Meredith died the next day, after a struggle longer and harder than could have been anticipated, and very differently from the manner in which, when he dictated1 his last message to the world, he expected to die. Few human creatures are strong enough, except in books, to march thus solemnly and statelily to the edge of the grave. The last event itself was twenty-four{277} hours later than the anxious watchers expected it to be, and wore them all out more utterly2 than any previous part of their patient’s lingering illness. He dictated his postscript3, lying in great exhaustion4, but solemn calm, not without a certain pomp of conscious grandeur5, victorious6 over death and the grave. “That great angel whom men call the last enemy is standing7 by my bedside,” the dying man said, giving forth8 his last utterance9 slowly word by word. “In an hour I shall be clay and ashes. I send you, friends, this last message. Death is not terrible to those who love Christ. I feel a strength in me that is not my own. I had fears and doubts, but I have them no longer. The gates of heaven are opening. I close my eyes, for I can no longer see the lights of this world; when I open them again it will be to behold10 the face of my Lord. Amen. This I say to all the world with my last breath. For those who love Christ it is not hard to die.”
Colin, who wrote the words, trembled over them with a weakness like a woman’s; but Meredith’s broken and interrupted voice was shaken only by the last pangs13 of mortality, not by any faltering14 of the spirit. “I tell you, Colin, it is not hard,” he said, and smiled upon his friend, and composed himself to meet the last encounter; but such was not the end. The long night lingered on, and the dying man dozed16 a little, and woke again less dignified17 and composed. Then came the weary morning, with its dreadful daylight which made the heart sick, and then a long day of dying, terrible to behold, perhaps not so hard to bear. The two who were his brothers at this dreadful moment exercised all their power to keep Alice out of the room where this struggle was going on, but the gentle little girl was a faithful woman, and kept her place. He had had his moment of conscious victory, but now in its turn the human soul was vanquished18. He became unconscious of their consoling presence, conscious of nothing but the awful restlessness, the intolerable languor19 and yet more intolerable nervous strength which kept him alive in spite of himself; and then the veiled and abstracted spirit awoke to matters of which, when in full possession of his faculties20, Arthur had made no mention. He began to murmur21 strange words as he lay tossing in that last struggle. “Tell my father,” he said once or twice, but never finished the message. That death so clear and conscious, for which he had hoped, was not granted to him; and, when at last the deliverance came, even Alice, on her knees by the bedside, felt in her desolation a moment’s relief. It was almost dawn of the second morning{278} when they raised her up and led her tenderly away to Sora Antonia, the kind Italian woman, who waited outside. Colin was scarcely less overwhelmed than she. The young man sank down by the table where, on the previous night, he had been Arthur’s secretary, and almost fainting dropped his head upon the book which still lay open there. Twenty-four hours only of additional hard labour added on to the ending life; but it looked as many years to the young inexperienced spirit which had thus, for the first time, followed another, so far as a spectator can, through the valley of the shadow of death.
Lauderdale, who knew better, and upon whose greater strength this dreadful strain of watching had made a less visible impression, had to do for Colin what the kind peasant woman was doing for the desolate23 sister—to take him away from the chamber24 of death, and make him lie down, and put aside altogether his own sensations on behalf of the younger and more susceptible25 sufferer. All that had to be done fell on Lauderdale; he made the necessary arrangements with a self-command which nothing disturbed, and, when he could satisfy himself that both the young worn-out creatures, who were his children for the moment, had got the momentary26 solace27 of sleep, as was natural, he threw himself into poor Arthur’s arm-chair and pondered with a troubled countenance28 on all that might follow. There he too slept and dozed, as Sora Antonia went softly to and fro, moved with pity. She had said her rosary for Arthur many a morning, and had done all she could to interest in his behalf that good St. Antonio of Padua, who was so charitable, and perhaps might not be so particular about a matter of doctrine29 as St. Paul or St. Peter; for Sora Antonia was kind to the bottom of her heart, and could not bear to think of more than a thousand years or so of Purgatory30 for the poor young heretic. “The Signorino was English and knew no better,” she said to her patron saint—and comforted herself with the thought that the blessed Antonio would not fail to attend to her recommendation, and that she had done the best she could for her lodger31. From the room where Alice slept the deep sleep of exhaustion the good woman made many voyages into the silent salone, where the shutters32 were closed upon the bare windows, though the triumphant33 sun streamed in at every crevice34. She looked at Lauderdale, who dozed in the great chair, with curious looks of speculation35 and inquiry36. He looked old and grey, thus sleeping in the daylight, and the traces of exhaustion in such a face as his were less touching37 than the lines in Alice’s gentle countenance or the{279} fading of Colin’s brightness. He was the only member of the party who looked responsible to the eyes of Sora Antonia; and already she had a little romance in hand, and wondered much whether this uncle, or elder brother, or guardian38, would be favourable39 to her young people. Thus, while the three watchers found a moment’s sad rest after their long vigil, new hopes and thoughts of life already began to play about them unawares. The world will not stand still even to see the act of death accomplished40; and the act of death itself, if Arthur was right in his hopes, had not that already opened its brighter side upon the solitary41 soul which had gone forth alone?
The day after everything was finally over was Sunday—the gayest and brightest of summer festal days. Colin and Lauderdale, who had on the day before carried their friend to his grave, met each other sadly at the table, where it was so strange to take up again the common thread of life as though Arthur Meredith had never had any share in it. It was Sunday under its brightest aspect; the village was very gay outside, and neither of them felt capable of introducing their sombre shadows into the flowery and sunny festa, the gaiety of which jarred upon their sadness; and they had no heart to go about their usual occupations within. When they had swallowed their coffee together, they withdrew from each other into different corners, and tried to read, which was the only employment possible. Lauderdale, for his part, in his listlessness and fatigue43, went to rummage44 among some books which a former occupant had left, and brought from among them—the strangest choice for him to make—a French novel, a kind of production utterly unknown to him. The chances are, he had forgotten it was Sunday; for his Scotch45 prejudices, though he held them lightly in theory, still held him fast in practice. When, however, he had pored over it vaguely46 for half an hour (for reading French was a laborious47 amusement to the imperfectly instructed scholar), Colin was roused out of studies which he, too, pursued with a very divided attention, by a sudden noise, and saw the little yellow volume spin through the air out of his friend’s vigorous fingers, and drop ignominiously48 in a corner. “Me to be reading stuff like that!” said Lauderdale, with grim accents of self disgust; “and him maybe near to see what a fool is doing!” As he said this, he got up from his chair, and began to pace about the quiet, lonely room, violently endeavouring to recover the composure which he had not been able to preserve. Though he was older and stronger than the others, watching and grief had told upon his strength{280} also; and, in the glory of the summer morning which blazed all round and about, the soul of this wayfaring49 man grew sick within him. Something like a sob50 sounded into the silence. “I’m no asking if he’s happy,” Lauderdale burst forth; “I cannot feel as if I would esteem51 him the same if he felt nothing but joy to get away. You’re a’ infidels and unbelievers alike, with your happiness and your heaven. I’m no saying that it’s less than the supreme52 joy to see the face he hoped to see—but joy’s no inconsistent with pain. Will you tell me the callant, having a heart as you know he had, can think of us mourning for him and no care? Dinna speak of such inhuman53 imaginations to me.”
“No,” said Colin, softly. “But worst of all would be to think he was here,” the young man continued, after a pause, “unable to communicate with us anyhow, by whatsoever54 effort. Don’t think so, Lauderdale; that is the most inhuman imagination of all.”
“I’m no so clear of that,” said the philosopher, subduing55 his hasty steps; “nae doubt there would be a pang12 in it, especially when there was information like that to bestow57; but it’s hard to tell, in our leemited condition, a’ the capabilities58 of a soul. It might be a friend close by, and no yoursel’, that put your best thought in your head, though you saw him not. I wouldna say that I would object to that. It’s all a question of temperament59, and, maybe, age,” he continued, calming himself entirely60 down, and taking a seat beside Colin in the window. “The like of you expects response, and has no conception of life without it; but the like of me can be content without response,” said Colin’s guardian; and then he regarded his companion with eyes in which the love was veiled by a grave mist of meditation61. “I would not object to take the charge of you in such a manner,” he said, slowly. “But it’s awfu’ easy to dream dreams,—if anything on this earth could but make a man know;”—and then there followed another pause. “He was awfu’ pleased to teach,” Lauderdale resumed, with an unsteady smile. “It’s strange to think what should hinder him speaking now, when he has such news to tell. I never could make it out, for my part. Whiles my mind inclines to the thought that it must be a peaceable sleep that wraps them a’ till the great day, which would account for the awfu’ silence; but there’s some things that go against that. This is what makes me most indignant at thae idiots with their spirit-rapping and gibberish. Does ony mortal with a heart within his bosom62 dare to think that, if Love doesna open their sealed lips, any power in the world can?” cried the philosopher, whose emotion again got beyond his con{281}trol. He got up again, and resumed his melancholy63 march up and down the room. “It’s an awfu’ marvel64, beyond my reach,” he said, “when a word of communication would make a’ the difference, why it’s no permitted—if it were but to keep a heart from breaking here and there.”
“Perhaps it is our own fault,” said Colin; “perhaps flesh and blood shrinks more than we are aware of from such a possibility; and perhaps—” here the young man paused a little, “indeed, it is not perhaps. Does not God Himself choose to be our comforter?” said the youthful pre-destined priest; upon which the older and sadder man once more composed himself with a groan65.
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, “I can say nothing against that argument. I’m no denying it’s the last and the greatest. I speak the voice of a man’s yearning—but I’ve no intention of contravening66 the truth. He’s gone like many a one before him. You and me must bide67 our time. I’ll say no more of Arthur. The best thing you can do is to read a chapter. If we canna hear of him direct, which is no to be hoped for, we can take as good a grip as possible of the Friend that stands between us. It’s little use trying to forget—or trying no to think and inquire and question. There is but one thing in the world, so far as I can see, that a man can feel a kind of sure of. Callant, read a chapter,” said Lauderdale, with a long sigh. He threw himself back, as he spoke68, in the nearest chair, and Colin took his Bible dutifully to obey. The contrast between this request, expressed as any Scotch peasant would have expressed it, and the speculations69 which preceded it, did not startle Colin, and he had opened the book by instinct in the latter part of St. John’s Gospel, when he was disturbed by the entrance of Alice, who came in softly from her room without any warning. Her long attendance on her brother had withdrawn70 the colour from her cheeks and the fulness from her figure so gradually, that it was only now in her mourning dress that her companions saw how pale and thin she had grown. Alice was not speculative71, nor fanciful, nor addicted72 to undue73 exercise of the faculties of her own mind in any way. She was a dutiful woman, young and simple, and accepted God’s will without inquiry or remonstrance74. Though she had struggled long against the thought of Arthur’s death, now that he was dead she recognized and submitted to the event which it was no longer possible to avert75 or change, with a tender and sweet resignation of which some women are capable. A more forlorn and desolate creature than Alice Meredith did not exist on the earth, to all ordinary appearance, at this moment; but, as she was{282} not at all thinking of herself, that aspect of the case did not occur to her.
She came out of her room very softly, with a faint smile on her face, holding some Prayer-books in her hands. Up to this sad day it had been their custom to read prayers together on the Sundays, being too far off Rome to make it practicable even for the stronger members of the party to go to church. Alice came up to Colin with her books in her hands—she said to him in a wistful whisper, “You will take his place,” and pointed76 out to him silently the marks she had placed at the lessons and psalms77. Then she knelt down between the two awed78 and astonished men, to say the familiar prayers which only a week ago Arthur himself had read with his dying voice. Though at times articulation79 was almost impossible to Colin, and Lauderdale breathed out of his deep chest an Amen which sounded like a groan, Alice did not falter15 in her profound and still devotions. She went over the well-known prayers word by word, with eye and voice steadfast80 and rapt in the duty which was at the same time a consolation81. There are women of such sweet loyalty82 and submission83 of spirit, but neither Lauderdale nor Colin had met with them before. Perhaps a certain passiveness of intellect had to do with it, as well as Alice’s steady English training and custom of self-suppression; but it made a wonderful impression upon the two who were now the sole companions and guardians84 of the friendless young woman, and gave her indeed for the moment an absolute empire over them, of which Alice was altogether unconscious, and of which, even had she known it, she could have made no further use. When the Morning Prayer was almost concluded it was she who indicated to Colin another mark in the Prayer-book, at the prayer for Christ’s Church militant85 on earth; and they could even hear the whisper of her voice broken by an irrestrainable sob at the thanksgiving for all “Thy servants departed this life in Thy faith and fear,” which Colin read with agitation86 and faltering. When they rose from their knees, she turned from one to the other with her countenance for the first time disturbed. “You were very very good to him,” she said, softly. “God will bless you for it,” and so sank into sobbing87 and tears, which were not to be subdued88 any longer, yet were not passionate89 nor out of accordance with her docile90 looks. After that, Alice recovered her calm, and began to occupy herself with them as if she had been their mother. “Have you been out?” she said. “You must not stay in and make yourself ill.” This was addressed specially56 to Colin. “Please{283} go out and take a walk; it will do you a great deal of good. If it had not have been a great festa it would not have been so bad; but, if you go up to the Villa42 Conti, you will find nobody there. Go up behind the terrace, into the alleys91 where it is shady. There is one on the way to the Aldobrandini; you know it, Mr. Campbell. Oh go, please; it is such a beautiful day, it will do you good.”
“And you?” said Colin, who felt in his heart an inclination92 to kneel to her as if she had been a queen.
“I shall stay at home to-day,” said Alice. “I could not go out to-day; but I shall do very well. Sora Antonia will come in from mass presently. Oh, go out, please, and take a walk. Mr. Lauderdale, he will go if you tell him to go—you are both looking so pale.”
“Come, Colin,” said Lauderdale, “she shall have her pleasure done this day, at least, whatsoever she commands. If there was anything within my power or his—” said the philosopher, with a strange discord93 that sounded like tears in his voice; but Alice stopped him short.
“Oh yes,” she said, softly, “it is very good of you to do it because I ask you. Mr. Campbell, you did not read the right lesson,” she added, turning her worn face to Colin with a slight reproach.
“I read what I thought was better for us all, mourning as we are,” said Colin, startled; upon which the sad little representative of law and order did her best to smile.
“I have always heard it said how wonderful it was how the lesson for the day always suited everybody’s case,” said Alice. “Arthur never would make any change for circumstances. He—he said it was as if God could ever be wanting,” the faithful sister said, through her sobs94; and then, again, put force upon herself:—“I shall be here when you come back,” she said, with her faint smile; and so, like a little princess, sent them away. The two men went their way up the slope and through the little town, in their black coats, casting two tall, sombre shadows into the sunshine and gaiety of the bright piazza95. There had been a procession that morning, and the rough pavement was strewed96 with sprigs of myrtle and box, and the air still retained a flavour of the candles, not quite obliterated97 by the whiff of incense98 which came from the open doors of the Cathedral, where even the heavy leathern curtain, generally suspended across the entrance, had been removed by reason of the crowd. People were kneeling even on the steps; peasants{284} in their laced buskins, and Frascati women, made into countesses or duchesses, at the least, by the long white veils which streamed to their feet. The windows were all hung with brilliant draperies in honour of the morning’s procession and the afternoon’s Tombola. It was one of the very chief of Italian holydays, a festal Sunday in May, the month of Mary. No wonder the two sad Protestant Scotchmen, with mourning in their dress and in their hearts, felt themselves grow sick and faint as they went dutifully to the gardens of the Villa Conti, as they had been commanded. They did not so much as exchange a word with each other till they had passed through all that sunshine and reached the identical alley22, a close arcade99, overarched and shut in by the dense100 foliage101 of ilex-trees, to which their little sovereign had directed them. There was not a soul there as she had prophesied102. A tunnel scooped103 out of the damp, dewy soil could scarcely have been more absolutely shut in from the sunshine, scarcely could have been stiller or cooler, or more withdrawn from the blazing noonday, with its noises and rejoicings, than this narrow sombre avenue. They strayed down its entire length, from one blue arch of daylight to the other, before they spoke; and then it was Lauderdale who broke the silence, as if his thoughts, generally so busy and so vagrant104, had never got beyond Alice Meredith’s last words.
“Another time, Colin,” said the philosopher, “you’ll no make ony changes in the lesson for the day. Whiles it’s awfu’ hard to put up with the conditions o’ a leemited intellect; but whiles they’re half divine. I’m no pretending to be reasonable. She kens105 no more about reason than—the angels, maybe—I admit it’s a new development to me; but a woman like yon, callant, would keep a man awfu’ steady in the course of his life.”
“Yes,” said Colin; and then with a strange premonition, for which he himself could not account, he added—“She would keep a man steady, as you say; but he would find little response in her—not that I regard her less respectfully, less reverentially than you do, Lauderdale,” he went on, hurriedly, “but—”
“It wasna your opinion I was asking for,” said the philosopher somewhat morosely106. “She’s like none of the women you and me ken11. I’m doubtful in my own mind whether that dutiful and obedient spirit has ever been our ideal in our country. Intellect’s a grand gift, callant, baith to man and woman; but you’ll no fly in my face and assert that it’s more than second best.”
“I am not up to argument to-day,” said Colin; and they{285} walked back again the whole length of the avenue in silence. Perhaps a certain irritability107, torn of their mutual108 grief, was at the bottom of this momentary difference; but somehow, in the stillness, in the subdued leafy shade, which at first sight had been so congenial to his feelings, an indescribable shadow stole over Colin’s mind—a kind of indistinct fear and reluctance109, which took no definite shape, but only crept over him like a mist over the face of the sun. His heart was profoundly touched at once by the grief and by the self command of Alice, and by her utter helplessness and dependence110 upon himself and his friend. Never before had he been so attracted towards her, nor felt so much that dangerous softening111 sentiment of pity and admiration112, which leads to love. And yet—; the two walked back silently under the dark ilex-trees, and across the piazza, which was now thronged113 with a gay and many-coloured crowd. The brighter the scene grew around them, the more they shut themselves up in their own silence and sorrow, as was natural; and Colin at length began to recognise a new element, which filled him with vague uneasiness—an element not in the least new to the perplexed114 cogitations of his guardian and anxious friend.
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1
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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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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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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45
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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46
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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48
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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49
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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50
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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51
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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52
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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53
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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54
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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55
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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56
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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57
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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58
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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59
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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60
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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61
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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62
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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63
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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64
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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65
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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66
contravening
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| v.取消，违反( contravene的现在分词 ) | |
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67
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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68
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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69
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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70
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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71
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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72
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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73
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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74
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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75
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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76
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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77
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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78
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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80
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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81
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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82
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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83
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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84
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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85
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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86
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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87
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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88
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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89
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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90
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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91
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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92
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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93
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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94
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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95
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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96
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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97
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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98
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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99
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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100
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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101
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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102
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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104
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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105
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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106
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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107
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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108
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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109
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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110
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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111
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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112
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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113
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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