Mrs. Lake was better. The bleeding was stopped, the doctor gone, and she seemed comfortable. There was less danger than Miss Jupp had supposed, for the blood-vessel which had broken proved to be only a small one on the chest--not the lungs. To her husband it appeared incomprehensible that she should be in any danger at all: his mind had never admitted the possibility of it.
He was all alive to it now. As long as she lay in bed he scarcely left her chamber1. To talk with her much was not allowed, but he sat there, holding her hand, looking into her eyes with the old love in his. What his reflections were, or how great his self-reproaches, was best known to himself. When these men, essentially2 kind and tender by nature, have to indulge in such remorse3, be assured it is not very light. He could not bring himself to believe that any conduct of his had contributed to his wife's illness; still less that he had caused it. That was a flight of fancy not easy to him to understand; but he saw now how ill she must have been all along, and bitterly regretted that he had left her so much alone. Rather than have wilfully4 ill-treated her, he would have forfeited6 his life. His love had come back to him, now that it was too late--it may be more appropriate to say his senses had come back to him.
In a day or two she grew so much better that she was allowed to leave her bed for a small sitting-room7 on the same floor, carried into it by him. Late in the afternoon, he left her comfortably lying back in the easy chair, and inclined to sleep. Taking his hat, he walked out.
His errand was to the doctor. His wife seemed to assume that she should not recover; Miss Jupp and the servants the same; for all he saw, she might be well in a week or two: and he went to put the question. Dr. Marlow had said nothing particular to him of her state, one way or the other, and he could not question him before his wife.
Dr. Marlow was at home, and came to him at once. The two families had been very intimate; on familiar terms one with the other. Mr. Lake plunged8 into the matter at once, speaking of the danger other people seemed to apprehend9, and of his own inability to see it.
"Is she, or is she not, in peril10?" he asked. "Tell me the plain truth."
The old man laid his hand upon the speaker's shoulder. "What if the truth should be painful? Will you hear it--the whole of it?"
"I am come to hear it."
"Then I can only tell you that she is in danger; and I fear that a little time will see the end."
Very rapidly beat his pulses as he listened. Repentant11 pulses. A whole lifetime of repentance12 seemed, in that moment, to be in every one of them.
"But what is killing13 her? What is it?"
"The primary cause is of course that cold she caught at Guild14. It laid hold of her system. Still, I think she might have rallied: many a time, since she came home, I have deemed her all but well again. You ought to know best, Master Robert, but to me it appears as though she had some grievance15 on her mind, and that it has been working mischief16. I hope you have been a good husband to her, as Joan says to Hodge," added the doctor, turning from Mr. Lake to take a pinch of snuff. "Your wife has possessed17 one of those highly sensitive, rarely-refined temperaments18, that, when joined to a fragile body, an unkind blow would shatter. I once told you this."
He made no comment; he was battling with his pain. Dr. Marlow continued.
"The body was a healthy body; there was no inherent disease, as I have always believed, and I cannot see why it should not have recovered; but the mind seemed to pull it back; two powers, one working against the other. Between them they have conquered, and will lay her low."
"Do you call it consumption?" Mr. Lake jerked out. And really the words were jerked out, rather than fairly spoken.
"Decidedly not. More of a decline: a waste of the system."
"Those declines are cured sometimes."
"Not often: when they fairly set in."
"Oh, doctor," he cried, clasping the old man's hand, and giving vent21 to some of the anguish22 that was rending23 him, "try and save her! Save her for my sake! You don't know the cause I have to ask it."
"I wish I could--for both your sakes. She is beyond earthly aid."
They stood looking at each other. Dr. Marlow, willing if possible to soothe24 in a degree the blow, resumed.
"I suppose I must, after all, have been mistaken in her constitution. When consumption showed itself in her brother, and he died of it, I watched her all the closer. But I could detect nothing wrong: though she was always one of those blossoms that a sharp wind would blow away. The disease was there, we must assume, and I failed to detect it."
"You say--you said but now--that it is not consumption," returned Mr. Lake, speaking sharply in his pain.
"Neither is it. But when unsoundness is inherent in the constitution it does not always show itself in the same form. Sometimes it comes out in one shape, sometimes in another."
There was no more to be said; nothing further to be learnt. Mr. Lake returned home with his burden of knowledge, wondering how much of this dread25 fiat26 Clara suspected, how much not. The shades of evening were on the room when he entered it, imparting to it a semi-gloom, but the rays of the fire-light fell on his wife's wasted face. Stirring the coals into a bright blaze, he sat down by her chair, and took her hand Her wasted fingers entwined themselves fondly with his.
"I know where you have been, Robert. And I guess for what purpose."
"Ah. You are wise, my little wife. I went out to get a breath of fresh air."
"You have been to Dr. Marlow's. Margaret Jupp called, and she said she saw you turn into his house. You went to ask him whether I should get well. He told you No: for he knows I shall not. Was it not so?"
She leaned a little forward to look at him. He suddenly clasped her to his breast with a gush27 of passionate28 tenderness, and his hot tears fell upon her face.
"Oh, my darling! my darling!"
"It must be," she softly whispered. "There is no appeal against it now."
"Clara, if we are indeed to part, at least let perfect confidence be restored between us," he resumed, controlling his emotion with an effort. "What is the trouble that has been upon you?"
"The trouble?"
"Some of them are hinting at such a thing," he said, thinking of the doctor and of Miss Jupp: "I must know from you what it is."
"Need you ask?"
"Yes. For I cannot comprehend it. My darling, you must tell me."
"If she had never come between us, I do not think I should have been ill now."
"I cannot understand it," he repeated, a wailing29 sound in his emphasized words. "I have been foolish, thoughtless, wrong: though not to the extent you may possibly have imagined. But surely, taking it at its worst, that was not cause sufficient to bring you to death."
"Your love left me for another. It seemed to me--it seemed to me--more than I could bear."
Partly from the agitation30 the topic called up, partly that she was in hesitation31 how to frame her words, the pauses came. It was as if she would fain have said more.
"My love? oh no. It was but a passing--" the word at his tongue's end was "fancy," but he substituted another--"folly32. Clara! do not give me more than my share of blame; that will be heavy enough, Heaven knows. The old man says that the violent cold you caught at Guild, was the primary cause of decay: surely that cannot be charged upon me."
She was silent a few moments--but, as he had said, there ought to be full confidence between them now--and she had been longing33 to tell him the whole unreserved truth; a longing that had grown into a sick yearning34.
"I will tell you now how I caught that cold. Do you remember the night?"
"Not particularly." He was of a forgetful nature, and the events of the night had only been those of many another.
"Don't you remember it? When you were walking with--her--in the shrubbery in the raw twilight35.--"
Mr. Lake slightly shook his head in the pause she made. Twilight shrubbery walks were lying in numbers on his conscience.
"She complained of cold, and you went to get her shawl out of the summer-house, leaving her seated on the bench in front of the green alcove36. She sang a song to herself: I think I could repeat its words now. You brought the shawl and folded it lovingly around her, and kissed her afterwards, and called her--"
In great astonishment37 he raised his wife's face to gaze into it. Where had she learnt that little episode? Had she dreamt it? He did not ask: he only stared at her.
She bent38 down her head again to its resting-place, and folded her arm round him in token of forgiveness. "And called her 'My dearest.' I was standing39 there, Robert, behind the bench. I saw and heard all."
Not a word spoke20 he. He hardly dared to accept the loving sign of pardon, or to press her to him. Had she glanced up she would have seen his face in a hot glow. These little private episodes may be very gratifying in the passing, but it is uncommonly40 disagreeable to find out that your wife has made a third at them.
"It was very thoughtless of me to run out from the heated room on that cold damp night without anything on," she resumed hastily, as if conscious of the feeling and wishing to cover it "But oh! I was so unhappy--scarcely, I think, in my senses. I thought you had not returned from Guild: Fanny came in and said you had been home a long while and were with her. An impulse took me that I would go and see: I never did such a thing in my life; never, never, before or since: and I opened the glass doors and went out. I was half way down the shrubbery when I heard you coming into it from a cross walk, and I darted41 into the green alcove, and stood back to hide myself; not to spy upon you."
She paused, but was not interrupted. Mrs. Lake began to hurry over her tale.
"So you see that, in a measure, she was the cause of the cold which struck to me. And then I was laid up; and many a time when you deemed I should fancy you were out shooting, or had gone to Guild, or something or other, you were with her. I knew it all. And since we came home, you have been ever restless to go to her--leaving me alone--even on Christmas-day."
Ay: even on Christmas-day. He almost gnashed his teeth, in his self-condemnation. She, with her impassioned and entire love for him, with her rare and peculiar42 temperament19 that, as the doctor had observed, a rude blow would destroy! The misery43 of mind reacting upon a wasted frame! He no longer wondered why she was dying.
"Why could you not speak out and tell me this?"
"But that the world seems to have nearly passed away from me, and that earthly passions--pride, self-reticence, shame, I mean the shame of betraying one's dearest feelings, are over--I could not tell you now."
"But don't you see the bed of remorse you have made for me? Had I suspected the one quarter of what you tell me you felt, the woman might have gone to the uttermost ends of the earth, for me. I wish you had spoken."
"It might not have prevented it. My belief is that it would not. It was to be."
Mr. Lake looked at her.
"You remember the dream: how it shadowed forth44 that I was to meet, in some way, my death through going to Mrs. Chester's."
"Child! Can you still dwell upon that dream?"
"Yes. And so will you when the hearse comes here to take me away. Never was a dream more completely worked out. Not quite yet: it will be shortly. I have something else to tell you; about it and her."
Mr. Lake passed his hand across his brow. It seemed to him that he had heard enough already.
"The very first moment, when I met Lady Ellis at your sister's, her eyes puzzled me: those strange, jet-black eyes. I could not think where I had seen them. They seemed to be familiar to my memory, and I thought and thought in vain, even when the weeks went on. On this same night that we are speaking of, I alarmed you by my looks. Mrs. Chester happened to look at me as I sat by the fire; she called out; and you, who were at chess with--with her, came up. You all came round me. I was shaking, and my cheeks were scarlet45, somebody exclaimed: I believe you thought I was seized with an ague-fit. Robert, I was shaking with fear, with undefined dread: for an instant before, as I sat looking at her eyes, it flashed into my mind whose eyes they were."
"Well, whose?" he asked, for she paused.
"They were those of the man who drove the hearse in my dream," she whispered in an awestruck tone. "The very same. You must recollect46 my describing them to you when I awoke: 'strangely black eyes, the blackest eyes I ever saw,' though of his face I retained no impression. It was singular it should have struck upon me then, when I had been for weeks trying unsuccessfully to get the thread of the mystery."
"Oh Clara, my darling, these superstitious47 feelings are very sad!" he remonstrated48. "You ought not to indulge them."
"Will you tell me how I could have avoided them? It was not my fault that the dream came to me: or that the eyes of the driver were her eyes: or that my death had been induced through going to Mrs. Chester's. Both you and Mrs. Chester seemed to help me on to it in my dream: and as surely as the man appeared to drive me to the grave in the hearse, so has she driven me to it in reality. I wrote out the dream in full at the time, and you will find the paper in my desk. Read it over when I am gone, and reflect how completely it has been fulfilled."
He was silent. A nasty feeling of superstition49 was beginning to creep over himself.
"Will you let me ask you something?" she whispered, presently.
He bent his tearful face down upon hers. "Ask me anything."
"When--I--am--no longer here, shall you marry her?"
Robert Lake darted up with a tremendous word, almost flinging his wife's face from him. His anger bubbled over for a few moments: not at his wife's question, but at the idea it suggested. For remorse was very strong upon him then; the image of Lady Ellis in consequence distasteful.
"Mary her! Her! I would rather take a pistol, and shoot myself through the heart--and--sin that it implies--I assert it before my Maker50."
Clara gave utterance51 to a faint sigh of relief, and unclasped her arms. "Then you do not love her as you have loved me?"
He flung himself on his knees before her, and sobbed52 aloud in his repentant anguish. She leaned over him endearingly, stroking his face and his hair.
"I only wanted to know that. The misery is over now, darling. For the little while we have to be together, let us be as happy as we used to be."
Emotion shook him to the very centre as he listened. Scarcely twice in a lifetime can a man give way to such. For the little while they had to be together! Ay. As Mary Jupp had said, he could not recal her back to life: he could not keep her here to make reparation.
Mrs. Lake lay back in her chair exhausted54. Her husband stood by the mantelpiece gazing at her with his yearning eyes, hot and feverish55 after their tears. Silence had succeeded to the interview of agitation: these strong emotional storms always bring their reaction.
A knock at the room door, followed by the entrance of Elizabeth. She came to say that Mrs. Chester was below, asking if she might come up. A moment's pause, and Mrs. Lake answered "yes." The impulse to deny it had been upon her, but she wished to be at peace with all the world. Mr. Lake, less forgiving than his wife, did not care to meet Mrs. Chester, and quitted the room to avoid her. In his propensity56 to blame somebody else for the past as well as himself, he felt very much inclined to curse Mrs. Chester.
But she had been very quick, and encountered him outside the door, inquiring after his wife in a whisper. Mr. Lake muttered some unintelligible57 answer, and passed on.
"There's a friend in the drawing-room waiting to see you, Robert," she called after him.
Now, strange though it may seem, the thought of who the "friend" really was, did not occur to Mr. Lake. After the explosion of Christmas-day, brought about by Miss Jupp, he had never supposed that Lady Ellis would show herself at his house. He went downstairs mechanically, expecting to see nobody in particular; some acquaintance might have called. In another moment he stood face to face with her--Angeline Ellis. The exceeding unfitness of her visit, the bad taste which it displayed after that public explosion, struck him with dismay. Perhaps the recent explanation with his wife, their reconciliation58, and his own bitter repentance helped the feeling. He bit his angry lips.
She extended to him her delicately-gloved hand, lavender, sewn with black, and melted into her sweetest smile. But the smiles had lost their power. He glanced at her coal-black eyes, as they flashed in the rays of the lamp, remembered the eyes of his wife's dream, and--shuddered.
"You have become a stranger to Guild," she said. "Has that mad woman, Mary Jupp, persuaded you that you will be poisoned if you come?"
He did not choose to see her proffered59 hand "I can no longer spare time from my wife, Lady Ellis: I have spared too much from her."
The resentful tone struck her with wonder; the cold manner chilled her unpleasantly: but she smiled yet.
"Is it really true that your wife is so very ill?" she asked. "The maid says so. We had news that she was better, recovering fast; and of course treated Miss Jupp's assertion for what it was worth--as we did the rest she said."
Had he been covered with quills60 like a porcupine61 every one of them would have bristled62 up on end in defence of his wife. Surely her ladyship should have exercised better judgment63 an' she wished to win him back to her.
Never again! Never again!
"She is dying," he hoarsely64 answered; "dying through our folly. I beg your pardon, my lady," he added, speaking the two last words in, as it struck her, the refinement65 of mockery, "it had been better perhaps that I had said my folly."
"Folly? Oh!"
"It has been a folly that will entail66 upon me a lifetime of repentance. Were my whole days to be spent in striving to work it off, as we work off a debt, they could not make atonement. There are follies67 that leave their results behind them--a heavy burthen to be borne afterwards throughout life. Take a seat, I beg, while you wait for Mrs. Chester."
He quitted the room; and she compressed her thin lips, which had turned white, for she fully5 understood him to imply that he had quitted herself and the "folly" for ever. Rarely had her ears heard such truths spoken, and they set on to glow with resentment68. She saw Mr. Lake walk out at the garden gate and up the road, all to avoid her. Why? She had committed no wrong--as she counted wrong, as the world counts it: never a woman less likely to commit that than Lady Ellis. She had but amused herself, and he the same; and she really could not understand why Mrs. Lake should make a fuss over it.
Mrs. Chester, meanwhile, seated with Clara, was in her most amiable69 mood. That the episode of Christmas-day had taken her aback far more than it had taken Lady Ellis, was indisputable; but she was one of those easy-going women who never retain unpleasant impressions long. Besides, she had her way to make in the world. Before Mr. Lake had left her house many minutes, Miss Jupp in his wake, she had recovered her equanimity70, and was laughing over the matter with my lady, assuring her that Mary Jupp was taken with these fits sometimes, and tried to set the world to-rights--the result of bile. Anything rather than that Lady Ellis should quit her now, in the depth of winter. They had come over today, my lady fully understanding and tacitly falling into her plans, hoping to patch up a reconciliation. He was but a light-headed fellow at best--turned about any way, as the wind turns a feather, mentally argued Mrs. Chester; and he was safe not to have said anything to his wife.
"You are looking so very much better than I expected, dear Clara. All you want is complete rest, with good nursing; as I remarked to Anna Chester the day after Christmas-day, when she came over to inquire about you. I was glad you saw her. I couldn't come myself--I had one of my wretched sick-headaches."
She spoke quickly, running one sentence into another. Clara sat back in her chair, meek71, quiet, calm, a smile of peace upon her face.
"I should not have asked your husband to dine with us that day without you," spoke Mrs. Chester, deliberating how to heal breaches--"we should never have cared to see him at any time unaccompanied by you, but that you were not able to come."
Mrs. Lake made no reply.
"Clara, I must speak out. There's poor Lady Ellis downstairs wanting to see you. She says she has talked and laughed with Mr. Lake, and is terribly afraid now that you might not have liked it. She meant nothing. He is ten years younger than she is. Goodness me, child! you could never have thought ill of it. Surely you will see her?"
"I could not talk with her about--about the past," murmured poor Clara, the hectic72 cheeks becoming crimson73.
"Good gracious me! who said anything of talking about it with her?" exclaimed Mrs. Chester. "My dear Clara, she'd not speak of it for the world. She has not spoken of it to me; but I can see what she feels. She's so afraid you should reproach her in your heart; she would so like to be reconciled in spirit. Oh! my dear, there's nothing like peace."
With the peace on her own spirit; with the fresh love of her husband in her heart; with the consciousness that she should soon be with Him who has enjoined74 love and peace on earth if we would inherit Heaven, Clara did not hesitate. Lady Ellis could do her no harm with her husband now: and a sudden wish for at least a tacit proof of the full forgiveness she accorded, arose within her. But she did not speak immediately; and Mrs. Chester was impatient.
"You would not bear malice75, Clara?"
"I will see Lady Ellis. As to bearing malice, if you only knew how different it is! All that kind of feeling has passed away from me. I wish you would note what I say now, Mrs. Chester, and--and repeat it, should you think it might be acceptable after I am dead. Should anybody in the world have injured me, intentionally76 or unintentionally, I give them my free and full forgiveness, as I hope to be myself forgiven. I trust we shall meet in Heaven; you, and I, and Lady Ellis, and all the world, and live together in happy bliss77 for ever. There's a great joy upon me when I say this."
The words were a little different from any anticipated by Mrs. Chester. She rubbed her face with her handkerchief and stared; and her tone, as she rejoined, partook in a degree of the solemnity of that other one.
"After you are dead, Clara! You are not surely going to die?"
Mrs. Lake did not answer in words. She looked full at Mrs. Chester with her clear brown eyes, and the wan53 face from which the hectic was fading.
"Good patience me!" thought that lady, "I hope I shan't dream of her as she looks now."
Elizabeth entered with a cup of tea on a waiter. "Here comes my tea," said Clara. "Would you like some?"
"Indeed I should: my mouth is quite parched78. And poor Lady Ellis? You will let her drink one, too, here with us, Clara? It will be the seal of peace."
"Bring two cups of tea and some bread and butter," said Clara to the maid in a low tone. Certainly she had not intended to invite the lady downstairs to tea with her; but Mrs. Chester had put it in a point of view scarcely rejectable.
Now Mrs. Chester, crafty79 and clever, had been drawing largely upon her own active imagination. It had never occurred to Lady Ellis to wish for the kiss of peace, or for any token of reconciliation whatsoever80. Therefore when Mrs. Chester brought her up and introduced her to the room, the two--her ladyship and the dying woman--were inwardly at cross purposes.
Nothing of which was betrayed, or likely to be. Lady Ellis's delicately-gloved hand met that attenuated81 one in a moment's greeting, and she sat down with calm composure. A few remarks passed upon indifferent topics between the three, and Elizabeth came in with the tea. The next moment another visitor appeared on the scene--Mary Jupp, shown in by Mr. Lake. To describe their faces of astonishment at seeing the ladies there, would take the pen of a great artist in words. Not seeing Lady Ellis downstairs, he thought they had left. Miss Jupp stood with a stony82 stare; and her companion bit his annoyed lips.
"Come in, Mary; come in."
Mrs. Lake's invitation bore a hurried pleading sound to Miss Jupp's ear, as if she had been uneasy in her company, and welcomed the relief. But for that, the strong-minded lady had turned away again without leaving behind her so much as a word. She came forward and sat down.
"Elizabeth shall bring you some tea."
"Tea for me!" cried Miss Jupp, bluntly. "I couldn't drink a drop. It would choke me."
"Is your throat bad, Mary Jupp?" asked Mrs. Chester.
"No; only my temper."
A frightened look in Clara's eyes, a pleading gaze that went right into Mary Jupp's. The young lady, doing violence to her inclinations83, shut up her month resolutely84, and folded her hands upon her lap, and spoke not another word, good, bad, or indifferent.
The curious meeting came to an end, brought to a summary close by Mrs. Chester. That lady, not altogether liking85 the aspect of affairs, and privately86 wishing Miss Jupp at the antipodes, thought it good to take herself away, and leave, so to say, well alone. Lady Ellis and Clara Lake shook hands for the last time in life.
"I wish you well," Clara whispered.
"Thanks," airily answered my lady.
Mr. Lake, in the very commonest politeness, went down with them. As they stood in the garden Mrs. Chester went back to get her muff, and they waited for her.
"Are you reconciled to me, Mr. Lake?" asked Lady Ellis.
"I wish to beg your pardon for aught I may have said that was unwarrantable," he rejoined. "I had no right to reproach you when the fault of the past was mine."
Mrs. Chester came forth, and he held the gate open for them. But my lady noticed that he did not choose to see her hand when she held it out.
My lady gave a little toss to her head. If this was to be the end of platonic87 friendships, keep her from them in future.
And Robert Lake, a whole world of self-condemning bitterness in his face, leaned on the gate, and looked after them.
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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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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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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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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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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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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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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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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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80
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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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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82
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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83
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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84
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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85
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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86
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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