"All over," he said to himself—"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, Philip; take it fighting!"
But they were only words—as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There was, besides, a very cruel smart—the abstract pain of being such a little to one who was so much to him.
He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish1 questions and the dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked softly past the sleepers2 with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he spoke3 to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened since.
The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his mother, was eminently4 distasteful; he longed to escape it. And then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance5 to the task was deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen6 as the afternoon approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could never have brought himself to overcome it.
The embarrassment7 that he had feared, however, was averted8 by Miss Brettan's absence.
Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped?
"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?"
"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, Philip?"
"Fresh?" he answered vaguely9. "No, dear. I don't know that there's anything very fresh."
"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were troubled?"
She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct pointed10 to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some time, and under her placid11 questions now rankled12 a little wistfulness, in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She wanted to say to him outright13: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant to seem inquisitive14. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was desirable that his mother should never conjecture15 he had been refused.
It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative16 to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never to be told.
They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing17 in the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. But she would not refer to Mary. She bent18 over her wool-work, and the needle went in and out with feeble regularity19, while she maintained a wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness20 to talk.
He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him.
"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?"
"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than I."
He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little tremulously on his shoulder.
"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the absence of the caress21. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!"
He patted the hand reassuringly22, and let himself out. Then the hand crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The wool-work drooped23 to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who had been used to talk of the wondrous24 things he was going to do for "mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess.
She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left to speculate, made the need for surmises25 seem harder. And Philip was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She could have forgiven her engrossing26 his affections—in time; but her indifference27 was more than she could forgive.
Still, this was the woman he loved—and she endeavoured to hide her resentment28, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse29 during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness made her unduly30 sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her significant of condemnation31. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during this week. Sometimes she was only deterred32 from proclaiming what had happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate33 her, by the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal34 might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer.
She could not venture to repeat the retirement35 to her room the next time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life had not qualified36 him for it; and it was an ordeal37 to him to sit there in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his ineptitude38 seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think him boorish39, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose of exciting her compassion40.
Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals41, and more often than not curtailed42 on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward43 had happened, and to shun44 the house awhile looked to him a wiser course than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that Mrs. Kincaid was imposing45 on herself had a further burden to bear: Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous46. Indeed, while the mother mused47 mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish48 it, to elude49 the indignity50 of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining51 to their sex; being feminine only amplified52 the scope for vexation. A fact which she did not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with the unloved lover is the irritability53 with which the woman so often thinks about him.
With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met him prior to her intimacy54 with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which engulfed55 so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance—always a doughty56 antagonist57, and never so impregnable as when the woman is instinctively58 a virtuous59 woman and has fallen for the man that she remembers.
It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its awkwardness.
More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing60 before the window, looking out, while the elder woman sat moodily61 in her accustomed seat.—
"Are we going to church?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?"
"Oh, yes, it's early yet—not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has begun."
"Yes," assented62 the other absently.
There was a short silence, and then:
"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't be afraid of that!" she added.
Her voice had in it so much more of pathos63 than of testiness64, that after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her.
"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning.
Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to accentuate65 the feebleness of her answer.
"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases——"
"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?"
"Yes——" faltered66 Mary.
"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, 'How do you do?' He never put his hat down—you may have; noticed it?"
"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted.
"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the heart. "Now, what am I to do?"
"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I don't hear what it is."
"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't you tell him that you miss him?"
"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights we mustn't intrude67 into—secrets that must be told to us freely, or not told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think we had better go and dress."
Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which precluded68 the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever manifest that the task of remonstrating69 with him devolved upon Mary herself, and she decided70 to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled71 her pen a good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid she would like to go for a walk.
"Oh, by all means; why not?"
"I thought perhaps you might want me."
"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well—I'm gardening."
She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the soil away.
"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you good!"
Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck her that the doctor might pay his overdue72 visit this afternoon, and she was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been dispensed73 with—she might have had a word with him before he joined his mother in the garden! She turned back at once—and as she neared the Lodge74, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door.
"Well, have you enjoyed your walk—you haven't been very far?" he said.
"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?"
"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too wise of her. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you there more often."
"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid."
"To me? What—about this?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It was very kind of you."
"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time she was distressed76."
"Has she said anything?"
"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed."
"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged."
Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after a few seconds she said boldly:
"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't."
"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come."
"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know is, are you staying away solely77 for my sake?"
"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you."
"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you to come; that my being there reminded—that you didn't like it? If that's so——"
"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late—in future I'll go oftener."
"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it can be given up."
"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I should reproach myself for it bitterly."
They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the pair sought phrases.
"It's certain," she said abruptly78, "that my being your mother's companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the same as you used to. I can't help feeling that."
"But I will go there the same as I used to. I have said so."
"Yes," she murmured.
"Doesn't that satisfy you?"
"You'll go, but the fact remains79 that you'd rather not; and the cause of your reluctance80 is my presence there."
"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "I've not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a while; personally——"
"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the position is a false one!"
"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly81; "I've been trying to keep my word."
"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me."
"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect."
At the word "love" the woman flinched82 a little, and he himself had not been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the man it seemed to bring them nearer.
"It was very dense83 of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one that has happened. I wondered if I was justified84 in asking you to give up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable85 to you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it."
"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!"
"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed.
"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her discharging me."
"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!"
"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at all!"
"You can't say what would have been best for me," he returned unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. For yourself, perhaps——"
"Hush86!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the result of it is so abominable—such a shame! I haven't said much, but I remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I wear."
"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered.
"And my repayment87 is to make you unhappy—and her unhappy. It's noble!"
Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment88 so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her consolation89. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly90 into the vista91 of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said with an effort:
"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever."
She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile:
"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've only succeeded in giving annoyance92 to you both. But the wrong to my mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some lasting93 harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?"
"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine."
"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can."
She bit her lip. She said nothing.
"I can't do any more—can I?"
"No," she confessed.
"Then, what's the matter?"
"The matter is that——"
"What?"
"You show me more plainly every minute that I ought to go."
Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance94 that escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the impracticability of her going any further.
"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!"
"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I can't leave you like this. Mary——!"
"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything—don't!"
"I must. What's the good?—I keep back everything, and you still know! You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than my assurance that I'd never bring distress75 to you, and I've brought distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!"
Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled95 somewhat by the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly in a hymn96. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones.
"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're both remembering I love you—there's nothing gained by pretending. If the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should have less right to interfere97; but as it is, your leaving would mean a constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for the barest necessaries—what sort of man could endure it? should feel as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor98 seized her; she shivered.
"Sit down," he said authoritatively99. "We must come to an understanding!"
But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after all.
"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll have if you go on meeting me."
"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And why?—you'd spare me nothing."
"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each other, you're right! Your misgivings100 about me are true enough; but you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget——"
"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go."
"You must forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm spoiling your life. I won't!"
"Mary!" he said appealingly.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you loved me!"
"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel——Why," he demanded, under his breath—"why could it never be—in time, if you stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by—will it be always impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right to hope—in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for years, if you like—the right to think that you may be my wife some day. Leave me that!"
"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie."
"You could never care for me—not so much as to let me care for you?"
A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they listened.
"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is it because you care for some other man?"
"No, no," she said vehemently101, "I do not care!"
"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be the woman I want and wait for to the end."
Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate102; and under the necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality required, and twice her lips parted without sound.
"Dr. Kincaid——"
He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded.
"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling me that. You've simply removed a dread103. I'm grateful to you."
"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating104 voice, "it makes no difference. How am I to explain the—why don't you understand?"
"What is it I should understand?"
"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long as we live! There was someone else; I——"
"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?"
"No," she gasped105, "I did say that—I meant I didn't care. I don't—we neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be another man, and——"
"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?"
She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her wherever she looked.
"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?"
Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins106, and, though he was conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the anticipation107 of what he was going to hear.
"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely108. "What of him?"
She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified109 her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion the phrase to express her impurity110, but all the terms looked shameless and unutterable alike; and the travail111 continued until, faint with the tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said almost inaudibly:
"I lived with him three years."
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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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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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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vaguely
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outright
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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conjecture
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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throbbing
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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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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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unwillingness
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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reassuringly
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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25
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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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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28
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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29
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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30
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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31
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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32
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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34
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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35
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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36
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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37
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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38
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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39
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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40
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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41
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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42
curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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44
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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45
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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47
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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48
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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49
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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50
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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51
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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52
amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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53
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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57
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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58
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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59
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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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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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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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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testiness
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| n.易怒，暴躁 | |
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65
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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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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67
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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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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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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74
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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76
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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77
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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78
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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79
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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80
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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81
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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82
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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84
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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85
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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86
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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87
repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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88
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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89
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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90
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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91
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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92
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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93
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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94
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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95
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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96
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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97
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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98
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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99
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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100
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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101
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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102
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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103
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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104
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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105
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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106
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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107
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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108
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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109
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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111
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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