Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe12 and drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is the situation of few to emerge from the wreck13 of a home without any personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly14 it had happened thus.
Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner15 who neglected the wife of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less placidly16 by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Précepteur"; in German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, since the selling-price of education is an outrage17 on its cost—she had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined incompetence18: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, because it is refined; the refinement19 that cannot support itself by any brain work, because it is incompetent20. It was suggested that she might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" again—and this time, "thank you."
She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth21 on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation22, and became at last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled.
Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap23 had cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she had forgotten—that she was a woman capable of love.
One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom.
He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow24. And when at last he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her to come.
There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a joint25 wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings27 in Guilford Street, and here occurred their great scene.
He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law would not annul29 his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved Mary. Would she forgive his deception30 and be his wife in everything except the ceremony that could not be performed?
It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties31 only by force, and he upbraided32 himself for not having disclosed his position in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice33 by calling it "expedience34," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to the tremors35 of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she.
Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave the sophistry36 of both full play. He harped37 on the "grandeur38 of the sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her misery39. He cried to her that it would be a heroism40, and she wondered dully if it really would. She queried41 if there was indeed a higher duty than denial—if her virtue42 could be merely selfishness in disguise. His insistence43 on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at the cost of her own transgression44. And then, in the background, burnt a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated45 when she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the innate46 fickleness47 of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr48, who had broken his leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation49. Ultimately he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of sobs—in suddenly realising how happy she was.
He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon50" was spent in the, to her, unfamiliar51 atmosphere of a theatrical52 tour. One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept village—a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of cottages—called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect53 against her heart.
In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken54 in the streets.
The myriad55 clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was beaten with their din26. The way to the station appeared endless; yards were preternaturally lengthened56; and ever pressing on, yet ever with a lonely vista57 to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, seeking a destination that had vanished.
At last the building loomed before her, ponderously58 still, and she passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours.
By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after his advent59 she was able to procure60 a ticket—a third-class ticket, which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody61 of her bag, she waited miserably62 till the line of carriages thundered into view.
It was a wretched journey—a ghastly horror of a journey—but it did not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no cause to be impatient. Intermittently63 she dozed64, waking with a start as the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled65. When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped66 as she descended67 among the groups of dreary68-faced passengers, and the load on her mind lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room.
A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry69 heaped in the window, reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy70 table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone.
It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging28 at five minutes to eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as possible, yearning71 to be alone with a door shut and a pillow.
She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting squalor. The tenements72 around her were not attractive. On the parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding74 for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort75. In Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda76 and confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to her; yet it had been in that house——What a landmark77 in her life's history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her soul behind the stolid78 frontage that she had nearly passed without recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced79 it half tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking up her quarters on the spot was eminently80 repugnant, and she turned several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell.
Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent—as is the manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let—and fled to the basement, calling "missis."
Mary contemplated81 the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been struggling to conceal82 all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be coupled with an expression of defensive83 virtue.
"I am looking for a room," said Mary.
"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance.
"You have one to let, I think, by the card?"
"Yes, there's a room."
She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing her elbows.
"Can you let me see it—if it isn't inconvenient84 so early?"
"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady85. She preceded her to the top-floor, but with no alacrity86. "This is it," she said.
It was a back attic87 of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything.
"What is the rent?" she asked wearily.
"Did you say your husband would be joining you?"
"My husband? No, I'm a widow."
There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried."
"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give me references, of course?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. "I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station."
"What do you work at?"
"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; well, I will pay you in advance!"
"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly.
Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made herself understood.
"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay for the first week now, if you like?"
"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please."
They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone88 stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood was tingling89 under the inexplicable90 insolence91 of the treatment she had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted92 on the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an improper93 person—inadmissible not because she is improper, but because her impropriety is presumably not monopolised.
During the next hour, repulse94 followed repulse. Sometimes, with the curt73 assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were so exorbitant95 that she came out astounded96, not realising the nature of the house.
It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known—not the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be unendurable—but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful to be adopted save on impulse.
She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated97 demands for references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago have got destroyed—she did not know. It had never occurred to her that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had happened in the interval98. The absence of a certificate therefore meant the absence of all testimony99 to her being a qualified100 nurse. As the helplessness of her plight101 rushed in upon her she trembled. How long must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would starve if she did not find something soon!
Busses jogged by her laden102 with sober-faced men and women, bound for the vocations103 that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along the curb104 with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded in scraps105 of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening106 bustle107 passed her engrossed108 by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, revolving109 in its individual world. London looked to her a city without mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every chink and crevice110 seemed stocked with its appointed denizens111, and the hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared presumption112.
Eleven o'clock had struck—that is to say, she had been walking for more than three hours—when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of "J. Shuttleworth, mason."
A hard-featured woman was evoked113 by the dispirited knock. Seeing a would-be lodger114 who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and the applicant115 agreed to it and was grateful.
"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?"
"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank you." She roused herself to the exigencies116 of the occasion. "How much will that be?"
"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?"
The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the wash-tub cheerful.
Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded to the basement, to ascertain117 the nearest route.
She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch118 of bread, and a slap of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her fast.
And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship than a lack of company; but the fatigue119, which had been acting120 as a partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned despondently121 on the table; outside, the street was discordant122 with the cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity123 seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness124. "Yours ever"—the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred125 to her. He was wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she would have done if she had borne him a child—whether the child would have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow126.
Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle worthy127 evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. Next the woman's voice arose shrieking128 recrimination, the babel subsiding129 amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill8.
The disturbance130 tended to obtrude131 the practical side of her dilemma132, and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter what sort, appalled133 her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied134 might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required a pound. And she had towards it—with a sinking of her heart she emptied her purse to be sure—exactly two and ninepence.
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1
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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6
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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7
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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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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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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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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expedience
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| n.方便，私利，权宜 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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41
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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44
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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45
commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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47
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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48
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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49
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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50
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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51
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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52
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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53
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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54
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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55
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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56
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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58
ponderously
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59
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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60
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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61
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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62
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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63
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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64
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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66
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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67
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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68
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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69
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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70
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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71
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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72
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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74
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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75
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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76
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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77
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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78
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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79
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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81
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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82
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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83
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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84
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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85
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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86
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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87
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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88
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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89
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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90
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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91
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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95
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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96
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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97
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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99
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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100
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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101
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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102
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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103
vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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104
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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105
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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106
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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107
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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108
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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109
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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110
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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111
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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112
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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113
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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114
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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115
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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116
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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117
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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118
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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119
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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120
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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121
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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122
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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123
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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124
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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125
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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126
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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127
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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128
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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129
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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130
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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131
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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132
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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133
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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134
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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