“Callant,” said Lauderdale fiercely, “speak of things ye understand; it’s not for you to interfere13 between a man and his Maker14. A soul more like Him of whom you dare to speak never came out of the Almighty’s hands. Do you think God is like a restless woman and never can be done meddling15?” said Colin’s guardian16, betrayed out of his usual self-restraint; but his own heart was trembling for his charge, and he had not composure enough to watch over his words. As for the sick man, whose own malady17 went steadily18 on without any great pauses or sudden increase, he lifted his dying eyes and addressed himself eagerly, as he was wont19, to his usual argument.
“If any man can understand it, I should,” said Meredith. “Cannot I trace the way by which He has led me?—a hard way to flesh and blood. Cannot I see how He has driven me from one stronghold after another, leaving me no refuge but in Christ? And, such being the case, can you wonder that I should wish the same discipline for my friend? The only{252} thing I should fear for myself is restoration to health; and are you surprised that I should fear it for him?”
“I am not surprised at anything but my ain idiocy20 in having my hand in the matter,” said Lauderdale; and he went away abruptly21 to Colin’s room with a horrible sense of calamity22 and helplessness. There was something in Meredith’s confident explanation of God’s dealings which drove him half frantic, and filled him with an unreasonable23 panic. Perhaps it was true; perhaps those lightnings in the clouds had been but momentary24—a false hope. When, however, with his agitation25 so painfully compressed and kept under that it produced a morose27 expression upon his grave face, he went into Colin’s room, he found his patient sitting up in bed, with his great-coat over his shoulders, writing with a pencil on the fly-leaf of the book which his faithful attendant had given him to “keep him quiet.”
“Never mind,” said the disorderly invalid. “I am all right, Lauderdale. Give us pen and ink, like a kind soul. You don’t imagine I am ill, surely, because I am lazy after last night?”
“I’ve given up imagining anything on the subject,” said Colin’s grim guardian. “When a man in his senses sets up house with a parcel of lunatics it’s easy to divine what will come of it, lie down in your bed and keep quiet, and get well again; or else get up,” said Lauderdale, giving vent28 to a sharp acrid29 sound as if he had gnashed his teeth, “and let us be done with it all, and go home.”
At this Colin opened his great brown eyes, which were as far from being anxious or depressed30 as could well be conceived, and laughed softly in his companion’s face.
“This comes of Meredith’s talk, I suppose,” he said; “and of course it has been about me, or it would not have riled you. How often have you told me that you understood the state of mind which produced all that? He is very good at the bottom, Lauderdale,” said Colin. “There’s a good fellow, give me my little writing-case. I want to write it out.”
“You want to write what out?” asked Lauderdale. “Some of your nonsense verses? I’ll give you no writing-case. Lie down in your bed and keep yourself warm.” “You’re awfu’ fond of looking at your ain productions. I’ve no doubt its terrible rubbish if a man could read it. Let’s see the thing. Do you think a parcel of verses in that halting In Memoriam metre—I’m no saying anything against In Memoriam—but if I set up for a poet, I would make a measure for mysel’—are worth an{253} illness? and the cold of this wretched place is enough to kill ony rational man. Eetaly! I wouldna send a dog here, to be perished with cold and hunger. Do what I tell you, callant, and lie down. It shows an awfu’ poverty of invention, that desire to copy everything out.”
“Stuff!” said Colin; “you don’t suppose it is for myself. I want to give it to somebody,” said the young man with a conscious smile. And to look at him with his countenance31 all a-glow, pleasure and fun and affection brightening his eyes, and his face lighted up with the gentle commotion32 of thought which had ended in that writing of verses, it was hard to think of him as a man whom God for a solemn purpose had weighted with affliction—as he had appeared in Meredith’s eyes. Rather he looked, what he was, one of God’s most joyful33 and gifted creatures; glad without knowing why; glad because the sweet imaginations of youth had possession of him, and filled heaven and earth with brave apparitions34. Love and anxiety had introduced into the heart of Lauderdale, so far as Colin was concerned, a certain feminine element—and he laughed unsteadily out of a poignant35 thrill of relief and consolation, as he took the book from his patient’s hands.
“He’s no a callant that can do without an audience,” said Lauderdale; “and, seeing it’s poetry that’s in question, no doubt it’s a female audience that’s contemplated36. You may spare yourself the trouble, Colin. She’s bonnie, and she’s good; and I’m no free to say that I don’t like her all the better for caring for none of these things; but I see no token that she’ll ever get beyond Watts’s hymns37 all her days. You needna trouble your head about writing out things for her.”
Upon which Colin reddened a little, and said “Stuff!” and made a long grasp at the writing-case—which exertion38 cost him a fit of coughing. Lauderdale sat by his side gloomily enough all day, asking himself whether the colour was hectic39 that brightened Colin’s cheeks, and listening to the sound of his breathing and the ring of his voice with indescribable pangs40 of anxiety. When evening came the watcher had considerably42 more fever than the patient, and turned his eyes abroad over the Campagna, with a gaze which saw nothing glorious in the scene. At that moment, the sun going down in grandeur43 over the misty44 distance, which was Rome—the wonderful belts and zones of colour in the vault45 of sky which covered in that melancholy46 waste with its specks47 of ruin—were nothing in Lauderdale’s eyes in comparison with the vision that haunted him of a cosy{254} homely48 room in a Scotch49 farmhouse50, full of warm glimmers51 of fire light and humble52 comforts. “He would mend if he were but at home,” he said to himself almost with bitterness, turning his eyes from the landscape without, to which he was indifferent, to the bare white stony53 walls within. He was so cold sitting there, he who was well and strong, that he had put on his great-coat. And it was for this he had brought the youth whom he loved so far away from those “who belonged to him!” Lauderdale thought with a pang41 of the Mistress, and what she would say if she could see the comfortless place to which she had sent her boy. Meanwhile the patient who caused so much anxiety, was, for his own part, very comfortable, and copied out his verses with a care that made it very apparent he had no intention of coming to a speedy end, either of life or its enjoyments54. He had not written anything for a long time, and the exercise was pleasant to him—and when it was done he lay back on his pillows, and took the trouble to remark to Lauderdale upon the decorations of the poor bare stony chamber55 which the philosopher was cursing in his heart.—“We are before them in some things,” said Colin, reflectively, “but they beat us in a great many. See how simply that effect is obtained—just a line or two of colour, and yet nothing could be more perfect in its way.” To which observation Lauderdale responded only by an indescribable growl56, which provoked the laughter of his unruly patient. The next remark Colin made was, however, received with greater favour, for he asked plaintively57 if it was not time for dinner—a question more soothing58 to Lauderdale’s feelings than volumes of remonstrances59. He carried Colin’s portion into the room when that meal arrived from the Trattoria, scorning female assistance, and arranging everything with that exquisite60 uncouth61 tenderness which, perhaps, only a woman could do full justice to; for the fact is, that Colin, though ravenously62 hungry, and fully26 disposed to approve of the repast, had a momentary thought that it would have been ever so much pleasanter to have been served by the little housekeeper63 herself.
When the darkness had hushed and covered up the Campagna, and stilled all the village sounds, Lauderdale himself, a little flushed from an address he had just been delivering to Meredith, went in and looked at the sleeping face which was so precious to him, and tortured himself once more with questions whether it might be fever which gave colour to the young man’s cheek. But Colin, notwithstanding his cold, was breathing full long{255} breaths, with life in every inspiration, and his friend went not uncomforted to bed.
But while Colin lay thus at rest, Meredith had resumed his writing, and was working into his current chapter the conversation which had just taken place. “The worldly man asks if the afflictions of the just are signs of favouritism on God’s part,” wrote the young author, “and appeals to us whether a happy man is less beloved of his Father than I am who suffer. He virtually contradicts scripture64, and tells me that the Lord does not scourge65 every son whom He receiveth. But I say, and the Holy Bible says with me, Tremble, oh ye who are happy—our troubles are God’s tokens of love and mercy to our souls.” As he wrote this, the young eyes, which were so soon to close upon life, brightened and expanded with a wonderful glow. His mind was not broad nor catholic, nor capable of perceiving the manifold diversity of those ways of God which are beyond the comprehension of men. He could not understand how, upon the last and lightest labourer, the Master of the vineyard might bestow66 the equal hire; and—taking that as the hardest labour which fell to his own share—was bent67 at least on making up for it by the most supreme68 compensation. And, indeed, it was hard to blame him for claiming, by way of balance to his afflictions, a warmer and closer share in the love of God. At least, that was no vulgar recompense. As for the “worldly man” of Arthur’s paragraph, he, too, sat a long while in his chamber, not writing, but pondering—gazing into the flame of the tall Roman lamp on his table as if some solution of the mysteries in his thoughts was to be found in its smoky light. To identify Lauderdale in the character of a worldly man would have been difficult enough to any one who knew him; yet, to Meredith, he had afforded a perfect example of “carnal reasoning,” and the disposition69 which is according to the flesh, and not according to the Spirit. This worldly-minded individual sat staring into the lamp, even after his young critic had ceased to write—revolving things that he could see were about to happen, and things which he dreaded70 without being able to see; and more than all wondering over that awful mystery of Providence71 to which the young invalid gave so easy a solution. “It wouldna be so hard to make out if a man could think he was less loved than his fellows, as they thought lang-syne,” said Lauderdale to himself, “or more loved, as, twisting certain scriptures72, it’s the fashion to say now; but its awfu’ ill to understand such dealings in Him that is the Father of all, and{256} makes nae favourites. Poor Callant! it’s like he’ll be the first to find the secret out.” And, as he pondered, he could not restrain a groan73 over the impending74 fate which threatened Meredith, and on the complications that were soon to follow. To be sure, he had nothing particular to do with it, however it might happen; but every kind of Christian75 tenderness and charity lurked76 in the heart of the homely Scotch philosopher who stood in Arthur Meredith’s last chapter as the impersonation of the worldly man.
Next day Colin reappeared, to the astonishment77 of the brother and sister. Let us not say, to their disappointment—and yet poor little Alice, underneath78 her congratulations, said to herself with a pang, “He has got well—they all get well but Arthur;” and, when she was aware of the thought, hated herself, and wondered wistfully whether it was because of her wickedness that her prayers for Arthur were not heard. Anxiety and even grief are not the improving influences they are sometimes thought to be—and it is hard upon human nature to be really thankful for the benefits which God gives to others, passing over one’s self. Meredith, who was the sufferer in his own person, could afford to be more generous. He said, “I am glad you are better” with all his heart; and then he added—“The Lord does not mean to leave you alone, Campbell. Though He has spared you, He still continues His warnings. Do not neglect them, I beseech79 you, my dear friend”—before he returned to his writing. He was occupied now day and night with his “Voice from the Grave.” He was less able to walk, less able to talk, than he had been, and now, as the night came fast in which no man can work, was devoting all his time and all his feeble strength to this last message to the world.
It would have been pitiful enough to any indifferent spectator to note the contrast between the sick man’s solemn labour apart, and the glow of subdued80 pleasure in Colin’s face as he drew his seat in the evening towards the table which Alice had chosen for herself. The great bare room had so much space and so many tables, and there was so large a stock of lamps among the movables of the house, that each of the party had a corner for himself, to which (with his great-coat on or otherwise) he could retire when he chose. The table of Alice was the central point; and as she sat with the tall antique lamp throwing its primitive81 unshaded light upon her, still and graceful82 with her needlework, the sight of her was like that of a supreme objet de luxe in the otherwise bare apartment.{257} Perhaps, under due protection and control, the presence of womankind, thus calm, thus silent—letting itself, as the old maxim83 commanded, be seen and not heard—is to men of sober mind and middle age—such as Lauderdale, for example—the most agreeable ornament84 with which a room could be provided. Younger individuals might prefer that the tableau85 should dissolve, and the impersonation of womankind melt into an ordinary woman. Such at least was the feeling of Colin. She was very sweet to look at; but, if she had descended86 from her pedestal, and talked a little and laughed a little, and even perhaps—but the idea of anything like flirtation87 on the part of Alice Meredith was too absurd an idea to be entertained for a moment. However, abstracted and preoccupied88 as she was; she was still a woman young and fair—and Colin’s voice softened89 and his eyes brightened as he drew his chair to the other side of the lamp, and looked across the table at her soft, downcast face. “I have something here I want you to look at,” said the young poet, who had been used to Matty Frankland’s sympathy and curiosity; “not that it is much worth your while; but Lauderdale told you that writing verses was a weakness of mine,” he went on, with, a youthful blush and smile. As for Alice, she took the paper he gave her, looking a little frightened, and held it for a moment in her hand.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Campbell; am I to read it?” she said, with puzzled, uncertain looks. Naturally enough she was perplexed90 and even frightened by such an address; for, as Lauderdale said, her knowledge of poetry was confined to hymns, over which hung an awful shadow from the “Paradise Lost.” She opened Colin’s “copy of verses” timorously91 as she spoke92, and glanced at them, and stumbled at his handwriting, which, like most other people’s in these, scribbling93 days, was careless and indistinct. “I am sure it is very pretty,” faltered94 Alice as she got to the end of the page; and then, more timidly still, “What am I to do with it, Mr. Campbell?” asked the poor girl. When she saw the sudden flush that covered his face, Alice’s slumbering95 faculties96 were wakened up by the sharp shock of having given pain—which was a fault which she had very seldom consciously committed in the course of her innocent life.
Colin was too much a gentleman to lose his temper; but it is impossible to deny that the effort which he made to keep it was a violent one, and required all his manhood. “Keep it if you like it,” he said, with a smile which thinly covered his{258} mortification97; “or put it in the fire if you don’t.” He said this as philosophically98 as was possible under the circumstances. And then he tried a little conversation by way of proving his perfect composure and command of his feelings, during which poor Alice sat fluttered and uncomfortable and self-conscious as she had never been before. Her work was at an end for that night at least. She held Colin’s little poem in her hand, and kept her eyes upon it, and tried with all her might to invent something gracious and complimentary99 which could be said without offence; for, of course, carefully as he imagined himself to have concealed100 it, and utterly101 unconscious of the fact as Lauderdale remained, who was watching them, Alice was as entirely aware of the state of Colin’s mind and temper at the moment as he was himself. After a while he got up and went to Meredith’s table by the fire; and the two began to talk, as Alice imagined, of matters much too serious and momentous102 to leave either at leisure to remark her movements. When she saw them thus occupied she left the room almost stealthily, carrying with her the tall lamp with its four tongues of flame. She set down her light in her own room when she reached that sanctuary103, and once more read and pored over Colin’s poem. There was nothing about love in it, and consequently nothing improper104 or alarming to Alice. It was all about the Pantheon and its vespers, and the echoes in the dome105. But then why did he give it to her? why did he look so much disturbed when she in her surprise and unreadiness hesitated over it? Such an offering was totally new to Alice: how could she be expected to understand exactly how it ought to be received? But it is impossible to describe how vexed106 and mortified107 she was to find she had failed of what was expected of her, and inflicted108 pain when she might have given pleasure. She had been rude, and to be rude was criminal in her code of manners; and a flutter of other questions, other curiosities, awoke without any will of her own in the young creature’s maiden109 bosom110; for, indeed, she was still very young, not nineteen, and so preoccupied by one class of thoughts that her mind had been absolutely barred against all others until now.
The end was that Alice put away Colin’s poem in the private pocket of her writing-case, the very innermost of her sanctuaries111. “How clever he is,” she thought to herself; “how odd that such things should come into any one’s head; and to think I had not even the civility to say that it was beautiful poetry!” Then she went back very humbly112 into the sitting-room113, and served Colin with the last cup of tea, which was the most excellent. “For I know you like strong tea, Mr. Campbell,” she said, looking at him with appealing eyes. “It feels quite strange to think that we should know you so well—you who can write such beautiful poetry,”[1] she managed to say later in the evening. “I have always supposed a poet so different.”
“With wings, perhaps?” said Colin, who was not displeased114 even with this simple testimony115.
“Oh no,” said Alice, “that is impossible, you know—but certainly very different; and it was so very kind to think of giving it to me.”
Thus she made her peace with the young man—but it is doubtful how far she promoted her own by so doing. It introduced a new element of wonder and curiosity, if nothing more, into her watching life.
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1
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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42
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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47
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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48
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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49
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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50
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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51
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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53
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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54
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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56
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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57
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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58
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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59
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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60
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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61
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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62
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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63
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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64
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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65
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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66
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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67
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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68
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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69
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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70
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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71
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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72
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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73
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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74
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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75
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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76
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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78
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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80
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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82
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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84
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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86
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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87
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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88
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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89
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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90
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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92
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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93
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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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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95
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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96
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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98
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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99
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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100
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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101
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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102
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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103
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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104
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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105
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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106
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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107
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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108
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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110
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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111
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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112
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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113
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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114
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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115
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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