How grew Clara Lake? Better? Well, she did not seem to grow much better; at any rate, she was not well, and the old doctor at Katterley, who had known her constitution from infancy1, appeared puzzled. She dressed, as in her days of health, and went about the house: on fine days would go out for a walk in the sunshine: but she remained weak and debilitated2, and could not get rid of her cough.
Compared to the dangerous attack she had at Guild3, of course her present state seemed to be a vast improvement. On first coming home, the change for the better appeared to be marvellous; and Mr. Lake, never seeing anything but the bright side of things, congratulated himself that she was well again. The improvement did not go on as it ought to have gone; but the falling off was so gradual, the increasing degrees of weakness were so imperceptible, that he neither saw nor suspected either. Had any one told him his wife was in a bad way, he had simply stared in amazement4. Latterly the inertness5, the seeming debility had certainly made itself apparent to him, but only as a dim idea; so little importance did he attach to it, that he set it all down to apathy6 on his wife's part, and chided her for not "rousing herself." He did not mean to be unkind; never think that of him; for his wife he would have gone through fire and water, as the saying runs; but he was light, unobservant by nature, and careless.
He was enjoying himself immensely. Chiefly dividing his leisure time between Katterley and Guild. To-day he would be at home with his wife, tomorrow with Lady Ellis; the affectionate husband to the one, saying soft nothings (it must be supposed) to the other. Of course he never went for the sake of seeing my lady; certainly not; there was an excuse ever ready. Mrs. Chester had given him this commission, and he must go and report to her; or Mrs. Chester had given him the other; or she wanted to consult him on her affairs, which were going downwards8; or he went over to escort some of the Jupps; or he had business with his tailor; for he had fallen into a freak to employ one who lived at Guild. On one plea or another, a plausible9 excuse for taking him to Guild never failed.
The fault of this lay partially10 with Mrs. Chester. Nearly at her wits' end lest Lady Ellis, wearied with the monotony of the house, should leave her; plainly seeing that Mr. Lake's visits were the sole attraction that kept her, Mrs. Chester invented demands upon him to draw him over to Guild. That the confidential11 footing on which he and Lady Ellis continued was scarcely seemly for a married man, Mrs. Chester completely ignored. She shut her eyes to it; just as she had shut them in the days when Clara was at Guild. I am telling the simple truth of the woman, and things took place exactly as I am relating them. What mattered it to Mrs. Chester whether the wife's feelings were pained, outraged12, so long as her own ends were served? Clara was at a safe distance, seeing nothing; and, after all, it was but a bit of passing nonsense between them--there was no real wrong, reasoned Mrs. Chester in her sophistry13. "What the eye does not see the heart cannot rue14."
"But Mr. Lake ought not to have given way to her," remonstrates15 the upright reader. Of course he ought not, everybody knows that; but he liked the pastime. Lady Ellis made herself uncommonly17 attractive to him, and it never occurred to him to see that she ought not to have done so. She was exacting18 now; saying to him "You must come tomorrow," or "You must come the next day." They rode together and walked together as before; not so much, because it was winter weather; and they strolled out in the wide gardens in the dim afternoons, and sat alone very much in the drawing-room by twilight19.
Unfortunately these pleasant arrangements were not kept from Clara. If she had partially forgotten her jealousy20 upon returning home, her husband's constant visits to Guild, and the whispers reaching her from thence, brought it back in all its unhappy force. She was not told purposely. Of the Jupps, the only one whose eyes were open to the flirtation21 going on--that is, to a suspicion that it was deeper than it ought to be, considering that Mr. Lake had a wife--was the eldest22 of them, Mary. She held her tongue. But the others, after a day spent at Guild, would jokingly allude23 in Clara's hearing to the soft hours spent together by him and Lady Ellis, and tell her she ought to keep her husband in better order. They meant nothing. Had Clara been there she might have thought far less of it than she was doing; incertitude24 always increases suspicion, just as jealousy makes the food it feeds on. So Mrs. Lake sat at home with her cough, and her increasing weakness, and her miserable25 torture; conscious of little save one great fact, that her husband was perpetually at Guild. Had he gone more openly, as it were, without framing (as he invariably did) some plausible plea for the journey, she had thought less. What could Clara do? Could she descend26 to say to him, you shall not go there? No; she suffered in silence; but it was killing27 her.
A bright December morning, clear and frosty, Mrs. Lake was seated at the window in their comfortable room, making tiny little flannel28 petticoats. There was a good deal of distress29 in Katterley, and she was intending to give warm garments to sundry30 poor half-naked children. Stooping over the work, her cheeks had acquired their hectic31 tinge32, seen frequently now, otherwise the face was pale and thin; the fingers were attenuated33. Mr. Lake, who had been looking at the newspaper, reading occasional scraps34 of news from it to his wife, rose from his chair by the fire and stretched himself.
"How busy you are, little wife! Who on earth are all those small things for?"
"The poor children in the cottages by the brick-fields. They are so badly off, Robert," she added, glancing up, with a pleading look. "I could not help doing something for them."
"All right, my dear; do whatever you like. Only, don't over-work yourself."
"There's no fear of that. Elizabeth will do part of them; and Mary Jupp is coming to help me."
"What a lovely day it is for December!" he added, looking at the sparkling sunlight.
"Very. It almost tempts35 me to go out."
"I will take you tomorrow, Clara; I must go to Guild today."
Mrs. Lake resumed her work with trembling fingers. "Penelope's watch is at Van Buren's. I promised faithfully to take it to her today."
"Are there no watchmakers at Guild, that Mrs. Chester should send her watch to Katterley?"
"I don't know. I brought it to him at her request a fortnight ago. Van Buren has a great name in his trade, you know."
As he spoke36 he looked at his own watch; it was time to depart.
"Shall you be home to dinner, Robert?"
"No. But I shall to tea. I shall be in by the seven train. Good-bye, Clary."
She raised her face with its crimson37 hectic colour, the result of emotion, to receive his farewell kiss. Its loveliness could but strike him.
"How well you are getting to look, my darling," he said, tenderly.
And it would no doubt have astonished Mr. Lake excessively could he have glanced back at his wife through the garden and the walls of the house as he went off, gaily38 whistling. Dropping her work on the floor, she fell into a storm of sobs39 in her utter self-abandonment. Miss Jupp came in, and so found her.
"Clara! Clara!"
Up she got: but to affect indifference40 was an impossibility. Mary Jupp, greatly shocked, took the sorrowful face in her sheltering arms.
"Tell me what it is, Clara. Open your poor little heart to me, my dear. I am older than you by many years, and have had trouble myself. Where's your husband?"
"Gone to Guild."
"Oh," said Miss Jupp, shortly, who had her private opinion on many things. "Well, dear, he has got a nice day for it."
Clara dried her eyes and stifled41 her sobs, and sat down to work again.
"I am so stupid," she said, in a tone of apology. "Since my illness I don't feel strong; it makes me cry sometimes."
Mary Jupp said no more, perhaps wisely. She took her things off and remained the day. And Mr. Lake got home, not by seven at night, but by the last train.
Christmas approached, and Mrs. Lake got thinner and weaker. Still her husband suspected nothing amiss. She rose in the morning, went through her duties, such as they were, and had a bright colour. How was he, an unobservant man by nature and habit, to detect that it was all wrong? Had he suspected the truth, none would have been more anxiously troubled than he.
It was in Clara Lake's nature to conceal42 what was amiss. With these reticent43 temperaments44, a great grief touching45 the heart, a grief unto death, never can be spoken of. At the last, perhaps, when hours are numbered, but not always then. He saw no signs of it: the low spirits, the nervous weakness were given way to when alone: never before him. Except that she had grown strangely still and quiet, he saw no alteration46. She tried to be cheerful, and succeeded often.
So the days, as I have said, glided47 on, bringing the end nearer and nearer. Mr. Lake went on his heedless way, and she sat at home and did silent battle with the anguish48 that was killing her. Her history is drawing to a close. The world, going round in its hard, matter-of-fact reality, is apt to laugh at such stories; but they are taking place, for all that, in some of its nooks and corners.
One day, when it wanted but three or four to Christmas, Mr. Lake tempted49 his wife into the greenhouse to see his winter plants. She was more cheerful than customary--talked more; an artificial renovation50 had brought back some of the passing strength.
"Clary, I have promised to spend Christmas-day with Penelope."
A sudden rush of colour to her wasted cheeks, a pause, and a response that came forth51 faintly.
"Have you?"
"She said how dull it would be for us at home, and would not take a denial. You will be able to go?"
"I go!" She glanced at him in surprise, and shook her head.
"Why not?"
"I am too ill."
Mr. Lake felt annoyed. The proposed expedition had been presenting itself to his mind in a very agreeable light: for his wife to set her face against it, whether on the plea of ill-health or any other plea, would be especially provoking.
"My dear, I tell you what it is," he said in a voice that betrayed his temper, "you will fancy yourself ill and lie-by and stay at home, until it ends in your being ill."
"Do you think I am well?"
"You are not strong; but if you would rouse yourself, and go more out, and shake off fancies, you would soon become so. An illness, such as yours was in the autumn, leaves its weakening effects behind it as a matter of course; but there's no sense in giving way to them."
"I go out sometimes."
"Just for a walk or so; that does little good. What you want is cheerful society; change. You have not been once to Guild since we came home."
"You make up for it, then; you are there often enough."
She could not help the retort; it seemed to slip from her tongue unguided. Mr. Lake kicked out at a broken pot.
"Something or other is always happening to take me there. Mrs. Chester loads me with commissions, and I don't like to refuse to execute them."
They went in. Mr. Lake returned to the charge.
"You will go on Christmas-day, Clary, won't you? Penelope is preparing for us."
"No; I am not well enough. And if I were, I should prefer to be at home. Say no more," she added almost passionately52 interrupting what he was about to urge. "You ought not to wish me to go there."
A long silence. "I shall go. I must. I can't get off it."
She did not speak.
"What is to be done, Clara? It will never do for me to spend Christmas-day there, and you to spend it at home." And he finished the clause by breaking out, half-singing, half muttering, with the lines of a popular ditty that our childhood was familiar with--
"To-morrow is our wedding-day, and all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware53."
>
She sat with her hands folded before her, and did not immediately answer. If he could not tell what was to be done, or what ought to be done, she would not. Mr. Lake looked at her and waited.
"You must do as you think right," she said, laying a slight stress upon the word. "I am too unwell to be anywhere but at home on Christmas-day."
Mr. Lake left the room, whistling to hide his anger. Had he possessed55 the worst wife in the world he had never reproached or quarrelled with her. Some men cannot be actively56 unkind to women, and he was one. He thought her very obstinate57, unreasonably58 so, and said to himself that he would go to Guild. If Clara did not come to her senses beforehand and accompany him, his going without her would bring her to them after. Not another word was said between them; each seemed to avoid the subject.
Christmas-day dawned, cloudy but tolerably fine. Mr. Lake was going to Guild. Not doing exactly as he thought right, for his conscience was giving him a sharp twinge or two, but following the bias59 of his inclination60, which urged him into the sunshine of my Lady Ellis's smiles. Clara felt worse that morning, dreadfully weak and languid, but she put on her things to attend church. Mr. Lake went with her, and they sat out the service together. At its termination he rose to quit the church; she remained.
"Shall you not be too tired with the long service, Clara?" he whispered. "You had better leave it until another opportunity."
"Please don't! let me stay."
There was something in the pleading words--in the pleading up-turned glance of the wan7 face, that struck upon him as being strange, leaving a momentarily unpleasant impression. He never stayed the sacrament himself, and went out.
She gathered herself into the corner of their high, broad, old-fashioned pew, and knelt down, leaning her arms and head on the seat. An intense weariness was upon her frame and spirit; she did not feel things as keenly as she used--it was as if the world were drifting away from her. Her soul was longing61 for the comfort of the approaching rite--for its comfort. Ah, my friends, we kneel periodically at the altar, and take the bread and wine, and hope that we return comforted and refreshed. Believe me, it is but those from whom the comfort of this world has utterly62 departed who can indeed realize what that other comfort is, and how great our need of it. Only when earth and its interests fail us, when the silver cord is loosed, the golden bowl broken--in that hour do we desire the rest from travail63, as a yearning64 longing. That hour had come for Clara Lake: she knelt there, feeling that earth had no longer a place for her,--the home above was ready for her,--the Redeemer at hand to welcome her, and take her to God.
She walked home quietly, a dim consciousness upon her that it might be the last time she should partake of the sacrament here. It was not far off two o'clock, and Mr. Lake was walking about, all impatience65, for his train started at five minutes past. She had thought he would be gone.
"I waited for you, Clary. Won't you come with me?"
"Indeed I cannot."
"Then it's a case of Johnny Gilpin."
With a farewell to his wife, full of paraded affection, Mr. Lake took himself off to the station, telling his wife to be sure and eat a good dinner and drink everybody's health in champagne66, including his and her own.
In spite of the inward peace that was hers, she was feeling terribly dispirited. A fond thought had delusively67 whispered that, after all, perhaps he might not go. She remembered the epoch68 of her dream; how he had stayed at home then in tender consideration of her wishes. Things were altered now.
At three o'clock she sat down to dinner, cutting herself a small slice from the turkey placed before her. When the sauces were brought round she simply shook her head. She had no appetite: an oppressive feeling of bitter grief sat on her spirit; the tears dropped on her plate silently, and she could not control them.
Presently she laid down her knife and fork, the little bit of meat only half eaten. Elizabeth ventured to remonstrate16.
"I can't swallow it; it is like dry chips in my throat."
"And no wonder, ma'am: the meat's dry by itself. And such delicious bread-sauce and gravy69 that's here."
Sauce or no sauce, gravy or no gravy, Mrs. Lake could not eat. They brought in the pudding. She cut it, eat a mouthful, and, sent it away again.
Leaving her to her solitary70 dessert--for her a mere71 matter of form--the servants sat down to their own dinner. Some short time had elapsed, when Elizabeth thought she heard a noise in the dining-parlour, and went in to see if her mistress wanted anything. A cry of alarm burst from the girl as she opened the door: Mrs. Lake was lying on the carpet.
Whether she had fainted--whether she had been crossing the room and fell over anything--could not then be ascertained72. As the servants raised her, a thin stream of blood issued from her mouth. Nearly beside themselves with terror, they laid her on the sofa, and Elizabeth ran for the doctor. She had to pass Mr. Jupp's house, and on her return it occurred to Elizabeth to call and ask to see Miss Jupp. That young lady came out to her from the dining-room, her mouth full of turkey.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, half petrified73 at the news. "Burst a blood-vessel74! Dying! Is any one with her besides Mr. Lake?"
"He is not with her--there's nobody with her," answered Elizabeth. "That's why I made bold to disturb you, miss. He is gone off to dine at Mrs. Chester's."
Catching75 up a garden hat and woollen shawl that hung close at hand, Mary Jupp flung them on without a moment's pause for consideration, and started at a gallop76 down the street. The worthy77 shopkeepers, standing78 at their sitting-room79 windows, saw the transit80 with amazement, and thought the eldest Miss Jupp had gone suddenly mad. She was in the house before Dr. Marlow: his old steps were slow at the best--hers fleet. Mrs. Lake had broken a vessel on the chest or lungs.
"There is no immediate54 danger, as I hope," said the old doctor in Miss Jupp's ear; "but her husband ought to be here." Mary looked at her watch, and found that she had just time to catch a train.
But that Mary Ann Jupp was a strong-minded female, she might not have cared to go a journey on Christmas-day in the guise81 she presented. It may be questioned if she as much as gave a thought to her attire82, except to remember that there was no time to go home and change it. In addition to being strong-minded, she was also an exceedingly upright-minded, right-feeling young woman, and had for a long while past greatly condemned83 what was going on--the absurd intimacy84 between Mr. Lake and Lady Ellis, and his consequent neglect of his wife. Her eyes had been open to it if nobody else's had; and Mary Jupp, in her impulsive85 way, had threatened herself that she should "one day have it out with the lot." That day had come.
Very considerably86 astonished was Mr. Lake to find himself burst in upon by Mary Jupp. Mrs. Chester and Lady Ellis looked up in amaze. They had dined together, a family party, and Mrs. Chester's children, with Anna and the two Clapperton girls, who were guests that day, had retired87 to another room to make what noise they pleased, leaving the trio round the comfortable fire, wine and good things on the table behind them. Miss Jupp walked in without notice or ceremony. Her old red woollen shawl had jagged ends and a slit88; her brown hat, white once, was vastly disreputable, and had a notch89 in the brim. Excited and out of breath, having run all the way from Guild station, she walked straight up to Mr. Lake and spoke. "Would you see your wife before she dies?"
He had risen and stood in consternation90. Mrs. Chester rose. She sat still, calmly equable, listening and looking. Mr. Lake's lips turned white as he asked Miss Jupp for an explanation.
It was given in a sharp, ringing tone. Mrs. Lake had been found on the floor in her solitary dining-room, and when they lifted her up blood issued from her mouth. A vessel of some sort had given way. Dr. Marlow was with her, and said that Mr. Lake ought to be found. "Will you go to her?" asked the young lady as she finished her recital91; "or shall I go back and take word that you will not?"
"Why do you say that to me?" he asked with emotion.
"My dear Miss Jupp!" struck in Mrs. Chester, in a voice of remonstrance92.
"Why do I say it to you?" retorted Mary Jupp, in her storm of angry indignation. "It is time some one said it to you. You have been killing her by inches: yes, I speak to all of you," she added, turning about upon them. "You have been killing his wife by inches: you, Angeline Ellis, with your false and subtle snares93; and you, Penelope Chester, with your complacent94 winking95 at sin. He is weak and foolish--look at him, as he stands there in his littleness!--but he would scarcely have been wicked, had not you drawn96 him to it. You wonder that I can thus speak out"--drowning some interrupted words of Mrs. Chester's--"is it right for me to be silent, a hypocritical glosser97 over of crime, when she is dying? I am an English gentlewoman, with a gentlewoman's principles about me, and I hope some Christian98 ones: it behoves such to speak out sometimes."
"You are mad," gasped99 Mrs. Chester.
"You have been mad, to allow this conduct in your house--folly100, frivolity101, much that is bad going on under your very eyes. Had your brother been a single man, it might have been deemed excusable by some: never by me: but he had a fair young wife, and you deliberately102 set to work to injure her. You did, Penelope Chester: you knew quite well what you were doing: and to encourage ill by winking at it, is the same thing as committing it. I say nothing more to you," she added, turning upon Lady Ellis with ineffable103 scorn. "You may remember certain words you said to me regarding Mr. Lake and his wife, the first afternoon you came here: I did not understand them then; I do now; and I know that, in that first hour of your meeting, you were laying your toils104 around him to gain his admiration105 and wean him from his wife. If you retain a spark of feeling, of conscience, the remembrance of Clara Lake, when the grave shall have closed on her, will be as a sharp iron, ever eating into it."
Lady Ellis rose, her jet-black eyes flashing. "Who are you, that you should dare thus insult me?"
Mary Jupp dropped her tone to one of calmness--mockingly calm it was, considering the scorn that mingled106 with it. "I have told you who I am: an English gentlewoman amidst gentlewomen: and with such I should think you will never henceforth presume to consort107."
Mr. Lake had made no further retort, good or bad. While they were speaking, he took out his watch, saw that he had time, too much of it, to catch the next train, and quitted the room. Mary Jupp was following. Up started Mrs. Chester.
"If Clara is in the sad state you describe, Mary Jupp, I ought to go to her."
Mary Jupp turned short round and faced them. "I do not pretend to any right of control over your actions; but, were I you, I would at least allow my brother to be alone with his wife in her last hours. You have come between them enough, as it is, Mrs. Chester. The sight of you cannot be pleasant to her."
She quitted the room, condescending108 to give no farewell to either of those she left in it, and followed in the steps of Mr. Lake, who was already on his way to the station, buttoning his coat as he went, taking care not to catch him up. On the platform, as the train was dashing in, he spoke to her.
"Your accusations109 have been harsh, Mary."
"What has your conduct been?" she sharply retorted. "I loved your wife, and I feel her unhappy fate as keenly as though it had fallen on one of my own sisters. The world may spare you; it may flatter and caress110 you, for it is wonderfully tender to these venial111 sins of conduct; but you cannot recal to life her whom you vowed112 before God to love and to cherish."
"Step in. The train is going."
"Not into that carriage--with you. Others are in it, and I might be saying things that they would stare at. My temper is up, today."
"First class, miss?" cried an impatient porter "There's only that there one first-class carriage on."
And Mary Jupp walked away; opened the door of another, which was a third-class, and took her seat in it.
Thus they reached Katterley. Mr. Lake came to the carriage to assist her out, but she simply put his arm away. Her face looked awfully113 severe as the gaslights fell upon it.
"One moment," he said, arresting her as she was passing. "I do not know what turn your suspicions can have taken; a very free one, as it seems to me. Let me assure you that you are mistaken. On my word of honour as a man there has been nothing; nothing wrong. In justice to Lady Ellis I am bound to say this."
"Justice to Lady Ellis! Don't talk to me about justice to Lady Ellis," was the young lady's retort. Her temper, as she said, was up, that day. "Think of justice to your wife, rather. You are either a fool or a knave114, sir."
"Thank you, Miss Jupp."
"Nothing wrong!" she repeated, returning to the charge. "I don't know what you mean. What do you call wrong? You have been tied to that woman's skirts these five months; lavishing115 your money and your time upon her; and leaving your wife alone to die. If that's not wrong, I should like to know what is."
He made no reply; almost too confounded to do it.
"I don't blame you, Robert Lake, as much as I blame them," she took occasion to say as they were parting. "You are a vain, thoughtless, empty-headed fellow, made so, I believe, by your enforced idleness; and they, those two women, are old and crafty116. Mrs. Chester was serving her self-interest; the other her unjustifiable woman's vanity. You yielded yourself a willing prisoner to the birdlime spread under your feet, and now your folly has come home with interest. I saw your wife was dying of the pain, if you did not."
Without another word, whether of adieu or apology, she brushed past him up the street; and Mr. Lake turned to his home, something like a beaten dog that dare not lift its tail from between its legs.
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1
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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inertness
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| n.不活泼，没有生气；惰性；惯量 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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remonstrates
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的第三人称单数 )；告诫 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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jealousy
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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29
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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30
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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31
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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33
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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34
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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35
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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36
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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37
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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38
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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39
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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40
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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41
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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42
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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43
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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44
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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45
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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46
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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47
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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48
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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49
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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50
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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53
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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54
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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55
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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57
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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58
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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59
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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60
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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62
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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63
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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64
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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65
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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66
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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delusively
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| adv.困惑地，欺瞒地 | |
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68
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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69
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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70
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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71
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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74
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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75
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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76
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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80
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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81
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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82
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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83
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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84
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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85
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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86
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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87
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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88
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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89
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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90
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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91
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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92
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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93
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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95
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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96
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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97
glosser
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| [人名] 格洛瑟 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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99
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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100
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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101
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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102
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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103
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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104
toils
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| 网 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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107
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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108
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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109
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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110
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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111
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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112
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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114
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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115
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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116
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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