But he still went on—straight on, looking aside at nothing. He fronted the wind and the clearing quarter of the sky as he walked. The shower was now fast subsiding4; and the first rays of returning sunlight, as they streamed through mist and cloud, fell tenderly and warmly on his face.
Though he did not show it outwardly, there was strife5 and trouble within him. The name of Zack was often on his lips, and he varied6 constantly in his rate of walking; now quickening, now slackening his pace at irregular intervals7. It was evening before he turned back towards home—night, before he sat down again in the chair by young Thorpe’s bedside.
“I’m a deal better to-night, Mat,” said Zack, answering his first inquiries8. “That good fellow, Blyth, has come back: he’s been sitting here with me a couple of hours or more. Where have you been to all day, you restless old Rough and Tough?” he continued, with something of his natural lighthearted manner returning already. “There’s a letter come for you, by-the-by. The landlady9 said she would put it on the table in the front room.”
Matthew found and opened the letter, which proved to contain two enclosures. One was addressed to Mr. Blyth; the other had no direction. The handwriting in the letter being strange to him, Mat looked first for the name at the end, and found that it was Thorpe. “Wait a bit,” he said, as Zack spoke10 again just then, “I want to read my letter. We’ll talk after.”
This is what he read:—
“Some hours have passed since you left my house. I have had time to collect a little strength and composure, and have received such assistance and advice as have enabled me to profit by that time. Now I know that I can write calmly, I send you this letter.
“My object is not to ask how you became possessed11 of the guilty secret which I had kept from every one—even from my wife—but to offer you such explanation and confession13 as you have a right to demand from me. I do not cavil14 about that right—I admit that you possess it, without desiring further proof than your actions, your merciless words, and the Bracelet15 in your possession, have afforded me.
“It is fit you should first be told that the assumed name by which I was known at Dibbledean, merely originated in a foolish jest—in a wager16 that certain companions of my own age, who were accustomed to ridicule17 my fondness for botanical pursuits, and often to follow and disturb me when I went in search of botanical specimens18, would not be able to trace and discover me in my country retreat. I went to Dibbledean, because the neighborhood was famous for specimens of rare Ferns, which I desired to possess; and I took my assumed name before I went, to help in keeping me from being traced and disturbed by my companions. My father alone was in the secret, and came to see me once or twice in my retirement19. I have no excuse to offer for continuing to preserve my false name, at a time when I was bound to be candid20 about myself and my station in life. My conduct was as unpardonably criminal in this, as it was in greater things.
“My stay at the cottage I had taken, lasted much longer than my father would have remitted21, if I had not deceived him, and if he had not been much harassed22 at that time by unforeseen difficulties in his business as a foreign merchant. These difficulties arrived at last at a climax23, and his health broke down under them. His presence, or the presence of a properly qualified24 person to represent him, was absolutely required in Germany, where one of his business houses, conducted by an agent, was established. I was his only son; he had taken me as a partner into his London house; and had allowed me, on the plea of delicate health, to absent myself from my duties for months and months together, and to follow my favorite botanical pursuits just as I pleased. When, therefore, he wrote me word that great part of his property, and great part, consequently, of my sisters’ fortunes, depended on my going to Germany (his own health not permitting him to take the journey), I had no choice but to place myself at his disposal immediately.
“I went away, being assured beforehand that my absence would not last more than three or four months at the most.
“While I was abroad, I wrote to your sister constantly. I had treated her dishonorably and wickedly, but no thought of abandoning her had ever entered my heart: my dearest hope, at that time, was the hope of seeing her again. Not one of my letters was answered. I was detained in Germany beyond the time during which I had consented to remain there; and in the excess of my anxiety, I even ventured to write twice to your father. Those letters also remained unanswered. When I at last got back to England, I immediately sent a person on whom I could rely to Dibbledean, to make the inquiries which I dreaded25 to make myself. My messenger was turned from your doors, with the fearful news of your sister’s flight from home and of her death.
“It was then I first suspected that my letters had been tampered26 with. It was then, too, when the violence of my grief and despair had a little abated27, that the news of your sister’s flight inspired me, for the first time, with a suspicion of the consequence which had followed the commission of my sin. You may think it strange that this suspicion should not have occurred to me before. It would seem so no longer, perhaps, if I detailed28 to you the peculiar29 system of home education, by which my father, strictly30 and conscientiously31, endeavored to preserve me—as other young men are not usually preserved—from the moral contaminations of the world. But it would be useless to dwell on this now. No explanations can alter the events of the guilty and miserable32 past.
“Anxiously—though privately33, and in fear and trembling—I caused such inquiries to be made as I hoped might decide the question whether the child existed or not. They were long persevered34 in, but they were useless—useless, perhaps, as I now think with bitter sorrow, because I trusted them to others, and had not the courage to make them openly myself.
“Two years after that time I married, under circumstances not of an ordinary kind—what circumstances you have no claim to know. That part of my life is my secret and my wife’s, and belongs to us alone.
“I have now dwelt long enough for your information on my own guilty share in the events of the Past. As to the Present and the Future, I have still a word or two left to say.
“You have declared that I shall expiate35, by the exposure of my shameful36 secret before all my friends, the wrong your sister suffered at my hands. My life has been one long expiation37 for that wrong. My broken health, my altered character, my weary secret sorrows, unpartaken and unconsoled, have punished me for many years past more heavily than you think. Do you desire to see me visited by more poignant38 sufferings than these? If it be so, you may enjoy the vindictive39 triumph of having already inflicted40 them. Your threats will force me, in a few hours, from the friends I have lived with, at the very time when the affection shown to me, and the honor conferred on me by those friends, have made their society most precious to my heart. You force me from this, and from more—for you force me from my home, at the moment when my son has affectionately entreated41 me to take him back to my fireside.
“These trials, heavy as they are, I am ready to endure, if, by accepting them humbly42, I may be deemed to have made some atonement for my sin. But more I have not the fortitude44 to meet. I cannot face the exposure with which you are resolved to overwhelm me. The anxiety—perhaps, I ought to say, the weakness—of my life, has been to win and keep the respect of others. You are about, by disclosing the crime which dishonored my youth, to deprive me of my good fame. I can let it go without a struggle, as part of the punishment that I have deserved; but I have not the courage to wait and see you take it from me. My own sensations tell me that I have not long to live; my own convictions assure me that I cannot fitly prepare myself for death, until I am far removed from worldly interests and worldly terrors—in a word, from the horror of an exposure, which I have deserved, but which, at the end of my weary life, is more than I can endure. We have seen the last of each other in this world. To-night I shall be beyond the reach of your retaliation45; for to-night I shall be journeying to the retreat in which the short remainder of my life will be hidden from you and from all men.
“It now only remains46 for me to advert47 to the two enclosures contained in this letter.
“The first is addressed to Mr. Blyth. I leave it to reach his hands through you; because I am ashamed to communicate with him directly, as from myself. If what you said about my child be the truth—and I cannot dispute it—then, in my ignorance of her identity, in my estrangement48 from the house of her protector since she first entered it, I have unconsciously committed such an offense49 against Mr. Blyth as no contrition50 can ever adequately atone43 for. Now indeed I feel how presumptuously51 merciless my bitter conviction of the turpitude52 of my own sin, has made me towards what I deemed like sins in others. Now also I know, that, unless you have spoken falsely, I have been guilty of casting the shame of my own deserted53 child in the teeth of the very man who had nobly and tenderly given her an asylum54 in his own home. The unutterable anguish55 which only the bare suspicion of this has inflicted on me might well have been my death. I marvel56 even now at my own recovery from it.
“You are free to look at the letter to Mr. Blyth which I now entrust57 to you. Besides the expression of my shame, my sorrow, and my sincere repentance58, it contains some questions, to which Mr. Blyth, in his Christian59 kindness, will, I doubt not, readily write answers. The questions only refer to the matter of the child’s identity; and the address I have written down at the end, is that of the house of business of my lawyer and agent in London. He will forward the document to me, and will then arrange with Mr. Blyth the manner in which a fit provision from my property may be best secured to his adopted child. He has deserved her love, and to him I gratefully and humbly leave her. For myself, I am not worthy60 even to look upon her face.
“The second enclosure is meant for my son; and is to be delivered in the event of your having already disclosed to him the secret of his father’s guilt12. But, if you have not done this—if any mercy towards me has entered into your heart, and pleads with it for pardon and for silence—then destroy the letter, and tell him that he will find a communication waiting for him at the house of my agent. He wrote to ask my pardon—he has it freely. Freely, in my turn, I hope to have his forgiveness for severities exercised towards him, which were honestly meant to preserve him betimes from ever falling as his father fell, but which I now fear were persevered in too hardly and too long. I have suffered for this error, as for others, heavily—more heavily, when he abandoned his home, than I should ever wish him to know. You said he lived with you and that you were fond of him. Be gentle with him, now that he is ill, for his mother’s sake.
“My hand grows weaker and weaker: I can write no more. Let me close this letter by entreating61 your pardon. If you ever grant it me, then I also ask your prayers.”
With this the letter ended.
Matthew sat holding it open in his hand for a little while. He looked round once or twice at the enclosed letter from Mr. Thorpe to his son, which lay close by on the table—but did not destroy it; did not so much as touch it even.
Zack spoke to him before long from the inner room.
“I’m sure you must have done reading your letter by this time, Mat. I’ve been thinking, old fellow, of the talk we used to have, about going back to America together, and trying a little buffalo62 hunting and roaming about in the wilds. If my father takes me into favor again, and can be got to say Yes, I should so like to go with you, Mat. Not for too long, you know, because of my mother, and my friends over here. But a sea voyage, and a little scouring63 about in what you call the lonesome places, would do me such good! I don’t feel as if I should ever settle properly to anything, till I’ve had my fling. I wonder whether my father would let me go?”
“I know he would, Zack.”
“You! How?”
“I’ll tell you how another time. You shall have your run, Zack,—you shall have your heart’s content along with me.” As he said this, he looked again at Mr. Thorpe’s letter to his son, and took it up in his hand this time.
“Oh! how I wish I was strong enough to start! Come in here, Mat, and let’s talk about it.”
“Wait a bit, and I will.” Pronouncing those words, he rose from his chair. “For your sake, Zack,” he said, and dropped the letter into the fire.
“What can you be about all this time?” asked young Thorpe.
“Do you call to mind,” said Mat, going into the bedroom, and sitting down by the lad’s pillow—“Do you call to mind me saying, that I’d be brothers with you, when first us two come together? Well, Zack, I’ve only been trying to be as good as my word.”
“Trying? What do you mean? I don’t understand, old fellow.”
“Never mind: you’ll make it out better some day. Let’s talk about getting aboard ship, and going a buffalo-hunting now.”
They discussed the projected expedition, until Zack grew sleepy. As he fell off into a pleasant doze64, Mat went back into the front-room; and, taking from the table Mr. Thorpe’s letter to Mr. Blyth, left Kirk Street immediately for the painter’s house.
It had occurred to Valentine to unlock his bureau twice since his return from the country, but on neither occasion had he found it necessary to open that long narrow drawer at the back, in which he had secreted65 the Hair Bracelet years ago. He was consequently still totally ignorant that it had been taken away from him, when Matthew Grice entered the painting-room, and quietly put it into his hand.
Consternation66 and amazement67 so thoroughly68 overpowered him, that he suffered his visitor to lock the door against all intruders, and then to lead him peremptorily69 to a chair, without uttering a single word of inquiry70 or expostulation. All though the narrative71, on which Mat now entered, he sat totally speechless, until Mr. Thorpe’s letter was placed in his hands, and he was informed that Madonna was still to be left entirely72 under his own care. Then, for the first time, his cheeks showed symptoms of returning to their natural color, and he exclaimed fervently73, “Thank God! I shan’t lose her after all! I only wish you had begun by telling me of that, the moment you came into the room!”
Saying this, he began to read Mr. Thorpe’s letter. When he had finished it, and looked up at Mat, the tears were in his eyes.
“I can’t help it,” said the simple-hearted painter. “It would even affect you, Mr. Grice, to be addressed in such terms of humiliation74 as these. How can he doubt my forgiving him, when he has a right to my everlasting75 gratitude76 for not asking me to part with our darling child? They never met—he has never, never, seen her face,” continued Valentine, in lower and fainter tones. “She always wore her veil down, by my wish, when we went out; and our walks were generally into the country, instead of town way. I only once remember seeing him coming towards us; and then I crossed the road with her, knowing we were not on terms. There’s something shocking in father and daughter living so near each other, yet being—if one may say so—so far, so very far apart. It is dreadful to think of that. It is far more dreadful to think of its having been her hand which held up the hair for you to look at, and her little innocent action which led to the discovery of who her father really was!”
“Do you ever mean to let her know as much about it as we do?” asked Matthew.
The look of dismay began to appear again in Valentine’s face. “Have you told Zack, yet?” he inquired, nervously77 and eagerly.
“No,” said Mat; “and don’t you! When Zack’s on his legs again, he’s going to take a voyage, and get a season’s hunting along with me in the wild country over the water. I’m as fond of the lad as if he was a bit of my own flesh and blood. I cottoned to him when he hit out so hearty78 for me at the singing-shop—and we’ve been brothers together ever since. You mightn’t think it, to look at me; but I’ve spared Zack’s father for Zack’s sake; and I don’t ask no more reward for it than to take the lad a hunting for a season or two along with me. When he comes back home again, and we say Good-bye, I’ll tell him all what’s happened; but I won’t risk bringing so much as a cross look into his eyes now, by dropping a word to him of what’s passed betwixt his father and me.”
Although this speech excited no little surprise and interest in Valentine’s mind, it did not succeed in suspending the anxieties which had been awakened79 in him by Matthew’s preceding question, and which he now began to feel the necessity of confiding80 to Mrs. Blyth—his grand counselor81 in all difficulties, and unfailing comforter in all troubles.
“Do you mind waiting here,” he said, “while I go upstairs, and break the news to my wife? Without her advice I don’t know what to do about communicating our discovery to the poor dear child. Do you mind waiting?”
No: Matthew would willingly wait. Hearing this, Mr. Blyth left the room directly.
He remained away a long time. When he came back, his face did not seem to have gained in composure during his absence.
“My wife has told me of another discovery,” he said, “which her motherly love for our adopted daughter enabled her to make some time since. I have been sadly surprised and distressed82 at hearing of it. But I need say no more on the subject to you, than that Mrs. Blyth has at once decided83 me to confide84 nothing to Madonna—to Mary, I ought to say—until Zack has got well again and has left England. When I heard just now, from you, of his projected voyage, I must confess I saw many objections to it. They have all been removed by what my wife has told me. I heartily85 agree with her that the best thing Zack can do is to make the trip he proposes. You are willing to take care of him; and I honestly believe that we may safely trust him with you.”
A serious difficulty being thus disposed of, Valentine found leisure to pay some attention to minor86 things. Among other questions which he now asked, was one relating to the Hair Bracelet, and to the manner in which Matthew had become possessed of it. He was answered by the frankest confession, a confession which tried even his kindly87 and forbearing disposition88 to the utmost, as he listened to it; and which drew from him, when it was ended, some of the strongest terms of reproach that had ever passed his lips.
Mat listened till he had done; then, taking his hat to go, muttered a few words of rough apology, which Valentine’s good-nature induced him to accept, almost as soon as they were spoken. “We must let bygones be bygones,” said the painter. “You have been candid with me, at last, at any-rate; and, in recognition of that candor89, I say ‘Good-night, Mr. Grice,’ as a friend of yours still.”
When Mat returned to Kirk Street, the landlady came out of her little parlor90 to tell him of a visitor who had been to the lodgings91 in his absence. An elderly lady, looking very pale and ill, had asked to see young Mr. Thorpe, and had prefaced the request by saying that she was his mother. Zack was then asleep, but the lady had been taken up stairs to see him in bed—had stooped over him, and kissed him—and had then gone away again, hastily, and in tears. Matthew’s face grew grave as he listened, but he said nothing when the landlady had done, except a word or two charging her not to mention to Zack what had happened when he woke. It was plain that Mrs. Thorpe had been told her husband’s secret, and that she had lovingly devoted92 herself to him, as comforter and companion to the last.
When the doctor paid his regular visit to the invalid93, the next morning, he was called on immediately for an answer to the important question of when Zack would be fit to travel. After due consideration and careful inspection94 of the injured side of the patient’s head, he replied that in a month’s time the lad might safely go on board ship; and that the sea-voyage proposed would do more towards restoring him to perfect health and strength, than all the tonic95 medicines that all the doctors in England could prescribe.
Matthew might have found the month’s inaction to which he was now obliged to submit for Zack’s sake, rather tedious, but for the opportune96 arrival in Kirk Street of a professional visitor from Dibbledean.
Though his client had ungratefully and entirely forgotten him, Mr. Tatt had not by any means forgotten his client, but had, on the contrary, attended to his interests with unremitting resolution and assiduity. He had discovered that Mat was entitled, under his father’s will, to no less a sum than two thousand pounds, if his identity could be properly established. To effect this result was now, therefore, the grand object of Mr. Tatt’s ambition. He had the prospect97, not only of making a little money, but of establishing a reputation in Dibbledean, if he succeeded—and, by dint98 of perseverance99, he ultimately did succeed. He carried Mat about to all sorts of places, insisted on his signing all sorts of papers and making all sorts of declarations, and ended by accumulating such a mass of evidence before the month was out, that Mr. Nawby, as executor to “the late Joshua Grice,” declared himself convinced of the claimant’s identity.
On being informed of this result, Mat ordered the lawyer, after first deducting100 the amount of his bill from the forthcoming legacy101, to draw him out such a legal form as might enable him to settle his property forthwith on another person. When Mr. Tatt asked to be furnished with the name of this person, he was told to write “Martha Peckover.”
“Mary’s child has got you to look after her, and money enough from her father to keep her,” said Mat, as he put the signed instrument into Valentine’s hands. “When Martha Peckover’s old and past her work, she may want a bank-note or two to fall back on. Give her this, when I’m gone—and say she earned it from Mary’s brother, the day she stopped and suckled Mary’s child by the road-side.”
The day of departure drew near. Zack rallied so rapidly, that he was able, a week before it arrived, to go himself and fetch the letter from his father which was waiting for him at the Agent’s office. It assured him, briefly102, but very kindly, of the forgiveness which he had written to ask—referred him to the man of business for particulars of the allowance granted to him, while he pursued his studies in the Art, or otherwise occupied himself—urged him always to look on Mr. Blyth as the best friend and counselor that he could ever have—and ended by engaging him to write often about himself and his employments, to his mother; sending his letters to be forwarded through the Agent. When Zack, hearing from this gentleman that his father had left the house in Baregrove Square, desired to know what had occasioned the change of residence, he was only informed that the state of Mr. Thorpe’s health had obliged him to seek perfect retirement and repose103: and that there were reasons at present for not mentioning the place of his retreat to any one, which it was not deemed expedient104 for his son to become acquainted with.
The day of departure arrived.
In the morning, by Valentine’s advice, Zack wrote to his mother; only telling her, in reference to his proposed trip, that he was about to travel to improve and amuse himself, in the company of a friend, of whom Mr. Blyth approved. While he was thus engaged, the painter had a private interview with Matthew Grice, and very earnestly charged him to remember his responsibilities towards his young companion. Mat answered briefly and characteristically: “I told you I was as fond of him as if he was a bit of my own flesh and blood. If you don’t believe I shall take care of him, after that—I can’t say nothing to make you.”
Both the travelers were taken up into Mrs. Blyth’s room to say Farewell. It was a sad parting. Zack’s spirits had not been so good as usual, since the day of his visit to the Agent’s—and the other persons assembled were all more or less affected105 in an unusual degree by the approaching separation. Madonna had looked ill and anxious—though she would not own to having anything the matter with her—for some days past. But now, when she saw the parting looks exchanged around her, the poor girl’s agitation106 got beyond her control, and became so painfully evident, that Zack wisely and considerately hurried over the farewell scene. He went out first. Matthew followed him to the landing—then stopped—and suddenly retraced107 his steps.
He entered the room again, and took his sister’s child by the hand once more; bent108 over her as she stood pale and in tears before him, and kissed her on the cheek. “Tell her some day that me and her mother was playmates together,” he said to Mrs. Blyth, as he turned away to join Zack on the stairs.
Valentine accompanied them to the ship. When they shook hands together, he said to Matthew; “Zack has engaged to come back in a year’s time. Shall we see you again with him?”
Mat took the painter aside, without directly answering him.
“If ever you go to Bangbury,” he whispered, “look into the churchyard, in the dark corner amongst the trees. There’s a bit of walnut-wood planking put up now at the place where she’s buried; and it would be a comfort to me to know that it was kep’ clean and neat. I should take it kind of you if you’d give it a brush or two with your hand when you’re near it—for I never hope to see the place myself; no more.”
Sadly and thoughtfully, Valentine returned alone to his own house. He went up at once to his wife’s room.
As he opened the door, he started, and stopped on the threshold. Madonna was sitting on the couch by her adopted mother, with her face hidden on Mrs. Blyth’s bosom109, and her arms clasped tight round Mrs. Blyth’s neck.
“Have you ventured to tell her all, Lavvie?” he asked.
Mrs. Blyth was not able to speak in answer—she looked at him with tearful eyes, and bowed her head.
Valentine lingered at the door for a moment-then softly closed it, and left them together.
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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abode
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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strife
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varied
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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inquiries
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landlady
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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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possessed
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guilt
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confession
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cavil
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bracelet
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wager
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ridicule
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specimens
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retirement
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candid
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remitted
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harassed
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climax
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qualified
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dreaded
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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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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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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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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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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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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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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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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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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advert
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| vi.注意，留意，言及；n.广告 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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presumptuously
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| adv.自以为是地，专横地，冒失地 | |
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turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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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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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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83
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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84
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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86
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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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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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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98
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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99
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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deducting
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的现在分词 ) | |
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101
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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103
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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104
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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106
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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107
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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108
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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109
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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