“I have been seriously ill, Drusilla, for some time past,” my aunt began. “And, strange to say, without knowing it myself.”
I thought of the thousands and thousands of perishing human creatures who were all at that moment spiritually ill, without knowing it themselves. And I greatly feared that my poor aunt might be one of the number. “Yes, dear,” I said, sadly. “Yes.”
“I brought Rachel to London, as you know, for medical advice,” she went on. “I thought it right to consult two doctors.”
Two doctors! And, oh me (in Rachel’s state), not one clergyman! “Yes, dear?” I said once more. “Yes?”
“One of the two medical men,” proceeded my aunt, “was a stranger to me. The other had been an old friend of my husband’s, and had always felt a sincere interest in me for my husband’s sake. After prescribing for Rachel, he said he wished to speak to me privately in another room. I expected, of course, to receive some special directions for the management of my daughter’s health. To my surprise, he took me gravely by the hand, and said, ‘I have been looking at you, Lady Verinder, with a professional as well as a personal interest. You are, I am afraid, far more urgently in need of medical advice than your daughter.’ He put some questions to me, which I was at first inclined to treat lightly enough, until I observed that my answers distressed3 him. It ended in his making an appointment to come and see me, accompanied by a medical friend, on the next day, at an hour when Rachel would not be at home. The result of that visit—most kindly4 and gently conveyed to me—satisfied both the physicians that there had been precious time lost, which could never be regained5, and that my case had now passed beyond the reach of their art. For more than two years I have been suffering under an insidious6 form of heart disease, which, without any symptoms to alarm me, has, by little and little, fatally broken me down. I may live for some months, or I may die before another day has passed over my head—the doctors cannot, and dare not, speak more positively7 than this. It would be vain to say, my dear, that I have not had some miserable8 moments since my real situation has been made known to me. But I am more resigned than I was, and I am doing my best to set my worldly affairs in order. My one great anxiety is that Rachel should be kept in ignorance of the truth. If she knew it, she would at once attribute my broken health to anxiety about the Diamond, and would reproach herself bitterly, poor child, for what is in no sense her fault. Both the doctors agree that the mischief9 began two, if not three years since. I am sure you will keep my secret, Drusilla—for I am sure I see sincere sorrow and sympathy for me in your face.”
Sorrow and sympathy! Oh, what Pagan emotions to expect from a Christian10 Englishwoman anchored firmly on her faith!
Little did my poor aunt imagine what a gush11 of devout12 thankfulness thrilled through me as she approached the close of her melancholy story. Here was a career of usefulness opened before me! Here was a beloved relative and perishing fellow-creature, on the eve of the great change, utterly13 unprepared; and led, providentially led, to reveal her situation to Me! How can I describe the joy with which I now remembered that the precious clerical friends on whom I could rely, were to be counted, not by ones or twos, but by tens and twenties. I took my aunt in my arms—my overflowing14 tenderness was not to be satisfied, now, with anything less than an embrace. “Oh!” I said to her, fervently15, “the indescribable interest with which you inspire me! Oh! the good I mean to do you, dear, before we part!” After another word or two of earnest prefatory warning, I gave her her choice of three precious friends, all plying16 the work of mercy from morning to night in her own neighbourhood; all equally inexhaustible in exhortation17; all affectionately ready to exercise their gifts at a word from me. Alas18! the result was far from encouraging. Poor Lady Verinder looked puzzled and frightened, and met everything I could say to her with the purely19 worldly objection that she was not strong enough to face strangers. I yielded—for the moment only, of course. My large experience (as Reader and Visitor, under not less, first and last, than fourteen beloved clerical friends) informed me that this was another case for preparation by books. I possessed20 a little library of works, all suitable to the present emergency, all calculated to arouse, convince, prepare, enlighten, and fortify21 my aunt. “You will read, dear, won’t you?” I said, in my most winning way. “You will read, if I bring you my own precious books? Turned down at all the right places, aunt. And marked in pencil where you are to stop and ask yourself, ‘Does this apply to me?’” Even that simple appeal—so absolutely heathenising is the influence of the world—appeared to startle my aunt. She said, “I will do what I can, Drusilla, to please you,” with a look of surprise, which was at once instructive and terrible to see. Not a moment was to be lost. The clock on the mantel-piece informed me that I had just time to hurry home; to provide myself with a first series of selected readings (say a dozen only); and to return in time to meet the lawyer, and witness Lady Verinder’s Will. Promising22 faithfully to be back by five o’clock, I left the house on my errand of mercy.
When no interests but my own are involved, I am humbly23 content to get from place to place by the omnibus. Permit me to give an idea of my devotion to my aunt’s interests by recording24 that, on this occasion, I committed the prodigality25 of taking a cab.
I drove home, selected and marked my first series of readings, and drove back to Montagu Square, with a dozen works in a carpet-bag, the like of which, I firmly believe, are not to be found in the literature of any other country in Europe. I paid the cabman exactly his fare. He received it with an oath; upon which I instantly gave him a tract27. If I had presented a pistol at his head, this abandoned wretch28 could hardly have exhibited greater consternation29. He jumped up on his box, and, with profane30 exclamations31 of dismay, drove off furiously. Quite useless, I am happy to say! I sowed the good seed, in spite of him, by throwing a second tract in at the window of the cab.
The servant who answered the door—not the person with the cap-ribbons, to my great relief, but the foot-man—informed me that the doctor had called, and was still shut up with Lady Verinder. Mr. Bruff, the lawyer, had arrived a minute since and was waiting in the library. I was shown into the library to wait too.
Mr. Bruff looked surprised to see me. He is the family solicitor32, and we had met more than once, on previous occasions, under Lady Verinder’s roof. A man, I grieve to say, grown old and grizzled in the service of the world. A man who, in his hours of business, was the chosen prophet of Law and Mammon; and who, in his hours of leisure, was equally capable of reading a novel and of tearing up a tract.
“Have you come to stay here, Miss Clack?” he asked, with a look at my carpet-bag.
To reveal the contents of my precious bag to such a person as this would have been simply to invite an outburst of profanity. I lowered myself to his own level, and mentioned my business in the house.
“My aunt has informed me that she is about to sign her Will,” I answered. “She has been so good as to ask me to be one of the witnesses.”
“Aye? aye? Well, Miss Clack, you will do. You are over twenty-one, and you have not the slightest pecuniary33 interest in Lady Verinder’s Will.”
Not the slightest pecuniary interest in Lady Verinder’s Will. Oh, how thankful I felt when I heard that! If my aunt, possessed of thousands, had remembered poor Me, to whom five pounds is an object—if my name had appeared in the Will, with a little comforting legacy34 attached to it—my enemies might have doubted the motive35 which had loaded me with the choicest treasures of my library, and had drawn36 upon my failing resources for the prodigal26 expenses of a cab. Not the cruellest scoffer37 of them all could doubt now. Much better as it was! Oh, surely, surely, much better as it was!
I was aroused from these consoling reflections by the voice of Mr. Bruff. My meditative38 silence appeared to weigh upon the spirits of this worldling, and to force him, as it were, into talking to me against his own will.
“Well, Miss Clack, what’s the last news in the charitable circles? How is your friend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, after the mauling he got from the rogues39 in Northumberland Street? Egad! they’re telling a pretty story about that charitable gentleman at my club!”
I had passed over the manner in which this person had remarked that I was more than twenty-one, and that I had no pecuniary interest in my aunt’s Will. But the tone in which he alluded41 to dear Mr. Godfrey was too much for my forbearance. Feeling bound, after what had passed in my presence that afternoon, to assert the innocence42 of my admirable friend, whenever I found it called in question—I own to having also felt bound to include in the accomplishment43 of this righteous purpose, a stinging castigation44 in the case of Mr. Bruff.
“I live very much out of the world,” I said; “and I don’t possess the advantage, sir, of belonging to a club. But I happen to know the story to which you allude40; and I also know that a viler45 falsehood than that story never was told.”
“Yes, yes, Miss Clack—you believe in your friend. Natural enough. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, won’t find the world in general quite so easy to convince as a committee of charitable ladies. Appearances are dead against him. He was in the house when the Diamond was lost. And he was the first person in the house to go to London afterwards. Those are ugly circumstances, ma’am, viewed by the light of later events.”
I ought, I know, to have set him right before he went any farther. I ought to have told him that he was speaking in ignorance of a testimony46 to Mr. Godfrey’s innocence, offered by the only person who was undeniably competent to speak from a positive knowledge of the subject. Alas! the temptation to lead the lawyer artfully on to his own discomfiture47 was too much for me. I asked what he meant by “later events”—with an appearance of the utmost innocence.
“By later events, Miss Clack, I mean events in which the Indians are concerned,” proceeded Mr. Bruff, getting more and more superior to poor Me, the longer he went on. “What do the Indians do, the moment they are let out of the prison at Frizinghall? They go straight to London, and fix on Mr. Luker. What follows? Mr. Luker feels alarmed for the safety of ‘a valuable of great price,’ which he has got in the house. He lodges48 it privately (under a general description) in his bankers’ strongroom. Wonderfully clever of him: but the Indians are just as clever on their side. They have their suspicions that the ‘valuable of great price’ is being shifted from one place to another; and they hit on a singularly bold and complete way of clearing those suspicions up. Whom do they seize and search? Not Mr. Luker only—which would be intelligible49 enough—but Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well. Why? Mr. Ablewhite’s explanation is, that they acted on blind suspicion, after seeing him accidentally speaking to Mr. Luker. Absurd! Half-a-dozen other people spoke50 to Mr. Luker that morning. Why were they not followed home too, and decoyed into the trap? No! no! The plain inference is, that Mr. Ablewhite had his private interest in the ‘valuable’ as well as Mr. Luker, and that the Indians were so uncertain as to which of the two had the disposal of it, that there was no alternative but to search them both. Public opinion says that, Miss Clack. And public opinion, on this occasion, is not easily refuted.”
He said those last words, looking so wonderfully wise in his own worldly conceit51, that I really (to my shame be it spoken) could not resist leading him a little farther still, before I overwhelmed him with the truth.
“I don’t presume to argue with a clever lawyer like you,” I said. “But is it quite fair, sir, to Mr. Ablewhite to pass over the opinion of the famous London police officer who investigated this case? Not the shadow of a suspicion rested upon anybody but Miss Verinder, in the mind of Sergeant52 Cuff53.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Miss Clack, that you agree with the Sergeant?”
“I judge nobody, sir, and I offer no opinion.”
“And I commit both those enormities, ma’am. I judge the Sergeant to have been utterly wrong; and I offer the opinion that, if he had known Rachel’s character as I know it, he would have suspected everybody in the house but her. I admit that she has her faults—she is secret, and self-willed; odd and wild, and unlike other girls of her age. But true as steel, and high-minded and generous to a fault. If the plainest evidence in the world pointed54 one way, and if nothing but Rachel’s word of honour pointed the other, I would take her word before the evidence, lawyer as I am! Strong language, Miss Clack; but I mean it.”
“Would you object to illustrate55 your meaning, Mr. Bruff, so that I may be sure I understand it? Suppose you found Miss Verinder quite unaccountably interested in what has happened to Mr. Ablewhite and Mr. Luker? Suppose she asked the strangest questions about this dreadful scandal, and displayed the most ungovernable agitation56 when she found out the turn it was taking?”
“Suppose anything you please, Miss Clack, it wouldn’t shake my belief in Rachel Verinder by a hair’s-breadth.”
“She is so absolutely to be relied on as that?”
“So absolutely to be relied on as that.”
“Then permit me to inform you, Mr. Bruff, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was in this house not two hours since, and that his entire innocence of all concern in the disappearance57 of the Moonstone was proclaimed by Miss Verinder herself, in the strongest language I ever heard used by a young lady in my life.”
I enjoyed the triumph—the unholy triumph, I fear I must admit—of seeing Mr. Bruff utterly confounded and overthrown58 by a few plain words from Me. He started to his feet, and stared at me in silence. I kept my seat, undisturbed, and related the whole scene as it had occurred. “And what do you say about Mr. Ablewhite now?” I asked, with the utmost possible gentleness, as soon as I had done.
“If Rachel has testified to his innocence, Miss Clack, I don’t scruple59 to say that I believe in his innocence as firmly as you do. I have been misled by appearances, like the rest of the world; and I will make the best atonement I can, by publicly contradicting the scandal which has assailed60 your friend wherever I meet with it. In the meantime, allow me to congratulate you on the masterly manner in which you have opened the full fire of your batteries on me at the moment when I least expected it. You would have done great things in my profession, ma’am, if you had happened to be a man.”
With those words he turned away from me, and began walking irritably61 up and down the room.
I could see plainly that the new light I had thrown on the subject had greatly surprised and disturbed him. Certain expressions dropped from his lips, as he became more and more absorbed in his own thoughts, which suggested to my mind the abominable62 view that he had hitherto taken of the mystery of the lost Moonstone. He had not scrupled63 to suspect dear Mr. Godfrey of the infamy64 of stealing the Diamond, and to attribute Rachel’s conduct to a generous resolution to conceal65 the crime. On Miss Verinder’s own authority—a perfectly66 unassailable authority, as you are aware, in the estimation of Mr. Bruff—that explanation of the circumstances was now shown to be utterly wrong. The perplexity into which I had plunged67 this high legal authority was so overwhelming that he was quite unable to conceal it from notice. “What a case!” I heard him say to himself, stopping at the window in his walk, and drumming on the glass with his fingers. “It not only defies explanation, it’s even beyond conjecture68.”
There was nothing in these words which made any reply at all needful, on my part—and yet, I answered them! It seems hardly credible69 that I should not have been able to let Mr. Bruff alone, even now. It seems almost beyond mere70 mortal perversity71 that I should have discovered, in what he had just said, a new opportunity of making myself personally disagreeable to him. But—ah, my friends! nothing is beyond mortal perversity; and anything is credible when our fallen natures get the better of us!
“Pardon me for intruding72 on your reflections,” I said to the unsuspecting Mr. Bruff. “But surely there is a conjecture to make which has not occurred to us yet.”
“Maybe, Miss Clack. I own I don’t know what it is.”
“Before I was so fortunate, sir, as to convince you of Mr. Ablewhite’s innocence, you mentioned it as one of the reasons for suspecting him, that he was in the house at the time when the Diamond was lost. Permit me to remind you that Mr. Franklin Blake was also in the house at the time when the Diamond was lost.”
The old worldling left the window, took a chair exactly opposite to mine, and looked at me steadily73, with a hard and vicious smile.
“You are not so good a lawyer, Miss Clack,” he remarked in a meditative manner, “as I supposed. You don’t know how to let well alone.”
“I am afraid I fail to follow you, Mr. Bruff,” I said, modestly.
“It won’t do, Miss Clack—it really won’t do a second time. Franklin Blake is a prime favourite of mine, as you are well aware. But that doesn’t matter. I’ll adopt your view, on this occasion, before you have time to turn round on me. You’re quite right, ma’am. I have suspected Mr. Ablewhite, on grounds which abstractedly justify74 suspecting Mr. Blake too. Very good—let’s suspect them together. It’s quite in his character, we will say, to be capable of stealing the Moonstone. The only question is, whether it was his interest to do so.”
“Mr. Franklin Blake’s debts,” I remarked, “are matters of family notoriety.”
“And Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s debts have not arrived at that stage of development yet. Quite true. But there happen to be two difficulties in the way of your theory, Miss Clack. I manage Franklin Blake’s affairs, and I beg to inform you that the vast majority of his creditors75 (knowing his father to be a rich man) are quite content to charge interest on their debts, and to wait for their money. There is the first difficulty—which is tough enough. You will find the second tougher still. I have it on the authority of Lady Verinder herself, that her daughter was ready to marry Franklin Blake, before that infernal Indian Diamond disappeared from the house. She had drawn him on and put him off again, with the coquetry of a young girl. But she had confessed to her mother that she loved cousin Franklin, and her mother had trusted cousin Franklin with the secret. So there he was, Miss Clack, with his creditors content to wait, and with the certain prospect76 before him of marrying an heiress. By all means consider him a scoundrel; but tell me, if you please, why he should steal the Moonstone?”
“The human heart is unsearchable,” I said gently. “Who is to fathom77 it?”
“In other words, ma’am—though he hadn’t the shadow of a reason for taking the Diamond—he might have taken it, nevertheless, through natural depravity. Very well. Say he did. Why the devil——”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bruff. If I hear the devil referred to in that manner, I must leave the room.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Clack—I’ll be more careful in my choice of language for the future. All I meant to ask was this. Why—even supposing he did take the Diamond—should Franklin Blake make himself the most prominent person in the house in trying to recover it? You may tell me he cunningly did that to divert suspicion from himself. I answer that he had no need to divert suspicion—because nobody suspected him. He first steals the Moonstone (without the slightest reason) through natural depravity; and he then acts a part, in relation to the loss of the jewel, which there is not the slightest necessity to act, and which leads to his mortally offending the young lady who would otherwise have married him. That is the monstrous78 proposition which you are driven to assert, if you attempt to associate the disappearance of the Moonstone with Franklin Blake. No, no, Miss Clack! After what has passed here today, between us two, the dead-lock, in this case, is complete. Rachel’s own innocence is (as her mother knows, and as I know) beyond a doubt. Mr. Ablewhite’s innocence is equally certain—or Rachel would never have testified to it. And Franklin Blake’s innocence, as you have just seen, unanswerably asserts itself. On the one hand, we are morally certain of all these things. And, on the other hand, we are equally sure that somebody has brought the Moonstone to London, and that Mr. Luker, or his banker, is in private possession of it at this moment. What is the use of my experience, what is the use of any person’s experience, in such a case as that? It baffles me; it baffles you, it baffles everybody.”
No—not everybody. It had not baffled Sergeant Cuff. I was about to mention this, with all possible mildness, and with every necessary protest against being supposed to cast a slur79 upon Rachel—when the servant came in to say that the doctor had gone, and that my aunt was waiting to receive us.
This stopped the discussion. Mr. Bruff collected his papers, looking a little exhausted80 by the demands which our conversation had made on him. I took up my bag-full of precious publications, feeling as if I could have gone on talking for hours. We proceeded in silence to Lady Verinder’s room.
Permit me to add here, before my narrative81 advances to other events, that I have not described what passed between the lawyer and me, without having a definite object in view. I am ordered to include in my contribution to the shocking story of the Moonstone a plain disclosure, not only of the turn which suspicion took, but even of the names of the persons on whom suspicion rested, at the time when the Indian Diamond was believed to be in London. A report of my conversation in the library with Mr. Bruff appeared to me to be exactly what was wanted to answer this purpose—while, at the same time, it possessed the great moral advantage of rendering82 a sacrifice of sinful self-esteem essentially83 necessary on my part. I have been obliged to acknowledge that my fallen nature got the better of me. In making that humiliating confession84, I get the better of my fallen nature. The moral balance is restored; the spiritual atmosphere feels clear once more. Dear friends, we may go on again.
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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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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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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