At that time George began to feel the desire for work creeping upon him once more. During a few weeks only had it been in his power to put away the habit of writing, 235and to close his eyes to all responsibility. Those had been days when the whole world had seemed to be upside down, as in a dream, while he himself moved in the midst of a disordered creation, uncertainty2, like a soulless creature, without the capacity for independent action nor the intelligence to form any distinct intention from one moment to another. He took what he found in his way without understanding, though not without an odd appreciation3 of what was good, very much as Eastern princes receive European hospitality. He was grateful at least that his life should be made so smooth for the time, for he was dimly conscious that anything outwardly rough or coarse would have exasperated6 him to madness. He believed that he thought a great deal about the past, but when he attempted to give his meditations7 a shape, they would accept none. In reality he was not thinking, though the mirror of his memory was filled with fleeting8 reflections of his former life, some clear and startlingly vivid, others distorted and broken, but all more or less beautified by the shadowy presence of a being he had loved better than himself, and from whom he was separated for ever.
With such a man, however, idleness was as impossible as the desire for expression was irresistible9. Since he had written his first book, and had discovered what it was that he was born to do, he had taken up a burden which he could not lay down and had sworn allegiance to a master from whom he could not escape. Not even the bitter and overwhelming disappointment that had come upon him could kill the desire to write. He was almost ashamed of it at first, for he felt that though everything he loved best in the world were dead before him, he should be driven within a few weeks to take up his pen again and open his inner eyes and ears to the play of his mind’s stage.
The power to do certain things is rarely separated from the necessity for doing them, and the fact that they are well done by no means proves that the doer has forgotten 236the blow that recently overwhelmed his heart in darkness and his daily life in an almost uncontrollable grief. There are two lives for most men, whatever their careers may be, and the absence of either of these lives makes a man produce an impression of incompleteness upon those who know him. When any one lives only by the existence of the heart, without active occupation, without manifesting inclination10, taste or talent for outward things, we say that he has no interest in life, and is much to be pitied. But we say that a man is heartless and selfish who appears to devote every thought to his occupation and every moment to increasing the chances of his success. In the lives of great men we search with an especial pleasure for all that can show us the working of their hearts, and we remember with delight whatever we find that indicates a separate and inner chain of events, of which the links have been loves and friendships kept secret from the world. The more nearly the two lives have coincided, the more happy we judge the man to have been, the more out of tune11 and discordant12 with each other, the more we feel that his existence must have seemed a failure in his own eyes; and when we are told only of his doings before the world, without one touch of softer feeling, we lay aside the book of his biography and say that it is badly written and that we are surprised to find that a man so uninteresting in himself should have exercised so much influence over his times.
George Wood had neither forgotten Constance, nor had he recovered from the wound he had received, and yet within a day or two of his resuming his work, he found that his love of it was not diminished nor his strength to do it abated13. It was not happiness to write, but it was satisfaction. His hesitation14 was gone now, and his hand had recovered its cunning. He no longer sat for hours before a blank sheet of paper, staring at the wall and racking his brain in the hope that a character of some sort would suddenly start into shape and 237life from the chaotic15 darkness he was facing. Until the first difficulties that attend the beginning of a book were overcome, he had still a lingering and unacknowledged suspicion that he could do nothing good without the daily criticism and unfailing applause he had been accustomed to receive from Constance during his former efforts. When he was fairly launched, he felt proud of being able to do without her. For the first time he was depending solely16 upon his own judgment17, as he had always relied upon his own ideas, and his judgment decided18 that what he did was good.
From that time the arrangement of his day took again the definite shape in which he had always known it, and the mere19 distribution of his hours between work and rest gave him back confidence in himself. He began to see his surroundings from a more intelligent point of view, and to take a keener interest in things and people. Though he had by no means recovered from the first great shock of his life, and though in his heart he was as bitter as ever against her who had inflicted20 it, yet his mind was already convalescent and was being rapidly restored to its former vigour21. There was power in his imagination, strength in his language and harmony in his style. What he thought took shape, and the shape found expression.
He soon found that under these circumstances life was bearable, and often enjoyable. Very gradually, as his concentrated attention became absorbed in his own creations, the face of Constance Fearing appeared less often in his dreams, and the heartbroken tones of her voice rang less continually in his ears. He was not forgetting, but the physical impressions of sight and sound upon his senses were wearing off. Occasionally indeed they would return with startling force and vividness, awakening22 in him for one moment the reality of all he had suffered. At such times he could see again, as though face to face, her expression at the instant when she had seemed to relinquish23 the attempt to soften24 him, 238and he could hear again the plaintive25 accents of her words and the painful cadence26 of her sobbing27 voice. But such visitations grew daily more rare and at last almost ceased altogether.
For what he had done himself he felt no remorse28. His mind was not made like hers, and he would never be able to understand that she had done violence to her own heart in casting him off. He would learn perhaps some day to describe what she had done, to analyse her motives29 from his own point of view, but he would never be able to think of her as she thought of herself. In his eyes she would always be a little contemptible30, even when time’s charitable mists should have descended31 upon the past and softened32 all its outlines. He was cut off from her by one of the most impassable barriers which can be raised in the human heart, by his resentment33 against himself for having been deceived.
He did not ask himself whether he could ever love again. There was a strength in his present position, which almost pleased him. He had done with love and was free to speak of it as he chose, without regard for any one’s feelings, without respect for the passion itself, if it suited his humour. There had been nothing boyish in the pure and passionate34 affection under which he had lived during two of the most important years in his life. He had felt all that a man can feel in the deep devotion to one spotless object. There would never again be anything so high and noble and untainted in all the years that were to come for him, and he knew it. The determination he had felt to be necessary in the first moment of his anger had carried itself out almost without any direction from his will. The Constance he had loved so dearly, was not the Constance who had refused to marry him, and who had dealt him such a cruel blow. The two were separated and he could still love the one, while hating and despising the other. But although he might meet the girl whose face and form and look and voice were those of her he had lost, this second Constance 239could never take the other’s place. A word from her could not put fire into his heart, nor raise in his brain the vision of a magnificent inspiration. A touch from her hand could send no thrill of pleasure through his frame, there would be no joy in looking upon her fair face when next he saw it. She might say to him all that he had once said to her, she might appeal passionately35 to the love that was now dead, she might offer him her heart, her body and her soul. He wanted none of the three now. The break had been final and definite, love’s path had broken off upon the edge of the precipice36, and though she might stand on the old familiar way and beckon37 to him to come over and meet her, there was that between them which no man could cross.
Like all great passions the one through which George Wood had passed had produced upon him a definite effect, which could be appreciated, if not accurately38 measured. He was older in every way now than he had been two years and a half earlier, but older chiefly in his understanding of human nature. He knew, now, what men and women felt in certain circumstances, his instinct told him truly what it had formerly39 only vaguely40 suggested. The inevitable41 logic42 of life had taken him up as a problem, had dealt with him as with a subject fitted to its hand, and had forced upon him a solution of himself. Where he had entertained doubts, he now felt certainty, where he had hesitated in expressing the judgment of his tastes he now found his verdicts already considered and only awaiting delivery. Many months later, when the book he was now writing was published it was a new surprise to his readers. His first attempts had been noticeable for their beauty, his last book was remarkable43 for its truth.
Meanwhile his intimacy44 with Mamie grew unheeded by himself. During the many hours of each day in which he had no fixed45 occupation, he was almost constantly with her, and their conversation was at last only interrupted each evening to begin again the next afternoon, 240when he had done his work and came out of his room in search of relaxation46. He had never found any explanation for her embarrassment47 on that day when he had been rowing her about on the river, and after a time he had ceased to seek for one. His brain was too busy with other things, and what he wanted when he was with her was rest rather than exercise for his curiosity in trying to solve the small enigmas48 of her girlish thoughts. She was a very pleasant companion, and that was all he cared to know. She brought about him an atmosphere of genuine and affectionate admiration49 that gave him confidence in himself and smoothed the furrows50 of his imagination when he had been giving that faculty51 more to do than was good for it.
Mamie, too, was happier than she had been a month earlier. She had no longer to suffer the humiliation52 of taking her mother’s advice about what she should do, and she could enjoy George’s company without feeling that she had been told to enjoy it in her own interest. As she learned to love him more and more, she was quick also to understand his ways. Signs that had formerly escaped her altogether were now as clear to her comprehension as words themselves. She knew, now, almost before he knew it himself, whether he wanted her to join him, or not, whether he preferred to talk or to be silent, whether he would like this question or that which she thought of asking him, or whether he would resent it and make her feel that she had made a mistake. One day, she ventured to mention Constance’s name.
George had never visited the Fearings in their country-place, and was not aware until he came to stay with his cousin that they lived on the opposite shore of the river. Their house was not visible from the Trimms’ side, as it was surrounded by trees, and the stream was at that point nearly two miles in width. Totty, however, who always had a view to avoiding any possibility of anything disagreeable, had very soon communicated the information to George in an unconcerned way, while 241pointing out and naming to him the various country-seats that could be seen from her part of the shore. George did not forget what he had been told, and if he ever crossed the river and rowed along the other bank, he was careful to keep away from the Fearings’ land, in order to guard against any unpleasant meetings.
Now it chanced that on a certain afternoon he was pulling leisurely53 up stream towards a place where the current was slack, and where he occasionally moored54 the wherry to an old landing in order to rest himself and talk more at his ease. Mamie of course was seated in the stern, leaning back comfortably amongst her cushions and holding the tiller-ropes daintily between the thumb and finger of each hand. She could steer55 very well when it was necessary, and she could even row well enough to make some headway against the stream, but George had been accustomed to being alone in a boat, and gave her very little to do when he was rowing.
Mamie watched him idly, as his hands shot out towards her, crossed as he drew them steadily56 back and turned at the wrist to feather the oar4 as they touched his chest. Then her gaze wandered down stream towards the other shore, and she tried to make out the roof of the Fearings’ house above the trees.
“George,” she said suddenly, “will you be angry?”
“I am never angry,” answered her cousin. “What are you going to do now? If you mean to jump out of the boat I will have a line ready.”
“No. I am not going to jump out of the boat. But I am so afraid you will be angry, after all. It is something I want to ask you. I am sure you will not like it!”
“One way of not making me angry would be not to ask the question,” observed George, with a quiet smile.
“But I want to ask you so much!” exclaimed the young girl, with an imploring57 look that made George’s smile turn into a laugh. He had laughed more than once lately, in a very natural manner.
“Out with it, Mamie!” he cried, pulling his sculls 242briskly through the water. “I shall not be very angry, I daresay, and I have fallen out of the habit of eating little girls. What is it?”
“Why do you never go and see the Fearings, George? You used to be there so much.”
George’s expression changed, though he continued to row with the same even stroke. His face grew very grave and he unconsciously glanced across the river toward the place at which Mamie had looked.
“I knew you would be angry!” she said in a repentant58 tone.
“No,” George answered, “I am not angry. I am thinking.”
He was, indeed, wondering how much of the truth the girl knew, and he was distrustful enough to fancy that she might have some object in putting the question. But Mamie was not diplomatic like her mother. She was simple and natural in her thoughts, and unaffected in her manner. He glanced at her again and saw that she was troubled by her indiscretion.
“Did your mother never tell you anything about it all?” he asked after a long pause.
“No. I only heard what everybody heard—last May, when the thing was talked about. I wondered—that is all—I wondered whether you had cared very much—for her.”
Again there was a long silence, broken only by the even dipping of the oars5 and the soft swirl59 as they left the water.
“I did care,” George answered at last. “I loved her very dearly.”
He did not know why he made the confession60. He had never said so much to any one except his own father. If he had guessed what Mamie felt for him, he would assuredly not have answered her question.
“Are you very unhappy, still?” asked the young girl in a dreamy voice.
“No. I do not think I am unhappy. I am different 243from what I was—that is all. I was at first,” he continued, without looking at his companion, of whose presence, indeed, he seemed scarcely conscious. “I was unhappy—yes, of course I was. I had loved her long. I had thought she would marry me. I found that she was indifferent. I shall never go and see her again. She does not exist for me any more—she is another person, whom I do not wish to know. I have loved and been disappointed, like many a better man, I suppose.”
“Loved and been disappointed!” repeated the young girl in a very low voice, that hardly reached his ear. She was looking down, carelessly tying and untying61 the ends of the tiller-ropes.
“Yes. That is it,” he said as though musing62 on something very long past. “You know now why I do not go there.”
Then he quickened his stroke a little, and there was a sombre light in his dark eyes that Mamie could not see, for she was still looking down. She was glad that she had asked the question, seeing how he had answered it. There was something in his tone which told her that he was not mistaken about himself, and that the past was shut off from the present in his heart by a barrier it would be hard to break down.
“Do you think you can ever love again?” she asked, after a while, looking suddenly into his face.
“No,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “I shall never love any woman again—in the same way,” he added after a moment’s pause.
When he looked at her, she was very pale. He remembered all at once how she had changed colour and burst into tears some weeks earlier, sitting in that same place before him. Something was passing in her mind which he could not understand. He was very slow to imagine that she loved him. He was so dull of comprehension that he all at once began to fancy she might be more fond of Constance Fearing than he had guessed, that she might be her friend, as Totty was, and that the 244two had brought him to their country-house in the hope of soothing63 his anger, reviving his hopes, and bringing him once more into close relations with the young girl who had cast him off. The idea was ingenious in its folly64, but his ready wrath65 rose at it.
“Are you very fond of her, Mamie?” he asked, bending his heavy brows and speaking in a hard metallic66 voice.
The blood rushed into the girl’s face as she answered, and her grey eyes flashed.
“I? I hate her! I would kill her if I could!”
George was completely confused. His explanation of Mamie’s behaviour had flashed upon him so suddenly that he had believed it the true one without an attempt to reason upon the matter. Now, it was destroyed in an instant by the girl’s angry reply. When one young woman says that she hates another, it is tolerably easy to judge from her tone whether she is in earnest or not. Though he was still sorely puzzled, the cloud disappeared from George’s face as quickly as it had come.
“This is a revelation!” he exclaimed. “I thought you and your mother were devoted to them both.”
“It would be like me, would it not?” Mamie emphasised her words with an angry little laugh.
“It is not like you to hate people so savagely,” George observed, looking at her closely.
“I should always hate anybody who hurt you—and I can hate, with all my heart!”
“Are you so fond of me as that?”
George thought that the girl was becoming every moment harder to understand. It had seemed a very natural question, since they had known each other and loved each other like brother and sister for so long. But he saw that there was something the matter. There was a frightened look in Mamie’s grey eyes which he had never seen before, as though she had come all at once upon a great and unexpected danger. Then all the outline of her face softened wonderfully with a strange and 245gentle expression under the young man’s gaze. She had never been pretty, save for her eyes and her alabaster67 skin. For one moment, now, she was beautiful.
“Yes,” she said in an uncertain voice, “I am very fond of you—more fond of you than you will ever know.”
Her secret was out, though she did not realise it. Then for the first time in George’s life, though he was nearly thirty years of age, he looked on the face of a woman who loved him with all her heart, and he knew what love meant in another, as he had known it in himself.
The sun was going down behind the western hills and the dark water was very smooth and placid68 as he dipped his sculls noiselessly into the surface. He rowed evenly on for some minutes without speaking. Mamie was looking into the stream and drawing her white, ungloved hand along the glassy mirror.
“Thank you, Mamie,” he said at last, very gently and kindly69.
Again there was silence as they shot along through the purple shadows.
“And you, are you fond of me?” asked the young girl, looking furtively70 towards him, then blushing and gazing once more into the depths of the stream. George started slightly. He had not thought that the question would come.
“Indeed I am,” he answered. He thought he heard a sigh on the rising evening breeze. “I grow more fond of you every day,” he added quietly, though he felt that he was very far from calm.
So far as he had spoken, his words had been truthful71. He was becoming more attached to Mamie every day, and she was beginning to take the place that Constance had occupied in his doings if not in his thoughts. But there was not a spark of love in his growing affection for her, and the discovery he had just made disturbed him exceedingly. He had never blamed himself for anything he had done in his intercourse72 with Constance 246Fearing, but he accused himself now of having misled the innocent girl who loved him and of having then, by a careless question, drawn73 from her a confession of what she felt. It flashed upon him suddenly that he had taken Constance’s place, and Mamie had taken his; that he had been thoughtless and cruel in all he had said and done during the last two months, and that she might well reproach him with having been heartless. A thousand incidents flooded his memory and crowded together upon his brain, and each brought with it a sting to his sense of honour. He had inadvertently done a great harm, and it had been done since his coming to the country. Before that, Mamie had felt for him exactly what he still felt for her, a simple, open-hearted affection. Remembering the brief struggle that had taken place in his mind before he had accepted Totty’s invitation, he accused himself of having known beforehand what would happen, and of having weakly yielded because he had liked the prospect74 of leading so luxurious75 an existence. What surprised him, however, and threw all his reflections out of balance was that Totty herself should not have foreseen the disaster, Totty the diplomatic, Totty the worldly, Totty the covetous76, who would as soon have given her daughter to one of her servants as to penniless George Wood! It was past comprehension. Yet, in spite of his distress77, he could hardly repress a smile as he imagined what Totty’s rage would be, should he marry Mamie and carry her off before the eyes of her horrified78 parent. Sherrington Trimm, himself, would be as well satisfied with him as with any other honest man, if he were sure of Mamie’s inclinations79.
Now, however, something must be done at once. He was not a weak creature, like Constance Fearing, to hesitate for months and years, practising a deception80 upon himself which he had not the courage to carry to the end. He even regretted the last words he had spoken, and which had been prompted by a foolish wish not to hurt the girl’s feelings. It would have been better if he had 247left them unsaid. The situation must be defined, the harm arrested, if it could not be undone81, and should it seem necessary, as it probably would, he himself must leave the place on the following morning. He opened his mouth to speak, but the blood rushed to his face and he could not articulate the words. He was overcome with shame and remorse and he would have chosen to do anything, to undergo any humiliation rather than this. But in a moment his strong nature gathered itself and grew strong, as it always did in the face of great difficulties. He hated hesitation and he would not hesitate, cost what it might. He was not cowardly, and he would not be afraid.
“Mamie,” he said, suddenly, and he wondered how his voice could be so gentle, “Mamie, I do not love you.”
He had expected everything, except what happened. Mamie looked into his eyes, and once again in the evening light the expression of her love transfigured her half pretty face and lent it a completeness of beauty such as he had never seen.
“Have you not told me that, dear?” she asked, half sadly, half lovingly. “It is not new. I have known it long.”
George stared at her for a moment.
“I feared I had not said it clearly,” he answered in low tones.
“Everything you have done and said has told me that, for two months past. Do not say it again.”
“I must go away from this place. I will go to-morrow.”
She looked up with startled eyes.
“Go away? Leave me? Ah, George, you will not be so unkind!”
The situation was certainly as strange as it was new, and George was very much confused by what was happening. His resolution to make everything clear was, however, as unbending as before.
“Mamie,” he said, “we must understand each other. 248Things must not go on as they have gone so long. If I were to stay here, do you know what I should be doing? I should be acting82 towards you as Constance Fearing acted with me, only it would be much worse, because I am a man, and I have no right to do such things, as women have.”
“It is different,” said the young girl, once more looking down into the water.
“No, it is not different,” George insisted. “I have no right to act as though I should ever love you, to make you think by anything I do or say, that such a thing is possible. I am a brute83, I know. Forgive me, Mamie, dear. It is so much better that everything should be clearly understood now. We have known each other so long, and so well——”
“Nothing that you can say will make it seem right to me that you should go away——”
“It is right, nevertheless, and if I do not do it, as I should, I shall never forgive myself——”
“I will forgive you.”
“I shall hate myself——”
“I will love you.”
“I shall feel that I am the most miserable84 wretch85 alive.”
“I shall be happy.”
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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84
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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