But, tempting2 as the meal really was, hungry as Mr. Ollivera might be supposed to be, he was letting it get cold before him. A newspaper lay on the stand near, but he did not unfold it. The strangely eager light in his eyes was very conspicuous3 as he sat, seeing nothing, lost in a reverie; the fevered hands were still. Some months had elapsed now since his wild anxiety, to unfold the mystery enshrouding his brother's death, had set-in afresh, through the disclosure of Mr. Willett; a burning, restless anxiety, that never seemed wholly to quit his mind, by night or by day.
But nothing had come of it. Seek as Mr. Ollivera would, he as yet obtained no result. An exceedingly disagreeable and curious doubt had crossed his thoughts at times--whence arising he scarcely knew--of one whom he would have been very unwilling4 to suspect, even though the adverse5 appearances were greater than at present. And that was Alletha Rye. Perhaps what first of all struck him as strange, was Miss Rye's ill-concealed agitation6 upon any mention of the subject, her startling change of colour, her shrinking desire to avoid it. At the time of Mr. Willett's communication the clergyman had renewed his habit of going into Mrs. Jones's parlour to converse7 upon the topic; previously8 he had been letting it slip into disuse, and then it was that the remarkable9 demeanour of Miss Rye dawned gradually on his notice. At first he thought it an accident, next he decided10 that it was strange, afterwards he grew to introduce the topic suddenly on purpose to observe her. And what he saw was beginning to make a most unpleasant impression on him. A very slight occurrence, only the unexpected meeting of Mr. Butterby that morning, had brought the old matter all back to him. As he was hastening home from church, really wanting his breakfast, he encountered Jonas Butterby the detective. The latter said he had been in town nearly a week on business (the reader saw him at the commencement, in conjunction with Mr. Bede Greatorex), but was returning to Helstonleigh that night or on the morrow. For a few minutes they stood conversing11 of the past, Butterby saying that nothing had "turned up."
"Have you not heard of Godfrey Pitman?" suddenly asked Mr. Ollivera.
The question was put sharply: and for once the clever man was at fault. Did Mr. Ollivera mean to imply that he had heard of Pitman?--that he, the clergyman, was aware that he had heard? Or, was it but a simple question? In the uncertainty12 Mr. Butterby made a pause, evidently in some kind of doubt or hesitation13, and glanced keenly at the questioner from under his eyebrows14. Mr. Ollivera marked it all.
"Have you heard of him, then?"
"The way that folks's thoughts get wandering!" exclaimed Butterby, with a charming air of innocence15. "Pitman, says you: if I wasn't a running of my head on that other man--Willett. And he has got an attack of the shivers from drinking; that's the last gazetted news of him, sir. As to that Godfrey Pitman--the less we say about him, the better, unless we could say it to some purpose. Good morning, Reverend Sir; I've got my work cut out for me today."
"One moment," said Mr. Ollivera, detaining him. "I want your opinion upon a question I am going to ask. Could a woman, think you, have killed my brother?"
Perhaps the question was so unexpected as slightly to startle even the detective. Instead of answering it, his green eyes shot out another keen glance at Mr. Ollivera, and they did not quit his face again. The latter supposed he was not understood.
"I mean, could a woman, think you, have had the physical strength to fire the pistol?"
"Do you ask me that, sir, because you suspect one?"
"I cannot say I go so far as to suspect one. It has occurred to me latterly as being within the range of possibility. I wish you would answer my question, Mr. Butterby?"
"In course, from the point you put it, it might have been a woman just as well as a man; some women be every bit as strong, and a sight bolder," was Mr. Butterby's answer. "But I can't wait, sir, now," he added, as he turned away and said good morning once more.
"It was queer, his asking that," very softly repeated Mr. Butterby, between his lips, as he walked on at a quicker pace than usual.
Mr. Ollivera got home with his head full of this; and, as usual under the circumstances, was letting his late breakfast grow cold before him. Mrs. Jones, entering the room on some domestic errand, gave him the information that Roland Yorke had just come in in a fine state of commotion17 (which was nothing unusual), saying Arthur Channing was as good as found murdered; and that he was, in consequence, off to Helstonleigh. Before Mr. Ollivera, setting to his breakfast then with a will, could get downstairs, Roland had gone skimming out again. So the clergyman turned his steps to the house of Greatorex and Greatorex.
It could not be but that the singular and prolonged disappearance18 of Arthur Channing should be exciting commotion in the public mind. Though it had not been made, so to say, a public matter, at least a portion of the public knew of it. The name did not appear in the papers; but the "mysterious disappearance of a gentleman" was becoming quite a treasure to the news-compilers. Greatorex and Greatorex had taken it up warmly, as much from real intrinsic interest in the affair itself, as that Annabel was an inmate19 of their house. Arthur Channing had stood, unsolicited, over John Ollivera's grave at the stealthy midnight burial service; and Mr. Greatorex did not forget it. He had offered his services at once to Hamish Channing. "We have," he said, "a wide experience of London life, and will do for you in it all that can be done." Bede, though kindly20 anxious, wished the matter could be set at rest, for it was costing him a clerk. Roland candidly21 avowed23 that he was no more fit for his work at present, than he would be to rule the patients in St. Luke's; and Bede privately24 believed this was only truth. Little Jenner was home again, and took Roland's work as well as his own.
One very singular phase of the attendant surroundings was this--so many people appeared to be missing. The one immediately in question, Arthur Channing, was but a unit in the number. Scarcely an hour in the day passed but the police either received voluntary news of somebody's disappearance; or, through their inquiries25 after Arthur, gained it for themselves. If space allowed, and these volumes were the proper medium for it, a most singularly interesting account might be given of the facts, every word of which would be true.
Henry Ollivera found Mr. Greatorex in the dining-room finishing his luncheon26. In point of fact it was his dinner, for he was going out of town that afternoon and would not be home until late. Bede, who rarely took luncheon, though he sometimes made a pretence27 of going up for it, was biting morsels28 off a hard biscuit, as he stood against the wall by the mantelpiece, near the handsome pier-glass that in his days of vanity he had been so fond of glancing in. Mrs. Bede Greatorex was at table; also the little girl, Jane, whose dinner it was. The board was extravagantly29 spread, displaying fish and fowl30, and other delicacies31, and Mrs. Bede was solacing32 herself with a pint33 of sparkling hock, which stood at her elbow. She looked flushed; at least, as much as a made-up face can look, and in her eyes there shone an angry light: perhaps at the non-appearance of two visitors she had expected, perhaps because she had just come from one of her violent-tempered attacks on Miss Channing. Mr. Greatorex, like his son Bede, did not appear to appreciate the good things: he was making his dinner off one plain dish and a glass of pale ale.
"You will sit down and take some, William?"
Mr. Ollivera declined; he had just swallowed his breakfast. From the absence of Miss Channing at the table, he drew an augury34 that the ill news spoken of by Mrs. Jones must be correct. But Mr. Greatorex said he was not aware of anything fresh; and a smile crossed his lips upon hearing that Roland was the author of the report. Bede laughed outright36.
"If you only knew how often he has come in, startling us with extraordinary tales, you'd have learnt by this time what faith to have put in Roland Yorke," said Bede. "A man more sensitively nervous than he is, or ever will be, would have had brain-fever with all this talking and walking and mental excitement."
"He says, I understand, that he is going down to Helstonleigh, to get some information from Mr. Galloway," said the clergyman.
"Oh, is he? As good go there as stay here, for all the work he does. He'd start for the moon if there were a road to convey him to it."
"I wonder you give him so much holiday, Bede," remarked Mr. Ollivera.
"He takes it," answered Bede. "He is of very little use at his best, but we don't choose to discharge him, or in fact make any change until Lord Carrick comes over, who may now be expected shortly. I believe one thing--that he tries to do his utmost: and Brown puts up with him."
"Do you know," began Mr. Ollivera, in a low, meaning tone, when the door Closed upon the luncheon-tray, and the three gentlemen stood around the fire, Mrs. Bede having betaken herself to a far-off window, "I have half a mind to go to Helstonleigh myself."
"In search of Arthur Channing, William?"
"No, uncle. In quest of that other search that has been upon my mind so long. An idea has forced itself upon me lately that it--might have been a woman."
"For heaven's sake drop it," exclaimed Bede, with strange agitation. "Don't you see Louisa?"
She could not have heard--but Bede was always thus. He had his reasons for not allowing it to be spoken of before her. One of them was this. In the days gone by, just before their marriage, Clare Joliffe, suddenly introducing the subject of Ollivera's death, when Bede was present, said to her sister in a tone between jest and earnest, that she (Louisa) had been the cause of it. Clare meant no more than that her conduct had caused him to end his life--as it was supposed he did. But Louisa, partly with passion, had gone into a state of agitation so great as to alarm Bede. Never, from that time, would he suffer it to be mentioned before her if he could guard against it.
"But, William what do you mean about a woman?" asked Mr. Greatorex, dropping his voice to a low key.
"Uncle Greatorex, I cannot explain myself. I must go on in my own way, until the time to speak shall come. That the clearance37 of the past is rapidly advancing I feel sure of. A subtle instinct whispers it to me. My dreams tell it me. Forget for the present what I said. I ought not to have spoken."
"You are visionary as usual," said Bede, sarcastically38.
"I know that you always think me so," was the clergyman's answer, and he turned to depart.
There was a general dispersion. Only Mr. Greatorex remained in the room: and he had fallen into deep thought: when Roland Yorke, in his chronic39 state of excitement, dashed in. Without any ceremony he flung himself into a chair.
"Mr. Greatorex, I am nearly dead-beat. What with cutting about perpetually, and meeting depressing disappointments, and catching40 up horrible new fears, it's enough to wear a fellow out, sir."
Roland looked it: dead-beat. He had plenty of strength; but it would not stand this much overtaxing. In the last six days it may be questioned if he had sat down, with the exception of coming to a temporary anchor on upright barrels or parapets of bridges; and then he and his legs were so restless from excitement that a spectator would have thought he was afflicted41 with St. Vitus's Dance.
"Been taking a round this morning as usual, I suppose, Mr. Yorke," said the lawyer.
"Ever so many of them, sir. I began with the docks: I can't help thinking that if anything was done with Arthur in conjunction with a carpet-bag, he might turn up there, after drifting down. Then I walked back to Scotland Yard, then looked into a few shops and police-stations. Next I went to Waterloo Bridge, then down to Hamish Channing's, then back to Mrs. Jones's; then to Vincent Yorke's; and now I'm come here to tell you I'm going down to Helstonleigh, if you don't mind sparing me."
If you don't mind sparing me! For the use he was of to the house, it did not matter whether he went or stayed. But that Roland had improved in mind and manners, he had surely not asked it. Time was when he had gone off on a longer journey than the one to Helstonleigh and never said to his master, With your leave or by your leave; but just quitted the office impromptu42, leaving his compliments as a legacy43.
"And if you please I'd like to see Miss Channing before I start, sir; to tell her what I'm doing, and to ask if she has any messages for her people."
Mr. Greatorex rang the bell. He fancied Miss Channing might be out, as she had not appeared at luncheon.
Not out, but in her bedroom. The pretty bedroom with its window-curtains of chintz and its tasty furniture. When gaiety or discord44 reigned45 below, when Mrs. Bede Greatorex's temper tried her as with a heavy cross, Annabel could come up here and find it a sure refuge. In one of the outbreaks of violence that seemed to be almost like insanity46, Mrs. Bede had that morning attacked Miss Channing--and for no earthly reason, There are such tempers, there are such women in the world. Some of us know it too well.
Weeping, trembling, Annabel gained her chamber47, and there sobbed48 out her heart. It had needed no additional grief today, for Arthur's strange disappearance filled it with a heavy, shrinking, terrible weight. Jane ran up to say luncheon was ready--their dinner; Annabel replied that she could not eat any. Taking the child in her arms, kissing her with many gentle kisses, she whispered a charge not to mention what had passed: if grandpapa or uncle Bede happened to remark on her absence from table, Jane might say she had a headache, and it would be perfectly49 true, for her head did ache sadly. It was ever thus; even Mrs. Bede Greatorex she endeavoured to screen from condemnation50. Trained to goodness; to return good for evil whenever it was practicable: to bear sweetly and patiently, Annabel Channing strove to carry out certain holy precepts51 in every action of her daily life. Too many of us keep them for the church and the closet. Annabel had learnt the one only way. Praying ever, as she had been taught from childhood, for the Holy Spirit spoken of by Jesus Christ to make its home in her heart, and direct and restrain her always, she certainly knew the way to Peace as well as it can be known here; and practised it. "The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make peace."
But it was hard to bear. Her nature was but human. There were times, as on this day, when she thought she could not endure it; that she must give up her situation. And that she was loth to do. Loth for more reasons than one. Putting aside these trying outbreaks, the place was desirable. She was regarded as an equal, treated as a lady, well paid: and, what weighed greatly with Annabel in her extreme conscientiousness52, she was unwilling to abandon Jane Greatorex. For she was doing the child good: good in the highest sense of the word. Left to some governesses (conscientious ones too in a moral and scholastic53 point of view) Jane would grow up a selfish, careless, utterly54 worldly woman: Annabel was ever patiently working by gentle degrees to lead her to wish to be something better; and she had begun to see a little light breaking in on her way. For this great cause she wished to remain: it seemed to be a duty to do so.
Drawing her desk towards her, she had sat down to write to her sister Constance, William Yorke's wife. Constance was her great resource. To her, when the world's troubles were pressing heavily, Annabel poured out her sorrow--never having hinted at any particular cause, only saying the situation "had its trials"--and Constance never failed to write by return of post an answer that cheered Annabel, and helped her on her way. The very fact of writing seemed often to do her good as on this day, and the tears had dried on her cheeks, and her face grew cheerful with hopeful resolution, as she folded the letter.
"I must balance the good I enjoy here against the trouble," she said; "that will help me to bear it better. If Jane----"
She was interrupted by the young lady in question; who came running in, followed by one of the maids.
"Miss Channing, Roland Yorke wants to see you in the dining-room."
"Roland Yorke!" repeated Annabel, dubiously55. With all his lack of attention to conventionalities, Mr. Roland had never gone so far as to send up for her.
"It was Mr. Greatorex who desired me to tell you, miss," spoke35 up the servant, possibly thinking Miss Jane's news needed confirmation56. "He rang to know whether you were at home, and then told me to come and say that Mr. Yorke wished to see you."
Annabel smoothed down the folds of her grey silk dress, and looked to see that her pretty auburn hair was tidy. She saw something else; her swollen57 eyes, and the vivid blushes on her cheeks.
"I'll come with you," whispered Miss Jane. "I'll tell him about Aunt Bede."
And the conviction that she might tell, in spite of all injunction against it, startled Annabel. Roland was the young lady's prime favourite, regarded by her as a big playfellow.
"You cannot come with me, Jane. Mary, be so kind as to take Miss Jane to Dalla. Say that she must remain in the nursery until I am at liberty."
Roland was alone in the dining-room when she entered it. With a delicacy58 that really was to be commended in one who had been to Port Natal59, he would not tell her of the theory he had caught up, or why he was going to Helstonleigh; only that he was about to start for that city.
"But what are you going for, Roland?" was the very natural question that ensued.
"To see old Galloway," he replied, standing60 by her on the hearthrug where Mr. Greatorex and Henry Ollivera had been standing but just before. "I think Galloway must have given--at least--that is--that he could find some clue to Arthur's movements, if he were well pumped; and I am going to do it. Somebody ought to go; Hamish won't, and so it falls upon me."
Annabel made no answer.
"I shan't like appearing in the old place," he candidly resumed. "I said I never would until I could take a fortune with me; but one has to do lots of things in this world that go against the grain; one soon lives long enough to find that boasting turns out to be nothing but emptiness."
"Oh Roland!" she said, as the utter fallacy of the expectation struck upon her, "I fear it will be a lost journey. Had Mr. Galloway been able to furnish ever so small a clue, he would have been sure to send it without being asked."
"That's what Hamish says. But I mean to try. I'd be off today to the North Pole as soon as to Helstonleigh, if I thought it would find him. And to think, Annabel, that while he was being kept out of the way by fate or ruffians, I was calling him proud!--and neglectful!--and hard-hearted! I'll never forgive myself that. If, through lack of exertion61 on my part, he should not be found, I might expect his ghost to come back and stand at the foot of my bed every night."
"But--Roland--you have not given up all hope?" she questioned, her clear, honest hazel eyes cast up steadily62 and beseechingly63 at his.
"Well, I don't know. Sometimes I think he's sure to turn up all right, and then down I go again into the depths of mud. Last night I dreamt he was alive and well, and I was helping64 him up some perpendicular65 steps from a boat moored66 under Waterloo Bridge. When I awoke I thought it was true; oh! I was so glad! Even after I remembered, it seemed a good omen16. Don't be down-hearted, Annabel. Once, at Port Natal, a fellow I knew was lost for a year. His name was Crow. We never supposed but what he was dead, but he came to life again with a good crop of red whiskers, and said he'd only been travelling. I say! what's the matter with your eyes?"
The sudden question rather confused her. She answered evasively.
"You've been crying, Annabel. Now, you tell me what the grievance67 was. If Mrs. Bede Greatorex makes you unhappy--good gracious! and I can't help you, or take you out of here! I do not know when I shall: I don't get on at all. It's enough to make a man swear."
"Hush68 Roland! I am very unhappy about Arthur."
"Why, of course you are--how came I to forget it?" he rejoined, easily satisfied as a child. "And here am I, wasting the precious time that might be spent in looking after him! Have you anything to send to Helstonleigh?"
"Only my love. My dear love to them all. You will see mamma?"
Roland suddenly took both her hands in his, and so held her before him, stooping his head a little, and speaking gently.
"Annabel, I shall have to see your mamma, and tell her----"
She did not mean that at all; it had not so much as occurred to her. Naturally the cheeks became very vivid now. Without further ado, asking no leave, bold Roland kissed the shrinking face.
"Good bye, Annabel. Wish me luck."
Away he clattered69, waiting for neither scolding nor answer, and was flying along the street below, before Annabel had at all recovered her equanimity70.
To resolve to go to Helstonleigh was one thing, to get to it was another; and Roland Yorke, with his customary heedlessness, had not considered ways and means. It was only when he dashed in at his lodgings71 that morning (as, we have heard, was related by Mrs. Jones to Mr. Ollivera), that the question struck him how he was to get there. He had not a coin in the world. Roland's earnings72 (the result of having put his shoulder to the wheel these three or four months past) had been deposited for safety with Mrs. Jones, it may be remembered, and they amounted to two sovereigns. These had been spent in the search after Arthur. In the first commotion of his disappearance, Roland had wildly dashed about in Hansoms; for his legs, with all their length and impatience73, would not carry him from pillar to post fleet enough. He made small presents to policemen, hoping to sharpen their discovering powers; he put two advertisements in the Times, offering rewards for mysterious carpet-bags. But that a fortunate oversight74 caused him to omit appending any address, it was quite untellable the number of old bags that might have been brought him. All this had speedily melted the gold pieces. He then got Mrs. Jones to advance him (grumblingly) two more which went the same way, and were not yet repaid. So there he was, without money to take him to Helstonleigh, and nobody that he knew of likely to lend him any.
"I can't walk," debated he, standing stock-still in his parlour, as his penniless state occurred to him. "They'd used to call it a hundred and eleven miles in the old coaching days. It would be nothing to me if I had the time, but I can't waste that now. Hamish has set his face against my going, or I'd ask him. I wonder--I wonder whether Dick Yorke would let me have a couple of pounds?"
To "wonder," meant to do, with Roland. Out he went again on the spur of the moment, and ran all the way to Portland Place. Sir Vincent was not at home. The man said he had been there that morning on his arrival from Sunny Mead75 (the little Yorke homestead in Surrey), but had gone out again directly. He might be expected in at any moment, or all moments, during the day.
Roland waited. In a fine state of restlessness, as we may be sure, for the precious time was passing. He was afraid to go to the club lest he might miss him. When one o'clock had struck, Roland thought he might do his other errand first: which was to acquaint Greatorex and Greatorex with his departure, and see Miss Channing. Therefore, he started forth76 again, leaving a peremptory77 message for Sir Vincent should he return, that he was to wait in for him.
And now, having seen Mr. Greatorex and Annabel, he was speeding back again to Portland Place. All breathless, and in a commotion, of course; driving along as if the pavement belonged to him, and nobody else had any claim to it. Charging round a corner at full tilt78, he charged against an inoffensive foot-passenger, quietly approaching it: who was no other than Mr. Butterby.
Roland brought himself up. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Seizing hold of the official button-hole, he poured the story of Arthur Channing's disappearance into the official ear, imploring79 Mr. Butterby's good services in the cause.
"Don't you think any more of the uncivil names I've called you, Butterby. You knew all the while I didn't mean anything. I've said I'd pay you out when I got the chance, and so I will, but it shall be in gold. If you will only put your good services into the thing, we shall find him. Do, now! You won't bear malice80, Butterby."
So impetuous had been the flow of eloquence81, that Mr. Butterby had found no opportunity of getting a word in edgeways: he had simply looked and listened. The loss of Arthur Channing had been as inexplicable82 to him as to other people.
"Arthur Channing ain't one of them sort o' blades likely to get into a mess, through going to places where drinking and what not's carried on," spoke he.
"Of course he is not," was Roland's indignant answer. "Arthur Channing drink! he'd be as likely to turn tumbler at a dancing-booth! Look here, Butterby, you did work him harm once, but I'll never reproach you with it again as long as I live, and I've known all along you had no ill-meaning in it: but now, you find him this time and that will be tit for tat. Perhaps I may be rich some day, and I'll buy you a silver snuffbox set with diamonds."
"I don't take snuff," said Mr. Butterby.
But it was impossible to resist Roland's pleading, in all its simple-hearted energy. And, to give Mr. Butterby his due, he would have been glad to do his best to find Arthur Channing.
"I can't stay in London myself," said he; "I've been here a week now on private business, and must go down to Helstonleigh tomorrow; but I'll put it special into Detective Jelf's hands. He's as 'cute an officer, young Mr. Yorke, as here and there one, and of more use in London than me."
"Bless you, Butterby!" cried hearty83 Roland; "tell Jelf I'll give him a snuffbox, too. And now I'm off. I won't forget you, Butterby."
Mr. Butterby thought the chances that Roland would ever have tin snuff-boxes to give away, let alone silver, were rather poor but he was not a bad-natured man, and he detained Roland yet an instant to give him a friendly word of advice.
"There's one or two folks, in the old place, that you owe a trifle to, Mr. Yorke----"
"There's half-a-dozen," interrupted candid22 Roland.
"Well, sir, I'd not show myself in the town more than I could help. They are vexed84 at being kept out of their money thinking some of the family might have paid it; and they might let off a bit if you went amid 'em: unless, indeed, you are taking down the money with you."
"Taking the money with me!--why, Butterby, I've not got a sixpence in the world," avowed Roland, opening his surprised eyes. "If Dick Yorke won't lend me a pound or so, I don't know how on earth to get down, unless they let me have a free pass on the top of the engine."
There was no time for more. Away he went to Portland Place, and thundered at the door, as if he had been a king. But his visit did not serve him.
Sir Vincent Yorke had entered just after Roland departed. Upon receiving the peremptory message, the baronet marvelled85 what it could mean, and whether all the Yorke family had been blown up, save himself. Nothing else, he thought, could justify86 the scapegoat87 Roland in desiring him, Sir Vincent, to stay in. To be kept waiting at home when he very particularly wanted to be out--for Sir Vincent had come to town to meet the lady he was shortly to marry, Miss Trehern--made him frightfully cross. So that when Roland re-appeared he had an angry-tempered man to deal with.
And, in good truth, had Roland announced the calamity88, so pleasantly anticipated, it would have caused Sir Vincent less surprise; certainly less vexation. When he found he had been decoyed into staying in for nothing but to be asked to lend money to take Mr. Roland careering off somewhere by rail--he was in too great a passion to understand where--Sir Vincent exploded. Roland, quietly braving the storm, prayed for "just a pound," as if he were praying for his life. Sir Vincent finally replied that he'd not lend him a shilling if it would save him from hanging.
So Roland was thrown on his beam ends, and went back to Mrs. Jones's with empty pockets, revolving89 ways and means in his mind.
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tart
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tempting
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conspicuous
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unwilling
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adverse
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agitation
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converse
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previously
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remarkable
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decided
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conversing
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uncertainty
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hesitation
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eyebrows
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innocence
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omen
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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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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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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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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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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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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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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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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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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71
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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73
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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78
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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80
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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81
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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82
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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83
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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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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85
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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87
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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88
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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