The next moment he traversed the carpeted interval5 between them and halted at the table's damask edge, gazing intently across at the solitary6 diner, who sat leaning back in an arm-chair, heavy right hand still resting on the stem of a claret glass, a cigar suspended between the fingers of his left hand.
"Are you Colonel Arran?"
"I am," replied the man at the table coolly. "Who the devil are you?"
"By God," replied the other with an insolent7 laugh, "that's what I came here to find out!"
The man at the table laid both hands on the edge of the cloth and partly rose from his chair, then fell back solidly, in silence, but his intent gaze never left the other's bloodless face.
"Send away your servants, Colonel Arran!" said the young man in a voice now labouring under restraint. "We'll settle this matter now."
The other made as though to speak twice; then, with an effort, he motioned to the butler.
What he meant by the gesture perhaps he himself scarcely realised at the moment.
The butler instantly signalled to Pim, the servant behind Colonel Arran's chair, and started forward with a furtive9 glance at his master; and the young man turned disdainfully to confront him.
"Will you retire peaceably, sir?"
"No, but you will retire permanently10 if you touch me. Be very careful."
Colonel Arran leaned forward, hands still gripping the table's edge:
"Larraway!"
"Sir?"
"You may go."
The small gray eyes in the pock-pitted face stole toward young
Berkley, then were cautiously lowered.
"Very well, sir," he said.
"Close the drawing-room doors. No—this way. Go out through the pantry. And take Pim with you."
"Very well, sir."
"And, Larraway!"
"Sir?"
"When I want you I'll ring. Until then I don't want anybody or anything. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is all."
"Thank you, sir."
The great mahogany folding doors slid smoothly11 together, closing out the brilliant drawing-room; the door of the butler's pantry clicked.
Colonel Arran slowly wheeled in his place and surveyed his unbidden guest:
"Well, sir," he said, "continue."
"I haven't yet begun."
"You are mistaken, Berkley; you have made a very significant beginning. I was told that you are this kind of a young man."
"I am this kind of a young man. What else have you been told?"
Colonel Arran inspected him through partly closed and heavy eyes; "I am further informed," he said, that at twenty-four you have already managed to attain12 bankruptcy13."
"Perfectly14 correct. What other items have you collected concerning me?"
"You can retrace15 your own peregrinations if you care to. I believe they follow a vicious circle bisecting the semi-fashionable world, and the—other. Shall we say that the expression, unenviable notoriety, summarises the reputation you have acquired?"
"Exactly," he said; "both kinds of vice16, Colonel Arran—respectable and disreputable."
"Oh! And am I correct in concluding that, at this hour, you stand there a financially ruined man—at twenty-four years of age——"
"I do stand here; but I'm going to sit down."
He did so, dropped both elbows on the cloth, and balancing his chin on the knuckles17 of his clasped hands, examined the older man with insolent, unchanging gaze.
"Go on," he said coolly, "what else do you conclude me to be?"
"What else is there to say to you, Berkley? You have evidently seen my attorneys."
"I have; the fat shyster and the bow-legged one." He reached over, poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter, then, with an unpleasant laugh, set it aside untasted.
"I beg your pardon. I've had a hard day of it. I'm not myself," he said with an insolent shrug18 of excuse. "At eleven o'clock this morning Illinois Central had fallen three more points, and I had no further interest in the market. Then one of your brokers19—" He leaned farther forward on the table and stared brightly at the older man, showing an edge of even teeth, under the receding20 upper lip:
"How long have your people been watching me?"
"Long enough to give me what information I required."
"Then you really have had me watched?"
"I have chosen to keep in touch with your—career, Berkley."
Berkley's upper lip again twitched21 unpleasantly; but, when at length he spoke22, he spoke more calmly than before and his mobile features were in pallid23 repose24.
"One of your brokers—Cone—stopped me. I was too confused to understand what he wanted of me. I went with him to your attorneys—" Like lightning the snarl25 twitched his mouth again; he made as though to rise, and controlled himself in the act.
"Where are the originals of those letters?" he managed to say at last.
"In this house."
"Am I to have them?"
"I think so."
"So do I," said the young man with a ghastly smile. "I'm quite sure of it."
Colonel Arran regarded him in surprise.
"There is no occasion for violence in this house, Berkley."
"Where are the letters?"
"Have you any doubts concerning what my attorneys have told you?
The originals are at your immediate26 disposal if you wish."
Then Berkley struck the table fiercely, and stood up, as claret splashed and trembling crystal rang.
"That's all I want of you!" he said. "Do you understand what you've done? You've killed the last shred27 of self-respect in me! Do you think I'd take anything at your hands? I never cared for anybody in the world except my mother. If what your lawyers tell me is true—" His voice choked; he stood swaying a moment, face covered by his hands,
"Berkley!"
The young man's hands fell; he faced the other, who had risen to his heavy six-foot height, confronting him across the table.
"Berkley, whatever claim you have on me—and I'm ignoring the chance that you have none——"
"By God, I tell you I have none! I want none! What you have done to her you have done to me! What you and your conscience and your cruelty and your attorneys did to her twenty-four years ago, you have done this day to me! As surely as you outlawed29 her, so have you outlawed me to-day. That is what I now am, an outlaw28!"
"It was insulted civilisation30 that punished, not I, Berkley——"
"It was you! You took your shrinking pound of flesh. I know your sort. Hell is full of them singing psalms31!"
Colonel Arran sat silently stern a moment. Then the congested muscles, habituated to control, relaxed again. He said, under perfect self-command:
"You'd better know the truth. It is too late now to discuss whose fault it was that the trouble arose between your mother and me. We lived together only a few weeks. She was in love with her cousin; she didn't realise it until she'd married me. I have nothing more to say on that score; she tried to be faithful, I believe she was; but he was a scoundrel. And she ended by thinking me one.
"Even before I married her I was made painfully aware that our dispositions32 and temperaments33 were not entirely34 compatible. I think," he added grimly, "that in the letters read to you this afternoon she used the expression, 'ice and fire,' in referring to herself and me."
Berkley only looked at him.
"There is now nothing to be gained in reviewing that unhappy affair," continued the other. "Your mother's family are headlong, impulsive35, fiery36, unstable37, emotional. There was a last shameful38 and degrading scene. I offered her a separation; but she was unwisely persuaded to sue for divorce."
Colonel Arran bent39 his head and touched his long gray moustache with bony fingers.
"The proceeding40 was farcical; the decree a fraud. I warned her; but she snapped her fingers at me and married her cousin the next day. . . . And then I did my duty by civilisation."
Still Berkley never stirred. The older man looked down at the wine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson41 stain with unsteady finger. Then, lifting his head:
"I had that infamous42 decree set aside," he said grimly. "It was a matter of duty and of conscience, and I did it without remorse43. . . . They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip. But I had warned her." He shrugged44 his massive shoulders. "If they were not over-particular they were probably happy. Then he broke his neck hunting—before you were born."
"Was he my father?"
"I am taking the chance that he was not."
"You had reason to believe——"
"I thought so. But—your mother remained silent. And her answer to my letters was to have you christened under the name you bear to-day, Philip Ormond Berkley. And then, to force matters, I made her status clear to her. Maybe—I don't know—but my punishment of her may have driven her to a hatred45 of me—a desperation that accepted everything—even you!"
Berkley lifted a countenance46 from which every vestige47 of colour had fled.
"Why did you tell me this?"
"Because I believe that there is every chance—that you may be legally entitled to my name. Since I have known who you are, I—I have had you watched. I have hesitated—a long while. My brokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for much longer. To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood in need of anybody. I take the chance that you have that claim on me; I offer to receive you, provide for you. That is all, Berkley. Now you know everything."
"Who else—knows?"
"Knows what?"
"Knows what you did to my mother?"
"Some people among the families immediately concerned," replied
Colonel Arran coolly.
"Who are they?"
"Your mother's relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys—my family, the
Arrans, the Lents——"
"What Lents?" interrupted the young man looking up sharply.
"They live in Brooklyn. There's a brother and a sister, orphans48; and an uncle. Captain Josiah Lent."
"Oh. . . . Who else?"
"A Mrs. Craig who lives in Brooklyn. She was Celia Paige, your mother's maid of honour."
"Who else?"
"A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly49 my ward8. She is now a widow, a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace. She, however, has no knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor any one in the Craig family except Mrs. Craig."
"Who else?"
"Nobody."
"I see. . . . And, as I understand it, you are now stepping forward to offer me—on the chance of—of——"
"I offer you a place in this house as my son. I offer to deal with you as a father—accepting that belief and every responsibility, and every duty, and every sacrifice that such a belief entails,"
For a long time the young fellow stood there without stirring, pallid, his dark, expressionless eyes, fixed50 on space. And after a while he spoke.
"Colonel Arran, I had rather than all the happiness on earth, that you had left me the memory of my mother. You have chosen not to do so. And now, do you think I am likely to exchange what she and I really are, for anything more respectable that you believe you can offer?
"How, under God, you could have punished her as you did—how you could have reconciled your conscience to the invocation of a brutal51 law which rehabilitated52 you at the expense of the woman who had been your wife—how you could have done this in the name of duty and of conscience, I can not comprehend.
"I do not believe that one drop of your blood runs in my veins53."
He bent forward, laying his hands flat on the cloth, then gripping it fiercely in clenched54 fists:
"All I want of you is what was my mother's. I bear the name she gave me; it pleased her to bestow55 it; it is good enough for me to wear. If it be hers only, or if it was also my father's, I do not know; but that name, legitimate56 or otherwise, is not for exchange! I will keep it, Colonel Arran. I am what I am."
He hesitated, rigid57, clenching58 and unclenching his hands—then drew a deep, agonised breath:
"I suppose you have meant to be just to me, I wish you might have dealt more mercifully with my mother. As for what you have done to me—well—if she was illegally my mother, I had rather be her illegitimate son than the son of any woman who ever lived within the law. Now may I have her letters?"
"Is that your decision, Berkley?"
"It is. I want only her letters from you—and any little keepsakes—relics—if there be any——"
"I offer to recognise you as my son."
"I decline—believing that you mean to be just—and perhaps kind—God knows what you do mean by disinterring the dead for a son to look back upon——"
"Could I have offered you what I offer, otherwise?"
"Man! Man! You have nothing to offer me! Your silence was the only kindness you could have done me! You have killed something in me. I don't know what, yet—but I think it was the best part of me."
"Berkley, do you suppose that I have entered upon this matter lightly?"
Berkley laughed, showing his teeth. "No. It was your damned conscience; and I suppose you couldn't strangle it. I am sorry you couldn't. Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder."
Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he turned to the butler.
"Bring me the despatch59 box which stands on: my study table."
Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.
"Would you accept a glass of wine?" asked Colonel Arran in a low voice.
Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.
"Shall a man drink wine with the slayer60 of souls?" Then, pallid face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. "Not that you ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder hers! But you've killed mine. I know now what died in me. It was that! . . . And I know now, as I stand here excommunicated by you from all who have been born within the law, that there is not left alive in me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction. I am what your righteousness has made me—a man without hope; a man with nothing alive in him except the physical brute61. . . . Better not arouse that."
"You do not know what you are saying, Berkley"—Colonel Arran choked; turned gray; then a spasm62 twitched his features and he grasped the arms of his chair, staring at Berkley with burning eyes.
Neither spoke again until Larraway entered, carrying an inlaid box.
"Thank you, Larraway. You need not wait."
"Thank you, sir."
When they were again alone Colonel Arran unlocked and opened the box, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for some little time, apparently63 sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents. He was so very long about it that Berkley stirred at last in his chair; and at the same moment the older man seemed to arrive at an abrupt64 decision, for he closed the lid and laid two packages on the cloth between them.
"Are these mine?" asked Berkley.
"They are mine," corrected the other quietly, "but I choose to yield them to you."
"Thank you," said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in his voice. He took the letters, turned around to look for his hat, found it, and straightened up with a long, deep intake65 of breath.
"I think there is nothing more to be said between us, Colonel
Arran?"
"That lies with you."
Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. "Then, sir, there remain the ceremonies of my leave taking—" he stepped closer, level-eyed—"and my very bitter hatred."
There was a pause. Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck the bell:
"Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided66 to go."
"Yes, sir."
"You will accompany Mr. Berkley to the door."
"Yes, sir."
"And hand to Mr. Berkley the outer key of this house."
"Yes, sir."
"And in case Mr. Berkley ever again desires to enter this house, he is to be admitted, and his orders are to be obeyed by every servant in it."
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Arran rose trembling. He and Berkley looked at each other; then both bowed; and the butler ushered67 out the younger man.
"Pardon—the latch-key, sir."
Berkley took it, examined it, handed it back.
"Return it to Colonel Arran with Mr. Berkley's undying—compliments," he said, and went blindly out into the April night, but his senses were swimming as though he were drunk.
Behind him the door of the house of Arran clanged.
Larraway stood stealthily peering through the side-lights; then tiptoed toward the hallway and entered the dining-room with velvet68 tread.
"Port or brandy, sir?" he whispered at Colonel Arran's elbow.
The Colonel shook his head.
"Nothing more. Take that box to my study."
Later, seated at his study table before the open box, he heard Larraway knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley's mother which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.
"Well?"
"Pardon. Mr. Berkley's key, with Mr. Berkley's compliments, sir."
And he laid it upon the table by the box.
"Thank you. That will be all."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
"Good night."
The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:
"By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable69. Postscript70! Fort Sumter! It is now certain that the Government has decided to reinforce Major Andersen's command at all hazards——"
The lines in the Evening Post blurred71 under his eyes; he passed one broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and, setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed himself to read. But after a few minutes he had read enough. He dropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature of Berkley's mother.
As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his keepsakes, in the lodgings72 which he inhabited—and now would inhabit no more. The letters lay still unopened before him on his writing table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs, all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward73.
One by one he took them up, examined them—touched them to his lips, laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; he could not bear to read them now.
The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and locked his desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared his shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.
"Oh—yes," he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.
The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to a theatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward74.
He had a vague idea that he had accepted.
The play was "The Seven Sisters" at Laura, Keene's Theatre. The dance was somewhere—probably at Delmonico's. If he were going, it was time he was afoot.
His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he moved restlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms. But to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; and the strangeness of it, and the solitude75 were stupefying him.
When he became tired trying to think, he made the tour again in a stupid sort of way, then rang for his servant, Burgess, and started mechanically about his dressing76.
Nothing any longer seemed real, not even pain.
He rang for Burgess again, but the fellow did not appear. So he dressed without aid. And at last he was ready; and went out, drunk with fatigue77 and the reaction from pain.
He did not afterward remember how he came to the theatre. Presently he found himself in a lower tier box, talking to a Mrs. Paige who, curiously78, miraculously79, resembled the girlish portraits of his mother—or he imagined so—until he noticed that her hair was yellow and her eyes blue. And he laughed crazily to himself, inwardly convulsed; and then his own voice sounded again, low, humorous, caressingly80 modulated81; and he listened to it, amused that he was able to speak at all.
"And so you are the wonderful Ailsa Paige," he heard himself repeating. "Camilla wrote me that I must beware of my peace of mind the moment I first set eyes on you——"
"Camilla Lent is supremely82 silly, Mr. Berkley——"
"Camilla is a sibyl. This night my peace of mind departed for ever."
"May I offer you a little of mine?"
"I may ask more than that of you?"
"You mean a dance?"
"More than one."
"How many?"
"All of them. How many will you give me?"
"One. Please look at the stage. Isn't Laura Keene bewitching?"
"Your voice is."
"Such nonsense. Besides, I'd rather hear what Laura Keene is saying than listen to you."
"Do you mean it?"
"Incredible as it may sound, Mr. Berkley, I really do."
He dropped back in the box. Camilla laid her painted fan across his arm.
"Isn't Ailsa Paige the most enchanting83 creature you ever saw? I told you so! Isn't she?"
"Except one. I was looking at some pictures of her a half an hour ago."
"She must be very beautiful," sighed Camilla.
"She was."
"Oh. . . . Is she dead?"
"Murdered."
Camilla looked at the stage in horrified84 silence. Later she touched him again on the arm, timidly.
"Are you not well, Mr. Berkley?"
"Perfectly. Why?"
"You are so pale. Do look at Ailsa Paige. I am completely enamoured of her. Did you ever see such a lovely creature in all your life? And she is very young but very wise. She knows useful and charitable things—like nursing the sick, and dressing injuries, and her own hats. And she actually served a whole year in the horrible city hospital! Wasn't it brave of her!"
Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to be tormented85 again by the feverish86 idea that she resembled the girl pictures of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic impression. In the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted outlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of things material and mental, Ailsa Paige's face alone remained strangely clear. And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, he leaned forward to her shoulder again.
"There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turned slowly and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke87 in her eyes remained unuttered.
"Be more genuine with me," she said gently. "I am worth it, Mr.
Berkley."
Then, suddenly there seemed to run a pale flash through his brain,
"Yes," he said in an altered voice, "you are worth it. . . . Don't drive me away from you just yet."
"Drive you away?" in soft concern. "I did not mean——"
"You will, some day. But don't do it to-night." Then the quick, feverish smile broke out.
"Do you need a servant? I'm out of a place. I can either cook, clean silver, open the door, wash sidewalks, or wait on the table; so you see I have every qualification."
Smilingly perplexed88, she let her eyes rest on his pallid face for a moment, then turned toward the stage again.
The "Seven Sisters" pursued its spectacular course; Ione Burke, Polly Marshall, and Mrs. Vining were in the cast; tableau89 succeeded tableau; "I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popular burlesque90 ended in the celebrated91 scene, "The Birth of the Butterfly in the Bower92 of Ferns," with the entire company kissing their finger-tips to a vociferous93 and satiated audience.
Then it was supper at Delmonico's, and a dance—and at last the waltz promised him by Ailsa Paige.
Through the fixed unreality of things he saw her clearly, standing94, awaiting him, saw her sensitive face as she quietly laid her hand on his—saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.
Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet only of the surprise.
Dazed, he stared back. Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; both seemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance, and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned95. Only the fragrance96 of her hair seemed real to him; and the long lashes97 resting on curved cheeks, and the youth of her yielding to his embrace.
Neither spoke when it had ended. She turned aside and stood motionless a moment, resting against the stair rail as though to steady herself. Her small head was lowered.
He managed to say: "You will give me the next?"
"No."
"Then the next——"
"No," she said, not moving.
A young fellow came up eagerly, cocksure of her, but she shook her head—and shook her head to all—and Berkley remained standing beside her. And at last her reluctant head turned slowly, and, slowly, her gaze searched his.
"Shall we rest?" he said.
"Yes. I am—tired."
Her dainty avalanche98 of skirts filled the stairs as she settled there in silence; he at her feet, turned sideways so that he could look up into the brooding, absent eyes.
And over them again—over the small space just then allotted99 them in the world—was settling once more the intangible, indefinable spell awakened100 by their first light contact. Through its silence hurried their pulses; through its significance her dazed young eyes looked out into a haze101 where nothing stirred except a phantom102 heart, beating, beating the reveille. And the spell lay heavy on them both.
"I shall bear your image always. You know it."
She seemed scarcely to have heard him.
"There is no reason in what I say. I know it. Yet—I am destined103 never to forget you."
She made no sign.
"Ailsa Paige," he said mechanically.
And after a long while, slowly, she looked down at him where he sat at her feet, his dark eyes fixed on space.
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收听单词发音
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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twitched
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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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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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31
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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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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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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rehabilitated
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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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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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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75
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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76
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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81
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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82
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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83
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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84
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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85
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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86
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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87
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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89
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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99
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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101
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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102
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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