room, a most incongruous litter of books, trinkets, medicines, clothing, sewing materials, and chemical apparatus42 proclaimed the fact, well known in the village, that no woman ever set foot in the place, save such as came for medical advice or on some such errand as had drawn hither the pretty Polly.
At the table and in full view of the peering intruder sat the genius of the place, Dr. Izard. His back was to the window and he was looking up at Polly, who stood near, twirling as usual her sunbonnet round her dainty forefinger43. It was his profile, therefore, which the curious wayfarer44 saw, but this profile was so fine and yet so characteristic that it immediately imprinted45 itself upon the memory like a silhouette46 and the observer felt that he had known it always. Yet it was not till one had been acquainted with the doctor long that all the traits of his extraordinary countenance47 became apparent. Its intelligence, its sadness, its reserve and the beauty which gave to all these qualities a strange charm which was rather awe-inspiring than pleasurable, struck the mind at once, but it was not till after months of intercourse48 that one saw that the spell he invariably created about him was not due to these obvious qualities but to something more subtle and enigmatic, something which flashed out in his face at odd times or fell from his voice under the strain of some unusual emotion, which while it neither satisfied the eye nor the ear, created such a halo of individuality about the man that dread49 became terror or admiration50 became worship according to the mental bias51 of the person observant of him.
In age he was nearer fifty than forty, and in color dark rather than light. But no one ever spoke of him as young or old, light or dark. He was simply Dr. Izard, the pride and the dread of the village, the central point of its intellectual life, on whose eccentricities52 judgment53 was suspended because through him fame had come to the village and its humble54 name been carried far and wide.
Polly, who feared nobody, but who had for this man, as her rather unwilling55 benefactor56, a wholesome57 respect, was looking down when the stranger first saw her. The smile which was never long absent from her lips lingered yet in the depths of the dimple that was turned toward the doctor, but the rest of her face showed emotion and a hint of seriousness which was by no means unbecoming to her poetic58 features.
“You are very good,” she was saying. “I have often wondered why you were so good to such a little flyaway as I am. But I shall surely remember all you have said and follow your advice as nearly as possible.”
There was unexpected coldness in the doctor’s reply:
“I have advised nothing but what any friend of yours must subscribe59 to. The woman with whom you are staying is a good woman, but the home she can give you is no longer suitable for a girl who has come, as you say you have, into possession of considerable property. You must find another; and since the house over our heads is a good one, I have ventured to offer it to you for a sum which your man of business certainly will not regard as high, considering its advantages of size and location.”
“By location do you mean its close proximity60 to the graveyard?” she inquired, with a na?ve inclination61 of her coquettish head. “I should say, myself, though I never fear anything, that its location is against it.”
His eye, which had wandered from hers, came back with a stern intentness.
“Since I have lived here for twenty years with no other outlook than the graves you see, I cannot be said to be a good judge of the matter. To me the spot has become a necessity, and if you should make the arrangement I suggest, it must be with the understanding that this room is to be reserved for my use as long as I live, for I could never draw a free breath elsewhere.”
“Nor would anyone wish you to,” said she. “This solitary63 room, with its dangling skulls64 and queer old images, its secrecy65 and darkness, and the graves pressing up almost to your window, seems a part of Dr. Izard. I could not imagine you in a trim office with a gig at the door and a man to drive it. No, it would rob us of half our faith in you, to see you enjoying life like other folks. You must stay here if only because my mother, lying over there in her solitary grave, would be lonely were your face to fail to appear every night and morning in your open doorway66.”
Her hand, which had paused in its restless action, pointed67 over her shoulder to the silent yard without. The physician’s eye followed it, and the words of reproof68 died upon his tongue.
“You think me frivolous,” she cried. “Well, so I am, at times. But you make me think; and if this sudden accession to fortune fills me with excitement and delight, the sight of you sitting here, and the nearness of my mother’s tomb, gives me some sober thoughts too, and—and—Dr. Izard, will you tell me one thing? Why do people stare when they hear the exact amount of the money left me? It is not because it is so large; for some say it is anything but a large fortune. Is it—” she hesitated a little, probably because it was always hard to talk to Dr. Izard—“for the reason that it is so near the sum my father was said to have carried away with him, when he left me so suddenly?”
The wind was fluttering the vines, and the doctor turned his head to look that way. When he glanced back he answered quietly, but with no irritation69 in his voice:
“It is hard to tell what causes the stare of ignorant people. What was the amount which has been left you? I do not think you have mentioned the exact figure.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” she whispered. “Isn’t it splendid,—a lordly fortune, for such a poor girl as I am?”
“Yes,” he acquiesced70, “yes.” But he seemed struck just as others had been who heard it.
“And was not that just what was paid papa by the French government just before mamma died?”
“I have heard it so said,” was the short reply.
“And don’t you know?” she asked.
The pout71 on her lips bespoke the spoiled child, but her little hands were trembling, and he seemed to see only that.
“Polly,”—he spoke harshly, for he did not like young girls, or women at all for that matter,—“I knew many things which I have let slip from my memory. When your father and I were young we were more or less intimate, being both of us students and ambitious of doing something worth while in this world. But after his disappearance72 and the unfortunate surmises73 to which it gave rise, I made a business of forgetting any confidential74 communications with which he may have entrusted75 me, and I advise you not to stir up old griefs by driving me to recall them now.”
“But you were my mother’s physician and saw my father just before he went away.”
“Yes.”
“And did he have twenty thousand dollars in money? They say so, but it seems incredible to me, who only remember my father as looking worried and poor.”
“Twenty thousand dollars was paid him two weeks before your mother died.”
“And he carried all that away with him and never left a dollar to his little motherless child? Oh, I know that some people say he was foully76 dealt with and that it was not of his own free will that he left me to the mercies of the town. But I never believed that. I have always thought of him as alive, and many is the night I have waked up crying—Oh, I can cry at night and in the darkness, if I do laugh all day when the sun shines—because I dreamt he was enjoying himself in foreign lands while I—” she stopped, looking inquiringly at Dr. Izard, and he, startled, looked inquiringly at her, then for the second time he rose up, and taking the light, went out to search up and down the ghostly waste before him, for what he rather felt than knew was near.
“Oh, how late it is getting!” cried the little maiden77, peering over his shoulder. “Did you think you heard someone sigh? I thought I did, but who would come creeping up to this spot? Do you know,” she exclaimed, drawing him in just as he was about to turn his attention to the side of the house against which they stood, “that I believe it’s that horrid78 green door which gives people the shivers when they come here. Why is it there and what is on the other side of it that you bar it up like that?”
The doctor, lifting his abstracted gaze, stared at the door for a moment, then turned moodily79 away. “It was the old way of going upstairs,” he remarked. “Why shouldn’t I bar it, since I have no further use for the rest of the house?”
“But its color,” she persisted; “why do you not paint it white?”
“When I fit up my den23 for a bride, then I will,” he retorted, and the audacious little thing became dumb on this subject, though she showed no inclination for dropping the other.
“Dear Dr. Izard,” she pursued, “I know I ought to be going home, but I have something more to ask, and it isn’t always that you allow me to speak to you. Our house—you know what I mean, my father’s and mother’s house,—is it really haunted, and is that why it is shut up, even from me?”
“Do you want to go into it, Polly?”
“No—and yet I have sometimes thought I should like to. It must be full of relics80 of my parents, and if it has not been disturbed since my father went away, why, I might almost see the prints of his feet on the floors, and the pressure of his form in the old lounges and chairs.”
“You are too imaginative!” cried the doctor. “They will have to marry you to some practical man.”
She flushed, drew back and seemed on the point of uttering some violent protest or indignant reproach, but instead of that she returned to the original topic.
“I should like to hear from your lips, which never exaggerate or add the least bit of romance to anything you say, just the story of my father’s departure and that sudden shutting up of the house. I think I ought to know now that I am a grown woman and have money of my own.”
“Will you go, after I have told you all that there is to know?” he asked, with just a touch of impatience81 in his naturally severe tone.
“Yes,” she laughed, irresistibly82 moved by his appearance of ill-nature. “I won’t stay one minute longer than you wish me to. Only,” she added, with the sobriety more in accordance with the theme they were discussing, “do make the whole thing clear to me. I have heard so many stories and all of them so queer.”
He frowned, and his face underwent an indescribable change.
“You are a silly slip of a girl and I have a mind to turn you out of the house at once. But,” and his eyes wandered away to his books, “your curiosity is legitimate83 and shall be satisfied. Only not here,” he suddenly cried, “I will tell you as we walk toward your home.”
“Or in the graveyard outside,” she murmured. “I am not afraid of the place with you near me. Indeed, I think I should like to hear my mother’s story, standing62 by her tomb.”
“You would!” The doctor, astonished, agitated almost, by this untoward84 sentiment uttered by lips he had only seen parted in laughter, rose, and leaning on the table looked over it at her, with eyes whose effect only was visible to the straining pair without. “Well, you shall have your wish. I will tell you her story, that is, as much as I know of it, standing by her grave without.” And with a grim smile, he took up his hat and stepped quickly before her toward the door. She followed him, with an eager gesture, and in a minute their two shadows could be dimly seen in the moonlight falling over the face of that very shaft behind which the stranger had taken refuge an hour or so before. The vines that swayed about the window ceased their restless rustling85 and seemed to cling with heavier shadow than usual to the dismal86 wall.
“Your father,” said the doctor, “was a man of one idea, but that idea was a valuable one and it paid its projector87 well. The invention which he conceived, perfected, and made practical, was an important one, suited to large governmental undertakings88 and meeting the wants of France especially. It was bought, as I have said, from your father for the sum of twenty thousand dollars. But this good fortune, while deserved, had not come early, and your mother, who had been overburdened in her youth, was on her deathbed when the favorable news came. It comforted her, but it almost maddened your father, if I may judge from the frenzied89 expressions he used in my hearing. He did not touch the money, and when she died he locked himself up in a room, from which he only emerged to attend her funeral. This I tell you that you may see that his paternal90 instinct was not as great as his conjugal91 one, or he would not have forgotten you in his grief. Did you speak?”
“No, no; but it is gloomy here, after all; let us go on into the highway.”
But the man clinging to the wall was not forced to move. The doctor did not heed92 her entreaty93, or if he did he ignored it, for his voice went coldly and impassively on: “The night after your mother was buried, your father was seen looking from one of the windows of his house. The next morning he was missing. That is all I can tell you, Polly. No one knows any more than that.”
“But wasn’t there somebody in the house besides himself? Where was I?”
“Oh, you were there, and an old woman who had been looking after you in your mother’s illness. But you were too young to realize anything, and the woman—she has since died—had nothing to say, but that she was sure she heard your father go out.”
“And the money?”
“Went with him.”
“Oh, I have heard it all before,” came after a moment’s silence, in sharp and plaintive94 tones. “But I was in hopes you could tell me something different, something new. Did they look for my father as I would have done had I been old enough to understand?”
“I headed the search myself, Polly; and later the police from Boston came down, and went through the town thoroughly95. But they met with no results.”
“And now a stranger leaves me twenty thousand dollars! Dr. Izard, I should like to know something about that stranger. He died in the Chicago Hospital, I am told.”
“I will make inquiries96.”
“If—if he had anything to do with my father’s disappearance——”
“You will never know it; the man is dead.”
A silence followed these few words, during which the agitated breathing of the young girl could be heard. Then her quivering voice rose in the impatient cry: “Yes, yes; but it would be such a relief to know the truth. As it is, I am always thinking that each stranger I see coming into town is he. Not that it makes me timid or melancholy97; nothing could do that, I think; but still I’m not quite happy, nor can this money make me so while any doubts remain as to my father’s fate.”
“I cannot help you,” the doctor declared. “For fourteen years you have borne your burden, little one, and time should have taught you patience. If I were in a position like yours I would not allow old griefs to fret98 me. I should consider that a man who had been missing most of my lifetime was either dead or so indifferent that I ran but little chance of seeing him again. I myself do not think there is the least likelihood of your ever doing so. Why then not be happy?”
“Well, I will,” she sighed. “I’m sure it’s not my nature to be otherwise. But something either in these dismal trees, or in yourself or in myself makes me almost gloomy to-night. I feel as if a cloud, hung over me. Am I very foolish, doctor, and will you be taking me back to the office to give me a dose of some bitter, black stuff to drive away the horrors? I had rather you would give me a fatherly word. I’m so alone in the world, for all my friends.”
He may have answered this appeal by some touch or sympathetic move, but if he did, the listener was not near enough to catch it. There was a rustling where they stood and in another instant the bare head of the young girl was visible again in the moonlight.
“I think I will be going home,” said she, and turned towards the gateway99. The doctor followed her and together they left the cemetery and entered the high-road. When the sound of their voices had died away in the distance, a deep and heavy shadow separated itself from the side of the house near the window and resolving itself again into the image of the man through whose ears we have listened to the broken dialogue we have endeavored to transcribe100, took up its stand before the still lighted window and for several minutes studied the peculiar101 interior most diligently102. Then it drew off, and sliding down the path which followed the side of the house, emerged upon the road and took its own course to the village.
Something which he did not see and something which he did not hear, took place at the other end of the town before a cheerfully lighted mansion103. Dr. Izard and Polly had traversed the length of the street, and had nearly reached the cottage in which she was at present living, when the former felt the little hand now thrust confidingly104 into his arm, flutter and shift a trifle. As the girl had regained105 her spirits and was now chatting in quite a merry way upon indifferent topics, he looked up to see what it was that had affected106 her, and saw nothing save the lights of the Unwin place and a figure which must have been that of young Unwin sitting on the shadowy veranda107. As he had reasons of his own for not liking108 to pass this house, he stopped and glanced at the young girl inquiringly. She had ceased speaking and her head was hanging so low that the curls dropped against her cheek, hiding her eyes and the expression of her mouth.
“I think,” she whispered, “if you don’t mind, that I will walk on the other side of you. It is very late for me to be out, even with you, and Clarke——”
The doctor, drawing in his breath, turned his full face on her and stood so long gazing into her drooping countenance that she felt frightened and attempted to move on. Instantly he responded to her wish and they passed the house with quick and agitated steps, but when the shadows of the next block had absorbed them, they both paused as it were simultaneously109, and the doctor said with something more than his usual feeling in his thin, fine voice, “Do you care for Clarke Unwin, little one?”
Her answer struck him.
“Do I care for breath, for life? He has been both to me ever since I could remember anything. And now he cares for me.”
The doctor, lost in some overwhelming dream or thought, did not answer her for several minutes. Then he suddenly lifted her face by its dainty chin, and in a deep, controlled tone, totally different from the one he had used a short time before, he solemnly remarked:
“For fourteen years I have taken an interest in you and done for you what I have done for nobody else in the town. I hope that my care has made a good girl of you, and that under all your fanciful ways and merry antics there hides a true woman’s heart.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I know that I would rather give up my fortune than one little memory connected with these last three weeks.”
“And he—he loves you? You are sure of it, little one?”
The lift of her head was eloquent; the doctor wished he could see her face, but the darkness was too thick for that.
“May Heaven bless you!” faltered110 on his tongue; but the words were too unusual to the ascetic’s cold lips for them to pass into speech, and the girl thought his manner more distant and unsympathetic than common.
“It is a secret I have told you,” she murmured, and being then within a few steps of her own gate, she slid from his grasp and vanished in the darkness.
He, with a sigh that seemed to rend111 the icy bonds which years of repression112 had bound about his breast, remained for a moment with his head bent, gazing on the ground at his feet. Then he drew himself up, and passed quickly back over the road he had come.
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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illuminated
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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remarkable
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noted
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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vividly
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agitated
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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conversing
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panes
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invitingly
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anomalous
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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35
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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36
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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37
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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38
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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39
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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40
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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41
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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42
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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43
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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44
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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45
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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49
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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52
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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53
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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54
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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55
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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56
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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57
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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59
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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60
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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61
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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62
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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63
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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64
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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66
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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69
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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70
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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73
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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77
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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80
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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81
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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82
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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83
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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84
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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85
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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86
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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87
projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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88
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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89
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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90
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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91
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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92
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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93
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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94
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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95
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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96
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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97
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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98
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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99
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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100
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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103
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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104
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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105
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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106
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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107
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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108
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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109
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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110
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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111
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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112
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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