A great deal of the bustle and the hum of another event had also subsided2. It does not linger very long when outward proceedings3 are over, and sensational4 adjuncts have ceased; and Mr. Ollivera, at the best, had been but a stranger. The grave where he lay had its visitors still; but his brother and other friends had left for London, carrying his few effects with them. Nothing remained to tell of the fatal act of the past Monday evening; but for that grave, it might have seemed never to have had place in reality.
The Reverend Mr. Ollivera had been firm in refusing to admit belief in his brother's guilt5. He did not pretend to judge how it might have happened, whether by accident or by some enemy's hand; but he felt convinced the death could not have been deliberately6 self-inflicted. It was an impossibility, he avowed7 to Mr. Butterby--and he was looked upon, by that renowned8 officer, as next door to a lunatic for his pains. There was no more shadow of a doubt on Mr. Butterby's mind that the verdict had been in accordance with the facts, than there was on other people's.
Always excepting Alletha Rye's. She had been silent to the public since the avowal9 at the grave; but, in a dispute with Mrs. Jones, had repeated her assertion and belief. Upon a report of the display coming to Mrs. Jones's ears, that discreet10 matron--who certainly erred11 on the side of hard, correct, matter-of-fact propriety12, if on any--attacked her sister in no measured terms. There were several years between them, and Mrs. Jones considered she had a right to do it. Much as Mrs. Jones had respected Mr. Ollivera in life, she entertained no doubt whatever on the subject of his death.
"My opinion is, you must have been crazy," came the sharp reprimand. "Go off after that tramping tail to the grave! I wish I'd seen you start. A good name is easier lost than regained13, Alletha Rye."
"I am not afraid of losing mine," was the calm rejoinder.
"Folks seldom are till they find it gone," said Mrs. Jones, tartly14. "My goodness! not content with trapesing off there in the middle of the night, you must go and make an exhibition of yourself besides!--kneeling down on the damp earth to pray, in the face and eyes of all the people; and then rising to make a proclamation, just as if you had been the town bellman! Jones says it struck him dumb."
Alletha Rye was silent. Perhaps she had felt vexed15 since, that the moment's excitement had led her to the act.
"Who are you, that you should put yourself up against the verdict?" resumed Mrs. Jones. "Are you cleverer and sharper than the jury, and the coroner, and me, and Mr. Ollivera's friends, and the rest of the world, all of us put together? There can't be a doubt upon the point, girl."
"Let it drop," said Alletha, with a shiver.
"Drop! I'd like to see it drop. I'd like the remembrance of it to drop out of men's minds, but you've took care that shan't be. What on earth induced you to go and do it?"
"It was a dreadful thing that Mr. Ollivera should lie under the imputation16 of having killed himself," came the answer, after a pause.
"Now, you just explain yourself, Alletha Rye. You keep harping17 on that same string, about Mr. Ollivera; what grounds have you for it?"
The girl's pale face flushed all over. "None," she presently answered. "I never said I had grounds. But there's that vivid dream upon me always. He seemed to reproach me for not having sooner gone into the room to find him; and I'm sure no self-murderer would do that. They'd rather lie undiscovered for ever. Had I kept silence," she passionately18 added, "I might have become haunted."
Mrs. Jones stared at the speaker with all the fiery19 fervour of her dark, dark eyes.
"Haunted! Haunted by what?"
"By Mr. Ollivera's spirit; by remorse20. Remorse for not doing as I am sure he is wishing me to do--clear his memory."
Mrs. Jones lifted her hands in wonder, and for once made no retort. She began to question in real earnest whether the past matters had not turned her sister's brain.
Dicky Jones was present during this passage-at-arms, which took place on the Thursday, after breakfast. He had just been enduring a battery of tongue on his own score; various sins, great and small, being placed before him in glaring colours by his wife; not the least heinous21 of which was the having arrived home from his pleasure trip at the unseasonable hour of half after one o'clock in the morning. In recrimination he had intimated that others of the family could come in at that hour as well as himself; not to do Alletha Rye harm, for he was a good-natured man, as people given to plenty of peccadilloes22 are apt to be; but to make his own crime appear the less. And then it all came out; and Mrs. Jones's ears were regaled with Alletha Rye's share in the doings at the interment.
On this same Thursday, but very much later in the day, Frank Greatorex and the Reverend Mr. Ollivera departed from the city, having stayed to collect together the papers and other effects of the deceased gentleman. Which brings us (the night having passed, and a great portion of the ensuing day) to the opening of the chapter.
Mr. Butterby sat in his parlour: one of two rooms he occupied on the ground floor of a private house very near a populous23 part of the city. He was not a police-sergeant; he was not an inspector24; people did not know what he was. That he held sway at the police-station, and was a very frequent visitor to it, everybody saw. But Mr. Butterby had been so long in the town that speculation25 though rife26 enough at first upon the point, had ceased as to what special relations he might hold with the law. When any one wanted important assistance, he could, if he chose, apply to Mr. Butterby, instead of to the regular police-inspector; and, to the mind of the sanguine27 inquirer, that application appeared to constitute a promise of success.
Mr. Butterby's parlour faced the street. Its one sash window, protected by shutters28 thrown back in the day, and by green dwarf29 venetian blinds and a white roller-blind inside, was not a very large one. Nevertheless, Mr. Butterby contrived30 to keep a tolerable lookout31 from it on those of his fellow citizens who might chance to pass. He generally had the white blinds drawn32 down to meet, within an inch, the mahogany top of the venetian ones; and from that inch of outlet33, Mr. Butterby, standing34 up before the window, was fond of taking observations. It was an unpretending room, with a faded carpet and rug on the floor; a square table in the middle, a large bureau filled with papers in a corner; some books in a case opposite, and a stock of newspapers on the top of that; and a picture over the mantelpiece representing Eve offering the apple to Adam.
Mr. Butterby sat by the fire at his tea, taking it thoughtfully. He wore an old green coat with short tails sprouting36 out from the waist, not being addicted37 to fashion in private life, and a red-and-black check waistcoat. It was Friday evening and nearly dusk. He had been out on some business all the afternoon but his thoughts were not fixed38 on that, though it was of sufficient importance; they rested on the circumstances attending the death of Mr. Ollivera.
Before the brother of the deceased had quitted the town, he had made an appointment with Mr. Butterby, and came to it accompanied by Frank Greatorex; the fly, conveying them to the station, waiting at the door. The purport39 of his visit was to impress upon that officer his full conviction that the death was not a suicide, and to request that, if anything should arise to confirm his opinion, it might be followed up.
"He was a good, pure-minded man; he was of calm, clear, practical mind, of sound good sense; he was fond of his profession, anxious to excel in it; hopeful, earnest, and without a care in the world," urged the Reverend Mr. Ollivera, with emotion. "How, sir, I ask you, could such a man take away his own life?"
Mr. Butterby shook his head. It might be unlikely, he acknowledged; but it was not impossible.
"I tell you it is impossible," said Mr. Ollivera. "I hold a full, firm, positive conviction that my brother never died, or could have died, by his own wilful40 hands: the certainty of it in my mind is so clear as to be like a revelation from heaven. Do you know what I did, sir? I went to the grave at night after he was put into it, and read the burial service over him."
"I see you doing it," came the unexpected answer of Mr. Butterby. "The surplice you wore was too long for you and covered your boots."
"It belonged to a taller man than I am--the Reverend Mr. Yorke," the clergyman explained. "But now, sir, do you suppose I should have dared to hold that sacred service over a man who had wilfully41 destroyed himself?"
"But instead of there being proof that he did not wilfully destroy himself, there's every proof that he did," argued Mr. Butterby.
"Every apparent proof; I admit that; but I know--I know that the proofs are in some strange way false; not real."
"The death was real; the pistol was real; the writing on the note-paper was real."
"I know. I cannot pretend to explain where the explanation may be hidden; I cannot see how or whence the elucidation42 shall come. One suggestion I will make to you, Mr. Butterby it is not clear that no person got access to the drawing-room after the departure from it of Mr. Bede Greatorex. At least, to my mind. I only mentioned this thought," concluded Mr. Ollivera, rising to close the interview; for he had no time to prolong it. "Should you succeed in gleaning43 anything, address a communication to me, to the care of Greatorex and Greatorex."
"Stop a moment," cried Mr. Butterby, as they were going out. "Who holds the paper that was found on the table?"
"I do," said Frank Greatorex. "Some of them would have had it destroyed; Kene and my brother amidst them; they could not bear to look at it. But I thought my father might like to see it first, and took it into my own possession."
A smile crossed the lip of the police agent. "Considering the two gentlemen you mention are in the law, it doesn't say much for their forethought, to rash at destroying the only proof there may remain to us of anybody else's being guilty."
"But then, you know, they do not admit that any one else could have been guilty," replied Frank Greatorex. "At least my brother does not; and Kene only looks upon it as a possible case of insanity44. Do you want to see the paper? I have it in my pocket."
"Perhaps you'd not mind leaving it with me for a day or two," said Mr. Butterby. "I'll forward it up safe to you when I've done with it."
Frank Greatorex took the paper from his pocketbook and handed it to the speaker. It was folded inside an envelope now. Mr. Butterby received possession of it and attended his guests to the door, where the fly was waiting.
"You'll have to drive fast, Thompson," he said to the man. And Thompson, touching46 his hat to the officer, who was held in some awe47 by the city natives, whipped his horse into a canter.
It was upon this interview that Mr. Butterby ruminated48 as he took his tea on the Friday evening. In his own opinion it was the most unreasonable49 thing in the world, that anybody should throw doubt upon the verdict. Nothing but perversity50. He judged it--and he was a keen-sighted man--to be fully35 in accordance with the facts, as given in evidence. Excepting perhaps in one particular. Had he been on the jury he should have held out for a verdict of insanity.
"They are but a set of bumble-heads at the best," soliloquised Mr. Butterby, respectfully alluding51 to the twelve men who had returned the verdict, as he took a large bite out of his last piece of well-buttered pikelet. "Juries for the most part always are: if they have got any brains they send them a wool-gathering then. Hemming52, the butter-and-cheese man, told me he did say something about insanity; and he was foreman, too; but the rest of 'em and the coroner wouldn't listen to it. It don't much matter, for he got the burial rites53 after all, poor fellow: but if I'd been them, I should have gave him the benefit of the doubt."
Stopping in his observations to put the rest of the pikelet in his mouth, Mr. Butterby went on again as he ate it.
"It might have been that, insanity; but as to the other suspicion, there's no grounds whatever for it on the face of things at present. If such is to be raised I shall have to set to work and hunt 'em up. Create 'em as it were. 'Don't spare money,' says that young clergyman last night when he sat here; 'your expenses shall be reimbursed54 to you with interest.' As if I could make a case out of nothing! I'm not a French Procureur-Imperial."
Drinking down his tea at a draught55, Mr. Butterby tried the teapot, lest a drop might be left in it still, turning it nearly upside down in the process. The result was, that the lid came open and a shower of tea-leaves descended56 on the tray.
"Bother!" said Mr. Butterby, as he hastily set the teapot in its place, and went on with his arguments.
"There's something odd about the case, though, straightforward57 as it seems; and I've thought so from the first. That girl's dream, for example, which she says she had; and her conduct at the grave. It was curious that Dicky Jones should just be looking on at her," added Mr. Butterby, slightly diverging58 from the direct line of consecutive59 thought: "curious that Dicky should have come up then at all. First, Alletha Rye vows60 he didn't do it; and, next, the parson vows it, Reverend Ollivera. Kene, too--but he points to insanity; and now the young fellow, Francis Greatorex. Suppose I go over the case again?"
Stretching out his hand, Mr. Butterby pulled the bell-rope--an old-fashioned twisted blue cord with a handle at the end; and a young servant came in.
"Shut the shutters," said he.
While this was in process, he took two candles from the mantelpiece, and lighted them. The girl went away with the tea-tray. He then unlocked his bureau, and from one of its pigeon-holes brought forth61 a few papers, memoranda62, and the like, which he studied in silence, one after the other.
"The parson's right," he began presently; "if there is a loophole it's where he said--that somebody got into the room after the departure of Mr. Greatorex. Let's sum the points up."
Drawing his chair close to the table on which the papers lay, Mr. Butterby began to tell the case through, striking his two forefingers63 alternately on the table's edge as each point came flowing from his tongue. Not that "flowing" is precisely64 the best word to apply, for his speech was thoughtfully slow, and the words dropped with hesitation65.
"John Ollivera, counsel-at-law. He comes in on the Saturday with the other barristers, ready for the 'sizes. Has a cause or two coming on at 'em, in which he expects to shine. Goes to former lodgings66 at Jones's, and shows himself as full of sense and sanity45 as usual; and he'd got his share of both. Spends Saturday evening at his friend's, Mrs. Joliffe's, the colonel's widow; is sweet, Mrs. Jones thinks, on one of the young ladies; thought so when he was down last October. Gets home at ten like a decent man, works at his papers till twelve, and goes to bed."
Mr. Butterby made a pause here, both his fingers resting on the table. Giving a nod, as if his reflections were satisfactory, he lifted his hands and began again.
"Sunday. Attends public worship and takes the sacrament. That's not like the act of one who knows he is on the eve of a bad deed. Attends again after breakfast, with the judges, and hears the sheriff's chaplain preach. (And it was not a bad sermon, as sermons go," critically pronounced Mr. Butterby in a parenthesis). "Attends again in the afternoon to hear the anthem67, the Miss Joliffes with him. Dines at Jones's at five, spends evening at Joliffes'. Home early, and to bed."
Once more the hands were lifted. Once more their owner paused in thought. He gave two nods this time, and resumed.
"Monday. Up before eight. Has his breakfast (bacon and eggs), and goes to the Nisi Prius Court. Stays there till past three in the afternoon, tells Kene he must go out of court to keep an appointment that wasn't a particularly pleasant one, and goes out. Arrives at Jones's at half-past four; passes Mrs. Jones in that there small back hall of theirs; she tells him he looks tired; answers that he is tired and has got a headache; court was close. Goes up to his sitting-room68 and gets his papers about; (papers found afterwards, on examination, to relate to the cause coming on on Tuesday morning). Girl takes up his dinner; he eats it, gets to his papers again, and she fetches things away. Rings for his lamp early, quarter-past six may be, nearly daylight still; while girl puts it on table, draws down blinds himself as if in a hurry to be at work again. Close upon this Mr. Bede Greatorex calls, (good firm that, Greatorex and Greatorex," interspersed69 Mr. Butterby, with professional candour). "Bede Greatorex has come down direct from London (sent by old Greatorex) to confer with Ollivera on the Tuesday's cause. Stays with him more than an hour. Makes an appointment with him for Tuesday morning. Jones's nephew, going upstairs at the time, hears them making it, and shows Mr. Bede Greatorex out. Might be half-past seven then, or two or three minutes over it; call it half-past. Ollivera never seen again alive. Found dead next morning in arm-chair; pistol fallen from right hand, shot penetrated70 heart. Same chair he had been sitting in when at his papers, but drawn aside now at corner of table. Alletha Rye finds him. Tells a cock-and-bull of having been frightened by a dream. Dreamt he was in the sitting-room dead, and goes to see (she says) that he was not there, dead. Finds him there dead, however, just as (she says) she saw him in her dream. Servant rushes out for doctor, meets me, and I am the first in the room. Doctor comes, Hurst; Kene comes, Jones's nephew fetching him; then Kene fetches Bede Greatorex. Doctor says death must have took place previous evening not later than eight o'clock. Mrs. Jones says lamp couldn't have burnt much more than an hour: is positive it didn't exceed an hour and a half; but she's one of the positive ones at all times, and women's judgment71 is fallible. Now then, let's stop."
Mr. Butterby put his hands one over the other, and looked down upon them, pausing before he spoke72 again.
"It draws the space into an uncommon73 narrow nutshell. When Bede Greatorex leaves at half-past seven, Ollivera is alive and well--as he and Jones's nephew both testify to--and, according to the evidence of the surgeon, and the negative testimony74 of the oil in the lamp, he is dead by eight. If he did not draw the pistol on himself, somebody came in and shot him.
"Did he draw it on himself? I say Yes. Coroner and jury say Yes. The public say Yes. Alletha Rye and the Reverend Ollivera say No. If we are all wrong--and I don't say but that there's just a loophole of possibility of it--and them two are right, why then it was murder. And done with uncommon craftiness75. Let's look at the writing.
"Those high-class lawyers are not good for much in criminal cases, can't see an inch beyond their noses; they don't practise at the Old Bailey, they don't," remarked Mr. Butterby, as he took from the papers before him the unfinished note found on Mr. Ollivera's table, the loan of which he had begged from Frank Greatorex. "The idea of their proposing to destroy this, because 'they couldn't bear to look at it!' Kene, too; and Bede Greatorex! they might have known better. I'll take care of it now."
Holding it close to one of the candles, the detective scanned it long and intently, comparing the concluding words, uneven76, blotted77, as if written with an agitated78 hand, with the plain collected characters of the lines that were undoubtedly79 Mr. Ollivera's. When he did arrive at a conclusion it was a summary one, and he put down the paper with an emphatic80 thump81.
"May I be shot myself if I believe the two writings is by the same hand!"
Mr. Butterby's surprise may plead excuse for his grammar. He had never, until this moment, doubted that the writing was all done by one person.
"I'll show this to an expert. People don't write the same at all times; they'll make their capitals quite different in the same day, as anybody with any experience knows. But they don't often make their small letters different--neither do men study to alter their usual formation of letters when about to shoot themselves; the pen does its work then, spontaneous; naturally. These small letters are different, several of them, the r, the p, the e, the o, the d; all them are as opposite as light and dark, and I don't think the last was written by Mr. Ollivera."
It was a grave conclusion to come to; partially82 startling even him, who was too much at home with crime and criminals to be startled easily.
"Let's assume that it is so for a bit, and see how it works that way," resumed the officer. "We've all been mistaken, let's say; Ollivera, did not shoot himself, someone goes in and shoots him. Was it man or woman; was it an inmate83 of the house, or not an inmate? How came it to be done? what was the leading cause? Was the pistol (lying convenient on the table) took up incidental in the course of talking and fired by misadventure?--Or did they get to quarrelling and the other shot him of malice84?--Or was it a planned, deliberate murder, one stealing in to do it in cold blood? Halt a bit here, Jonas Butterby. The first--done in misadventure? No: if any honest man had so shot another, he'd be the first to run out and get a doctor to him. No. Disposed of. The second--done in malice during a quarrel? Yes; might have been. The third--done in planned deliberation? That would be the most likely of all, but for the fact (very curious fact in the supposition) of the pistol's having been Mr. Ollivera's, and put (so to say) ready there to hand. Looking at it in either of these two views, there's mystery. The last in regard to the point now mentioned; the other in regard to the secrecy85 with which the intruder must have got in. If that dratted girl had been at her post indoors, as she ought to have been, with the chain of the door up, it might never have happened," concluded Mr. Butterby, with acrimony.
"Between half-past seven and eight? Needn't look much before or much beyond that hour. Girl says nobody went into the house at all, except Jones's nephew and Jones's sister-in-law. Jones's nephew did not stay; he got his book and went off again at half-past seven, close on the heels of Bede Greatorex, Mr. Ollivera being then alive. Presently, nearer eight, Alletha Rye goes in, for a pattern, she says, and she stays upstairs, according to the girl's statement, a quarter of an hour."
Mr. Butterby came to a sudden pause. He faced the fire now, and sat staring into it as if he were searching for what he could not see.
"It does not take a quarter of an hour to get a pattern. I should say not. And there was her queer dream, too. Leastways, the queer assertion that she had a dream. Dreams, indeed!--moonshine. Did she invent that dream as an excuse for having gone into the room to find him? And then look at her persistence86 from the first that it was not a suicide! And her queer state of mind and manners since! Dicky Jones told me last night when I met him by the hop-market, that she says she's haunted by Mr. Ollivera's spirit. Why should she be, I wonder? I mean, why should she fancy it? It's odd; very odd. The young woman, up to now, has always shown out sensible, in the short while this city has known her.
"That Godfrey Pitman," resumed the speaker. "The way that man's name got brought up by the servant-girl was sudden. I should like to know who he is, and what his business might have been. He was in hiding; that's what he was. Stopping indoors for a cold and relaxed throat! No doubt! But it does not follow that because he might have been in some trouble of his own, he had anything to do with the other business; and, in fact, he couldn't have had, leaving by the five o'clock train for Birmingham. So we'll dismiss him.
"And now for the result?" concluded Mr. Butterby, with great deliberation. "The result is that I feel inclined to think the young parson may be right in saying it was not a suicide. What it was, I can't yet make my mind up to give an opinion upon. Suppose I inquire into things a bit in a quiet manner?--and, to begin with, I'll make a friendly call on Dicky Jones and madam. She won't answer anything that it does not please her to, and it never pleases her to be questioned; on the other hand, what she does choose to say is to be relied upon, for she'd not tell a lie to save herself from hanging. As to Dicky--with that long tongue of his, he can be pumped dry."
Mr. Butterby locked up his papers, changed his ornamental87 coat for a black one, flattened88 down the coal on his fire, blew out the candles, took his hat, and went away.
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；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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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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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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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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harping
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passionately
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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peccadilloes
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populous
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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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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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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41
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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42
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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43
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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44
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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49
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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52
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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reimbursed
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| v.偿还，付还( reimburse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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72
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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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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75
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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80
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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81
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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82
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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83
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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84
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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85
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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86
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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87
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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88
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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