Diggs, the boat-house keeper, was a widower7, with one child, a girl of ten years old. His mother lived with him—an aged8 woman, confined to her bed, of late, with rheumatic fever, from which she was slowly recovering. On the previous night Diggs was out, and the girl had been sent on an errand, Mrs. Diggs being left in the house alone. She was lying quietly, still as was the air outside, when sudden sounds broke that stillness, and smote9 upon her ear. Footsteps—young steps, they seemed—were heard to come tearing down on the outside gravel10, from the direction of the cathedral, and descend12 the steps. Then there was a startling cry and a plunge13 into the river.
The old woman echoed the cry; but there were none to hear it, and she was powerless to aid. That a human soul was struggling in the water was certain; and she called and called, but called in vain. She was shut up in the house, unable to move; and there were none outside to hear her. In her grief and distress14 she at length pulled the bed-clothes over her ears, that she might hear no more (if more was to be heard) of the death agony.
Twenty minutes or so, and then the girl came in. The old woman brought her head from under the clothes, and stated what had occurred, and the girl went and looked at the river. But it was flowing along peacefully, showing no signs that anything of the sort had happened. Not a creature was on the path on either side, so far as her eyes could see in the moonlight; and she came to the conclusion that her grandmother must have been mistaken. “She has odd fancies,” said the child to herself, “and thinks she hears things that nobody else never hears.”
At ten o’clock Diggs came home. Now, this man had a propensity15 for yielding to an infirmity to which many others also yield—that of drinking too freely. It is true that this did not often occur; but when it did happen, it was usually at a time when his services were especially required. It is very much the case in this world: we often do things, whether good ones or bad ones, just at the wrong moment. Diggs arrived at home, stupid. His old mother called him to her room, and told him what she had heard; but she could make little impression upon him. As his young daughter had done, he took a survey of the river, but only from the windows of his house—the girl had gone on to the bank—and then he tumbled into bed, and slept heavily until the morning.
Up betimes, he remembered what had been told to him, and went out of doors, half expecting possibly to see something floating on the surface. “I was detained out last night on an errand,” explained he to some three or four stragglers who had gathered round him, “and when I got in, my old mother told me a cock-and-bull story of a cry and a splash, as if somebody had fallen into the river. It don’t look much like it, though.”
“A dead dog, maybe,” suggested one of the idlers. “They’re always throwing rubbish into this river on the sly.”
“Who is?” sharply asked Diggs. “They had better let me catch ‘em at it!”
“Lots of folks,” was the response. “But if it was a dead dog, it couldn’t well have cried out.”
Diggs went indoors to his mother’s chamber16. “What time was it, this tale of yours?” asked he.
“It was about half-past seven,” she answered. “The half-hour chimed out from the college, just before or just after, I forget which.” And then she related again what she knew he could not clearly comprehend over night: the fact of the fleet-sounding footsteps, and that they appeared to be young footsteps. “If I didn’t know the cloisters17 were shut at that hour, I should have thought they come direct from the west door—”
The words were interrupted by a call from below; and the man hastened down. A boy’s cap—known, from its form, to belong to one of the collegiate scholars—had just been found under the lower bank, lodged18 in the mud. Then some one had been drowned! and it was a college boy.
Where does a crowd collect from? I don’t believe any one can tell. Not three minutes after that trencher was picked up, people were gathering19 thick and threefold, retired20 though the spot was; and it was at this time that Mr. Bill Simms had passed, and heard the tale which turned his heart sick and his face white.
Some time given to supposition, to comments, and to other gossip, indigenous21 to an event of the sort, and then Mr. Diggs started for the college school with the cap. Another messenger ran to the Channings’ house, the name in the cap proving to whom it had belonged. Diggs related the substance of this to the master, suppressing certain little points bearing upon himself.
Mr. Pye took the cap in his hand, and looked inside. The name, “C. Channing,” was in Mrs. Channing’s writing; and, in the sprawling22 hand of one of the schoolboys—it looked like Bywater’s—“Miss” had been added. Charley had scratched the addition over with strokes from a pen, but the word might still be read.
“The river must be dragged, Diggs,” said Hamish Channing.
“The drags are being got ready now, sir. They’ll be in, by the time I get back.”
Hamish strode to the door. Tom came up from his desk, showing some agitation23, and looked at the master. “You will allow me to go, sir? I can do no good at my lessons in this suspense24.”
“Yes,” replied the master. He was going himself.
The school rose with one accord. The under-masters rose. To think of study, in this excitement, was futile25; and, in defiance26 of all precedent27, the boys were allowed to leave the room, and troop down to the river. It was a race which should get there first; masters and boys ran together. The only one who walked pretty soberly was the head-master, who had to uphold his dignity.
The drags were already in the river, and the banks were lined; police, friends, spectators, gentlemen, mob, and college boys, jostled each other. Arthur Channing, pale and agitated28, came running from his home. The old vergers and bedesmen came; some of the clergy29 came; Judy came; and the dean came. Hamish, outwardly self-possessed, and giving his orders with quiet authority, was inwardly troubled as he had never been. The boy had been left to his charge, and how should he answer for this to his father and mother?
He went in and saw the old woman; as did the renowned30 Mr. Butterby, who had appeared with the rest. She related to them she had heard the previous night. “I could have told, without having heard it now, that it was the steps of a college boy,” she said. “I don’t listen so often to ‘em that I need mistake. He seemed to be coming from the west door o’ the cloisters—only that the cloisters are shut at night; so he may have come round by the front o’ the college. Desperate quick he ran, and leapt down the steps; and, a minute after, there was a cry and a splash, and the footsteps were heard no more. One might fancy that in turning the corner to run along the towing-path he had turned too quick, and so fell over the bank.”
“Did you hear no noise afterwards?” questioned Hamish.
“I didn’t. I called out, but nobody came nigh to answer it: and then I hid my ears. I was afraid, ye see.”
They left the old woman’s bedside, and returned to the crowd on the bank. The dean quietly questioned Hamish about the facts, and shook his head when put in possession of them. “I fear there is little hope,” he said.
“Very little. My father and mother’s absence makes it the more distressing31. I know not, Mr. Dean, how—”
Who was this, pushing vehemently32 up, to the discomfiture33 of every one, elbowing the dean with as little ceremony as he might have elbowed Ketch, thrusting Hamish aside, and looking down on the river with flashing eyes? Who should it be, but Roland Yorke? For that was his usual way of pushing through a crowd; as you have heard before.
“Is it true?” he gasped34. “Is Charles Channing in the water!—sent there through the tricks of the college boys—of Tod?”
“There is little doubt of its truth, Roland,” was the answer of Hamish.
Roland said no more. Off went his coat, off went his waistcoat, off went other garments, leaving him nothing but his drawers and his shirt; and in he leaped impetuously, before any one could stop him, and dived below, searching after Charles, paying no heed35 to the shouts that the drags would get hold of him.
But neither drags nor Roland could find Charles. The drags were continued, but without result. Very few had expected that there would be any result, the probability being that the current had carried the body down the stream. Hamish had been home to soothe36 the grief of his sisters—or rather to attempt to soothe it—and then he came back again.
Roland, his ardour cooled, had likewise been home to exchange his wet things for dry ones. This done, he was flying out again, when he came upon the Reverend William Yorke, who was hastening down to the scene, in some agitation.
“Is the boy found, Roland, do you know? How did it happen? Did he fall in?”
“Considering the light in which you regard the family, William Yorke, I wonder you should waste your breath to ask about it,” was Roland’s touchy37 answer, delivered with as much scorn as he could call up.
Mr. Yorke said no more, but quickened his pace towards the river. Roland kept up with him and continued talking.
“It’s a good thing all the world’s not of your opinion, William Yorke! You thought to put a slight upon Constance Channing, when you told her she might go along, for you. It has turned out just the best luck that could have happened to her.”
“Be silent, sir,” said Mr. Yorke, his pale cheek flushing. “I have already told you that I will not permit you to mention Miss Channing’s name to me. You have nothing to do with her or with me.”
“You have nothing to do with her, at any rate,” cried aggravating38 Roland. “She’ll soon belong to your betters, William Yorke.”
Mr. Yorke turned his flashing eye upon him, plainly asking the explanation that he would not condescend39 to ask in words. It gave Roland an advantage, and he went on swimmingly with his mischief40.
“Lord Carrick has seen the merits of Constance, if you have not; and—I don’t mind telling it you in confidence—has resolved to make her his wife. He says she’s the prettiest girl he has seen for ages.”
“It is not true,” said Mr. Yorke, haughtily41.
“Not true!” returned Roland. “You’ll see whether it’s true or not, when she’s Countess of Carrick. Lady Augusta was present when he made her the offer. He was half afraid to make it for some time, he told us, as he was getting on in years, and had grey hair. Halloa! you are turning pale, William Yorke. She can’t be anything to you! You threw her away, you know.”
William Yorke, vouchsafing42 no reply, broke away from his tormentor43. He probably did look pale; certainly he felt so. Roland indulged in a quiet laugh. He had been waiting for this opportunity, ever since he became cognizant of what had taken place between the earl and Constance. The earl had made no secret of his intention and its defeat. “I’ll have some fun over it with Mr. William,” had been Roland’s thought.
A sudden noise! Cries and shouts on the banks of the river, and the dense44 crowd swayed about with excitement. Mr. Yorke and Roland set off at a run, each from his own point, and the cries took a distinct sound as they neared them.
“They have found the body!”
It was being laid upon the bank. Those who could get near tried to obtain a glimpse of it. The college boys, with white faces and terror-stricken consciences, fought for a place; Roland Yorke fought for it; the head-master fought for it: I am not sure that the bishop—who had seen the commotion45 from his palace windows, and came up to know what it meant—did not fight for it.
A false alarm, so far as the present object was concerned. A little lad, who had been drowned more than a week before, had turned up now. He had incautiously climbed the parapet of the bridge, whence he fell into the water, and their search for him had hitherto been fruitless. He was not a pleasant sight to look upon, as he lay there; but the relief to certain of the college boys, when they found it was not Charles, was immeasurable. Bywater’s spirits went up to some of their old impudence46. “In looking for one thing you find another,” quoth he.
Very true, Mr. Bywater! Sometimes we find more than we bargain for. The drags were thrown in again, and the excited crowd jostled each other as before, their faces hanging over the brink47. Hush48! Hark! Another prize! What is it, coming up now?
A rare prize, this time! The drags pulled and tugged49, and the men cried, “Heave-ho!” and a hundred and one voices echoed it: “Heave-ho! heave-ho!” Hush! Hush—sh—sh! A breathless moment of suspense, and up it comes. Amidst straw and tangled50 weeds and mud, and the odds51 and ends that a river will collect, something hard and clanking was thrown upon the bank, and wondering eyes and faces peered over it.
Nothing but two keys. A pair of large rusty52 keys, tied together with string. Bywater, and Hurst, and young Galloway, and one or two more, cast significant glances together, and were nearly choking with fright and suppressed laughter. One, standing53 there, conspicuous54 for his dress, which amongst other items comprised an apron55, turned a significant glance on them. Bold Bywater met it, and looked a little less bold than usual. But the prelate had kept counsel, and meant to keep it; and he looked away again.
Once more were the drags thrown into the water. Once more the mob, gentle and simple, crowded its brink. When the college bell tolled56 out for morning prayers, those, whose duty it was to attend the cathedral, drew themselves away unwillingly57. Arthur Channing was one of them. Whatever might be his grief and suspense, engagements must be fulfilled.
Later in the day, when the search was over—for it was thought useless to continue it—and when hope was over, a council was held at Mr. Channing’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Channing must be acquainted with this sad business; but how was it to be done? By letter? by telegraph? or by a special messenger? Constance had suggested writing, and silently hoped that Hamish would take the task upon himself, for she felt unequal to it, in her dire11 distress. Mr. Galloway, who had been in and out all the morning, suggested the telegraph. Hamish approved of neither, but proposed to despatch58 Arthur, to make the communication in person.
“I cannot leave Helstonleigh myself,” he said; “therefore it must devolve upon Arthur. Of course his journey will be an expense; but there are times when expense must not be regarded. I consider this one of them.”
“A letter would go more quickly,” said Mr. Galloway.
“Scarcely, in these days of travelling,” was Hamish’s reply. “But that is not the question. A letter, let it be ever so explanatory, will only leave them in suspense. As soon as they have read it, five hundred questions will suggest themselves that they will wish to ask; and, to wait to have them satisfied, will be intolerable, especially to my mother. Arthur’s going will obviate59 this. He knows as much as we know, and can impart his knowledge to them.”
“There is a great deal in what you say,” mused60 Mr. Galloway.
“I am sure there is,” spoke61 Constance through her tears, “though it did not strike me before. In mamma’s anxiety and suspense, she might start for home, to learn further details.”
“And I think it is what she would do,” said Hamish: “if not my father also. It will be better that Arthur should go. He can tell them all they would learn if they returned; and so far as it is possible, that would be satisfactory.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Huntley and his daughter. Ellen had begged her father, when she found he was going to the Channings’, to allow her to accompany him, and see Constance in her distress. Mr. Huntley readily acquiesced62. The drowning of poor Charley was a serious affliction, in contemplation of which he forgot the inexpediency of her meeting Hamish.
Hamish did not appear to perceive any inexpediency in the matter. He was the first to take Ellen’s hand in his, and bend upon her his sweet smile of welcome. Knowing what Ellen knew of Mr. Huntley’s sentiments, and that he was looking on, it rendered her manner confused and her cheeks crimson63. She was glad to turn to Constance, and strive to say a few words of sympathy. “Had Harry64 been one of those wicked, thoughtless boys to join in this ghost trick, I could never have forgiven him!” she impulsively65 exclaimed, hot tears running down her cheeks.
The subject under consideration was referred to Mr. Huntley, and his opinion requested: more as a form of courtesy than anything else, for Hamish had made up his mind upon the point. A thoroughly67 affectionate and dutiful son was Hamish Channing; and he believed that the tidings could be rendered more bearable to his father and mother by a messenger, than by any other mode of communication. The excuse that Constance and Arthur had, throughout, found for Hamish in their hearts was, that he had taken the bank-note out of latent affection to Mr. and Mrs. Channing.
“You are wrong, every one of you,” said Mr. Huntley, when he had listened to what they had to say. “You must send neither letter nor messenger. It will not do.”
Hamish looked at him. “Then what can we send, sir?
“Don’t send at all.”
“Not send at all!” repeated Hamish.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Huntley. “You have no positive proof as yet that the child is dead. It will be alarming them unnecessarily.”
“Mr. Huntley!” said Constance. “Is it possible that you see any ground for hope?”
“Honestly, my dear, I do not see much ground for hope,” he replied. “But, on the other hand, there are no positive grounds for despair. So long as these grounds are not furnished, I say keep it from Mr. and Mrs. Channing. Answer me one thing: What good end would it serve to tell them?”
“Is it not a duty?”
“I do not see it,” said Mr. Huntley. “Were the poor boy’s fate known, beyond uncertainty68, it would be a different matter. If you send to them, what would come of it? The very suspense, the doubt, would have a bad effect upon Mr. Channing. It might bring him home; and the good already effected might be destroyed—his time, purse, hopes, all that he has given to the journey, wasted. On the other hand, allowing that he still remained, the news might delay his cure. No: my strong advice to you is: Suffer them for the present to remain in ignorance of what has happened.”
Hamish began to think Mr. Huntley might be right.
“I know I am right,” said Mr. Huntley. “If putting them in possession of the facts could produce any benefit to themselves, to you, or to Charles, I would go off myself with Arthur this hour. But it could effect nothing; and, to them, it might result in great evil. Until we know something more certain ourselves, let us keep it from them.”
“Yes, I see it,” said Hamish, warmly. “It will be best so.”
Constance felt her arm touched, and coloured with emotion when she found it was Mr. William Yorke. In this day of distress, people seemed to come in and go out without ceremony. Mr. Yorke had entered with Tom Channing. He completely accepted the new view of the matter, and strongly advised that it should not be allowed to reach the ears of Mr. and Mrs. Channing.
Mr. Galloway, when he was departing, beckoned69 Constance into the hall. It was only to give her a word of friendly sympathy, of advice—not to be overwhelmed, but to cling to hope. She thanked him, but it was with an aching heart, for Constance could not feel this hope.
“Will you grant me the favour of a minute’s private interview?” asked Mr. Yorke stiffly, meeting her in the hall.
Constance hesitated a moment. He was asking what she felt he had no right to ask. She coloured, bowed, and stepped towards the drawing-room. Mr. Yorke threw open the door for her, and followed her in.
Then he became agitated. Whatever his pride or his temper may have been, whether the parting between them was his fault or Constance’s, it was certain that he loved her with an enduring love. Until that morning he had never contemplated70 losing Constance; he had surely looked forward to some indefinite future when she should be his; and the words spoken by Roland had almost driven him mad. Which was precisely71 what Mr. Roland hoped they would do.
“I would not speak to you to-day, when you are in distress, when you may deem it an unfitting time for me to speak,” he began, “but I cannot live in this suspense. Let me confess that what brought me here was to obtain this interview with you, quite as much as this other unhappy business. You will forgive me?”
“Mr. Yorke, I do not know what you can have to speak about,” she answered, with dignity. “My distress is great, but I can hear what you wish to say.”
“I heard—I heard”—he spoke with emotion, and went plunging72 abruptly73 into his subject—“I heard this morning that Lord Carrick was soliciting74 you to become his wife.”
Constance could have laughed, but for her own distress, agitated though he was. “Well, sir?” she coldly said, in a little spirit of mischief.
“Constance, you cannot do it,” he passionately75 retorted. “You cannot so perjure76 yourself!”
“Mr. Yorke! Have you the right to tell me I shall or shall not marry Lord Carrick?”
“You can’t do it, Constance!” he repeated, laying his hand upon her shoulder, and speaking hoarsely77. “You know that your whole affection was given to me! It is mine still; I feel that it is. You have not transferred it to another in this short time. You do not love and forget so lightly.”
“Is this all you have to say to me?”
“No, it is not all,” he answered, with emotion. “I want you to be my wife, Constance, not his. I want you to forget this miserable78 estrangement79 that has come between us, and come home to me at Hazledon.”
“Listen, Mr. Yorke,” she said; but it was with the utmost difficulty she retained her indifferent manner, and kept back her tears: she would have liked to be taken then to his sheltering arms, never to have left them. “The cause which led to our parting, was the suspicion that fell upon Arthur, coupled with something that you were not pleased with in my own manner relating to it. That suspicion is upon him still; and my course of conduct would be precisely the same, were it to come over again. I am sorry you should have reaped up this matter, for it can only end as it did before.”
“Will you not marry me?” he resumed.
“No. So long as circumstances look darkly on my brother.”
“Constance! that may be for ever!”
“Yes,” she sadly answered, knowing what she did know; “they may never be brighter than they are now. Were I tempted80 to become your wife, you might reproach me afterwards for allying you to disgrace; and that, I think, would kill me. I beg you not to speak of this again.”
“And you refuse me for Lord Carrick! You will go and marry him!” exclaimed Mr. Yorke, struggling between reproach, affection, and temper.
“You must allow me to repeat that you have no right to question me,” she said, moving to the door. “When our engagement was forfeited81, that right was forfeited with it.”
She opened the door to leave the room. Mr. Yorke might have wished further to detain her, but Judy came bustling82 up. “Lady Augusta’s here, Miss Constance.”
Lady Augusta Yorke met Constance in the hall, and seized both her hands. “I had a bad headache, and lay in bed, and never heard of it until an hour ago!” she uttered with the same impulsive66 kindness that sometimes actuated Roland. “Is it true that he is drowned? Is it true that Tod was in it?—Gerald says he was. William, are you here?”
Constance took Lady Augusta into the general sitting-room83, into the presence of the other guests. Lady Augusta asked a hundred questions, at the least; and they acquainted her with the different points, so far as they were cognizant of them. She declared that Tod should be kept upon bread and water for a week, and she would go to the school and request Mr. Pye to flog him. She overwhelmed Constance with kindness, wishing she and Annabel would come to her house and remain there for a few days. Constance thanked her, and found some difficulty in being allowed to refuse.
“Here is his exercise-book,” observed Constance, tears filling her eyes; “here is the very place in which he laid his pen. Every other moment I think it cannot be true that he is gone—that it must be all a dream.”
Lady Augusta took up the pen and kissed it: it was her impulsive way of showing sympathy. Mr. Huntley smiled. “Where’s William gone to?” asked Lady Augusta.
The Reverend William Yorke had quitted the house, shaking the dust from his shoes in anger, as he crossed the threshold. Anger as much at himself, for having ever given her up, as at Constance Channing; and still most at the Right Honourable84 the Earl of Carrick.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
lamentation
|
|
| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sobbed
|
|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
lanky
|
|
| adj.瘦长的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
countenances
|
|
| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
widower
|
|
| n.鳏夫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
aged
|
|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
propensity
|
|
| n.倾向；习性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
cloisters
|
|
| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
indigenous
|
|
| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
sprawling
|
|
| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
precedent
|
|
| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
agitated
|
|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
renowned
|
|
| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
vehemently
|
|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
discomfiture
|
|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
soothe
|
|
| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
touchy
|
|
| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
aggravating
|
|
| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
condescend
|
|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
haughtily
|
|
| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
vouchsafing
|
|
| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的现在分词 )；允诺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
tormentor
|
|
| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
commotion
|
|
| n.骚动，动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
impudence
|
|
| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
brink
|
|
| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
hush
|
|
| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
tugged
|
|
| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
tangled
|
|
| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
rusty
|
|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
apron
|
|
| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
tolled
|
|
| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
unwillingly
|
|
| adv.不情愿地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
despatch
|
|
| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
obviate
|
|
| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
acquiesced
|
|
| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
impulsively
|
|
| adv.冲动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
impulsive
|
|
| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
plunging
|
|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
soliciting
|
|
| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
perjure
|
|
| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
hoarsely
|
|
| adv.嘶哑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
estrangement
|
|
| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
forfeited
|
|
| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
bustling
|
|
| adj.喧闹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |