“She never made any inquiry1 about him again,” said my lady. “She must have known that he was dead; though how, we never could tell. Medlicott remembered afterwards that it was about, if not on—Medlicott to this day declares that it was on the very Monday, June the nineteenth, when her son was executed, that Madame de Créquy left off her rouge2, and took to her bed, as one bereaved3 and hopeless. It certainly was about that time; and Medlicott—who was deeply impressed by that dream of Madame de Créquy’s (the relation of which I told you had had such an effect on my lord), in which she had seen the figure of Virginie—as the only light object amid much surrounding darkness as of night, smiling and beckoning4 Clément on—on—till at length the bright phantom5 stopped, motionless, and Madame de Créquy’s eyes{197} began to penetrate6 the murky7 darkness, and to see closing around her the gloomy dripping walls which she had once seen and never forgotten—the walls of the vault8 of the chapel9 of the De Créquys in Saint Germain l’Auxerrois; and there the two last of the Créquys laid them down among their forefathers10, and Madame de Créquy had wakened to the sound of the great door, which led to the open air, being locked upon her—I say Medlicott, who was predisposed by this dream to look out for the supernatural, always declared that Madame de Créquy was made conscious, in some mysterious way, of her son’s death, on the very day and hour when it occurred, and that after that she had no more anxiety, but was only conscious of a kind of stupefying despair.”
“And what became of her, my lady?” asked I, repeating my question.
“What could become of her?” replied Lady Ludlow. “She never could be induced to rise again, though she lived more than a year after her son’s departure. She kept her bed; her room darkened, her face turned towards the wall, whenever any one besides Medlicott was in the room. She hardly ever spoke11, and would have died of starvation but for Medlicott’s tender care, in putting a morsel12 to her lips every now and then, feeding her, in fact, just as an{198} old bird feeds her young ones. In the height of summer my lord and I left London. We would fain have taken her with us into Scotland, but the doctor (we had the old doctor from Leicester Square) forbade her removal; and this time he gave such good reasons against it that I acquiesced14. Medlicott and a maid were left with her. Every care was taken of her. She survived till our return. Indeed, I thought she was in much the same state as I had left her in, when I came back to London. But Medlicott spoke of her as much weaker; and one morning on awakening15, they told me she was dead. I sent for Medlicott, who was in sad distress16, she had become so fond of her charge. She said that, about two o’clock, she had been awakened17 by unusual restlessness on Madame de Créquy’s part; that she had gone to her bedside, and found the poor lady feebly but perpetually moving her wasted arm up and down—and saying to herself in a wailing18 voice: ‘I did not bless him when he left me—I did not bless him when he left me!’ Medlicott gave her a spoonful or two of jelly, and sat by her, stroking her hand, and soothing19 her till she seemed to fall asleep. But in the morning she was dead.”
“It is a sad story, your ladyship,” said I, after a while.
“Yes it is. People seldom arrive at my age with{199}out having watched the beginning, middle, and end of many lives and many fortunes. We do not talk about them, perhaps; for they are often so sacred to us, from having touched into the very quick of our own hearts, as it were, or into those of others who are dead and gone, and veiled over from human sight, that we cannot tell the tale as if it was a mere20 story. But young people should remember that we have had this solemn experience of life, on which to base our opinions and form our judgments21, so that they are not mere untried theories. I am not alluding22 to Mr. Horner just now, for he is nearly as old as I am—within ten years, I daresay—but I am thinking of Mr. Gray, with his endless plans for some new thing—schools, education, Sabbaths, and what not. Now he has not seen what all this leads to.”
“It is a pity he has not heard your ladyship tell the story of poor Monsieur de Créquy.”
“Not at all a pity, my dear. A young man like him, who, both by position and age must have had his experience confined to a very narrow circle, ought not to set up his opinion against mine; he ought not to require reasons from me, nor to need such explanation of my arguments (if I condescend23 to argue), as going into relation of the circumstances on which my arguments are based in my own mind, would be.”{200}
“But, my lady, it might convince him,” I said, with perhaps injudicious perseverance24.
“And why should he be convinced?” she asked, with gentle inquiry in her tone. “He has only to acquiesce13. Though he is appointed by Mr. Croxton, I am the lady of the manor25, as he must know. But it is with Mr. Horner that I must have to do about this unfortunate lad Gregson. I am afraid there will be no method of making him forget his unlucky knowledge. His poor brains will be intoxicated26 with the sense of his powers, without any counterbalancing principles to guide him. Poor fellow! I am quite afraid it will end in his being hanged!”
The next day Mr. Horner came to apologise and explain. He was evidently—as I could tell from his voice, as he spoke to my lady in the next room—extremely annoyed at her ladyship’s discovery of the education he had been giving to this boy. My lady spoke with great authority, and with reasonable grounds of complaint. Mr. Horner was well acquainted with her thoughts on the subject, and had acted in defiance27 of her wishes. He acknowledged as much, and should on no account have done it, in any other instance, without her leave.
“Which I could never have granted you,” said my lady.{201}
But this boy had extraordinary capabilities28; would, in fact, have taught himself much that was bad, if he not been rescued, and another direction given to his powers. And in all Mr. Horner had done, he had had her ladyship’s service in view. The business was getting almost beyond his power, so many letters and so much account-keeping was required by the complicated state in which things were.
Lady Ludlow felt what was coming—a reference to the mortgage for the benefit of my lord’s Scottish estates, which, she was perfectly29 aware, Mr. Horner considered as having been a most unwise proceeding—and she hastened to observe:—
“All this may be very true, Mr. Horner, and I am sure I should be the last person to wish you to over-work or distress yourself; but of that we will talk another time. What I am now anxious to remedy is, if possible, the state of this poor little Gregson’s mind. Would not hard work in the fields be a wholesome30 and excellent way of enabling him to forget?”
“I was in hopes, my lady, that you would have permitted me to bring him up to act as a kind of clerk,” said Mr. Horner, jerking out his project abruptly31.
“A what?” asked my lady, in infinite surprise.
“A kind of—of assistant, in the way of copying{202} letters and doing up accounts. He is already an excellent penman and very quick at figures.”
“Mr. Horner,” said my lady, with dignity, “the son of a poacher and vagabond ought never to have been able to copy letters relating to the Hanbury estates; and, at any rate, he shall not. I wonder how it is that, knowing the use he has made of his power of reading a letter, you should venture to propose such an employment for him as would require his being in your confidence, and you the trusted agent of this family. Why, every secret (and every ancient and honourable32 family has its secrets, as you know, Mr. Horner!) would be learnt off by heart, and repeated to the first comer!”
“I should have hoped to have trained him, my lady, to understand the rules of discretion33.”
“Trained! Train a barn-door fowl34 to be a pheasant, Mr. Horner! That would be the easier task. But you did right to speak of discretion rather than honour. Discretion looks to the consequences of actions—honour looks to the action itself, and is an instinct rather than a virtue35. After all, it is possible, you might have trained him to be discreet36.”
Mr. Horner was silent. My lady was softened37 by his not replying, and began, as she always did in such cases, to fear lest she had been too harsh. I could{203} tell that by her voice and by her next speech, as well as if I had seen her face.
“But I am sorry you are feeling the pressure of the affairs; I am quite aware that I have entailed38 much additional trouble upon you by some of my measures; I must try and provide you with some suitable assistance. Copying letters and doing up accounts, I think you said?”
Mr. Horner had certainly had a distant idea of turning the little boy, in process of time, into a clerk; but he had rather urged this possibility of future usefulness beyond what he had at first intended, in speaking of it to my lady as a palliation of his offence, and he certainly was very much inclined to retract39 his statement that the letter-writing, or any other business, had increased, or that he was in the slightest want of help of any kind, when my lady, after a pause of consideration, suddenly said:
“I have it. Miss Galindo will, I am sure, be glad to assist you. I will speak to her myself. The payment we should make to a clerk would be of real service to her!”
I could hardly help echoing Mr. Horner’s tone of surprise as he said—
“Miss Galindo!”
For, you must be told who Miss Galindo was; at{204} least, told us much as I know. Miss Galindo had lived in the village for many years, keeping house on the smallest possible means, yet always managing to maintain a servant. And this servant was invariably chosen because she had some infirmity that made her undesirable40 to every one else. I believe Miss Galindo had had lame41 and blind and hump-backed maids. She had even at one time taken in a girl hopelessly gone in consumption, because if not she would have had to go to the workhouse, and not have had enough to eat. Of course the poor creature could not perform a single duty usually required of a servant, and Miss Galindo herself was both servant and nurse.
Her present maid was scarcely four feet high, and bore a terrible character for ill-temper. Nobody but Miss Galindo would have kept her; but, as it was, mistress and servant squabbled perpetually, and were, at heart, the best of friends. For it was one of Miss Galindo’s peculiarities42 to do all manner of kind and self-denying actions, and to say all manner of provoking things. Lame, blind, deformed43, and dwarf44, all came in for scoldings without number: it was only the consumptive girl that never had heard a sharp word. I don’t think any of her servants liked her the worse for her peppery temper, and passionate45 odd ways, for they knew her real and beautiful kindness of heart;{205} and, besides, she had so great a turn for humour, that very often her speeches amused as much or more than they irritated; and, on the other side, a piece of witty46 impudence47 from her servant would occasionally tickle48 her so much and so suddenly, that she would burst out laughing in the middle of her passion.
But the talk about Miss Galindo’s choice and management of her servants was confined to village gossip, and had never reached my Lady Ludlow’s ears, though doubtless Mr. Horner was well acquainted with it. What my lady knew of her amounted to this. It was the custom in those days for the wealthy ladies of the county to set on foot a repository, as it was called, in the assize-town. The ostensible49 manager of this repository was generally a decayed gentlewoman, a clergyman’s widow, or so forth50. She was, however, controlled by a committee of ladies; and paid by them in proportion to the amount of goods she sold; and these goods were the small manufactures of ladies of little or no fortune, whose names, if they chose it, were only signified by initials.
Poor water-colour drawings, in indigo51 and Indian ink; screens, ornamented52 with moss53 and dried leaves; paintings on velvet54, and such faintly ornamental55 works were displayed on one side of the shop. It was always reckoned a mark of characteristic gentility in the{206} repository, to have only common heavy framed sash-windows, which admitted very little light, so I never was quite certain of the merit of these Works of Art as they were entitled. But, on the other side, where the Useful Work placard was put up, there was a great variety of articles, of whose unusual excellence56 every one might judge. Such fine sewing, and stitching, and button-holing! Such bundles of soft delicate knitted stockings and socks; and, above all, in Lady Ludlow’s eyes, such hanks of the finest spun57 flaxen thread!
And the most delicate dainty work of all was done by Miss Galindo, as Lady Ludlow very well knew. Yet, for all their fine sewing, it sometimes happened that Miss Galindo’s patterns were of an old-fashioned kind; and the dozen night-caps, may-be, on the materials for which she had expended58 bona-fide money, and on the making-up, no little time and eye-sight, would lie for months in a yellow neglected heap; and at such times, it was said, Miss Galindo was more amusing than usual, more full of dry drollery59 and humour; just as at the times when an order came in to X. (the initial she had chosen) for a stock of well-paying things, she sat and stormed at her servant as she stitched away. She herself explained her practice in this way:{207}—
“When everything goes wrong, one would give up breathing if one could not lighten one’s heart by a joke. But when I’ve to sit still from morning till night, I must have something to stir my blood, or I should go off into an apoplexy, so I set to, and quarrel with Sally.”
Such were Miss Galindo’s means and manner of living in her own house. Out of doors, and in the village, she was not popular, although she would have been sorely missed had she left the place. But she asked too many home questions (not to say impertinent) respecting the domestic economies (for even the very poor like to spend their bit of money their own way), and would open cupboards to find out hidden extravagances, and question closely respecting the weekly amount of butter, till one day she met with what would have been a rebuff to any other person, but which she rather enjoyed than otherwise.
She was going into a cottage, and in the doorway60 met the good woman chasing out a duck, and apparently61 unconscious of her visitor.
“Get out, Miss Galindo!” she cried addressing the duck. “Get out! O, I ask your pardon,” she continued, as if seeing the lady for the first time. “It’s only that weary duck that will come in. Get out, Miss Gal——” (to the duck).{208}
“And so you call it after me, do you?” inquired her visitor.
“O, yes, ma’am, my master would have it so, for he said, sure enough the unlucky bird was always poking62 herself where she was not wanted.”
“Ha, ha! very good! And so your master is a wit, is he? Well! tell him to come up and speak to me to-night about my parlour chimney, for there is no one like him for chimney doctoring.”
And the master went up, and was so won over by Miss Galindo’s merry ways, and sharp insight into the mysteries of his various kinds of business (he was a mason, chimney-sweeper, and ratcatcher), that he came home and abused his wife the next time she called the duck the name by which he himself had christened her.
But odd as Miss Galindo was in general, she could be as well-bred a lady as any one when she chose. And choose she always did when my Lady Ludlow was by. Indeed, I don’t know the man, woman, or child, that did not instinctively63 turn out its best side to her ladyship. So she had no notion of the qualities which, I am sure, made Mr. Horner think that Miss Galindo would be most unmanageable as a clerk, and heartily64 wish that the idea had never come into my lady’s head. But there it was; and he had annoyed her ladyship already more than he liked to-day, so he{209} could not directly contradict her, but only urge difficulties which he hoped might prove insuperable. But every one of them Lady Ludlow knocked down. Letters to copy? Doubtless. Miss Galindo could come up to the hall; she should have a room to herself; she wrote a beautiful hand; and writing would save her eyesight. “Capability with regard to accounts?” My lady would answer for that too; and for more than Mr. Horner seemed to think it necessary to inquire about. Miss Galindo was by birth and breeding a lady of the strictest honour, and would, if possible, forget the substance of any letters that passed through her hands; at any rate, no one would ever hear of them again from her. “Remuneration?” Oh! as for that, Lady Ludlow would herself take care that it was managed in the most delicate manner possible. She would send to invite Miss Galindo to tea at the Hall that very afternoon, if Mr. Horner would only give her ladyship the slightest idea of the average length of time that my lady was to request Miss Galindo to sacrifice to her daily, “Three hours! Very well.” Mr. Horner looked very grave as he passed the windows of the room where I lay. I don’t think he liked the idea of Miss Galindo as a clerk.
Lady Ludlow’s invitations were like royal commands. Indeed, the village was too quiet to allow the inhabit{210}ants to have many evening engagements of any kind. Now and then, Mr. and Mrs. Horner gave a tea and supper to the principal tenants65 and their wives, to which the clergyman was invited, and Miss Galindo, Mrs. Medlicott, and one or two other spinsters and widows. The glory of the supper-table on these occasions was invariably furnished by her ladyship: it was a cold roasted peacock, with his tail stuck out as if in life. Mrs. Medlicott would take up the whole morning arranging the feathers in the proper semicircle, and was always pleased with the wonder and admiration66 it excited. It was considered a due reward and fitting compliment to her exertions67 that Mr. Horner always took her in to supper, and placed her opposite to the magnificent dish, at which she sweetly smiled all the time they were at table. But since Mrs. Horner had had the paralytic68 stroke these parties had been given up; and Miss Galindo wrote a note to Lady Ludlow in reply to her invitation, saying that she was entirely69 disengaged, and would have great pleasure in doing herself the honour of waiting upon her ladyship.
Whoever visited my lady took their meals with her, sitting on the dais, in the presence of all my former companions. So I did not see Miss Galindo until some time after tea; as the young gentlewomen had had to bring her their sewing and spinning, to hear the remarks{211} of so competent a judge. At length her ladyship brought her visitor into the room where I lay,—it was one of my bad days, I remember,—in order to have her little bit of private conversation. Miss Galindo was dressed in her best gown, I am sure, but I had never seen anything like it except in a picture, it was so old-fashioned. She wore a white muslin apron70, delicately embroidered71, and put on a little crookedly72, in order, as she told us, even Lady Ludlow, before the evening was over, to conceal73 a spot whence the colour had been discharged by a lemon-stain. This crookedness74 had an odd effect, especially when I saw that it was intentional75; indeed, she was so anxious about her apron’s right adjustment in the wrong place, that she told us straight out why she wore it so, and asked her ladyship if the spot was properly hidden, at the same time lifting up her apron and showing her how large it was.
“When my father was alive, I always took his right arm, so, and used to remove any spotted76 or discoloured breadths to the left side, if it was a walking-dress. That’s the convenience of a gentleman. But widows and spinsters must do what they can. Ah, my dear (to me)! when you are reckoning up the blessings77 in your lot,—though you may think it a hard one in some respects,—don’t forget how little your stockings want darning, as you are obliged to lie down so much! I{212} would rather knit two pairs of stockings than darn one, any day.”
“Have you been doing any of your beautiful knitting lately?” asked my lady, who had now arranged Miss Galindo in the pleasantest chair, and taken her own little wicker-work one, and, having her work in her hands, was ready to try and open the subject.
“No, and alas78! your ladyship. It is partly the hot weather’s fault, for people seem to forget that winter must come; and partly, I suppose, that every one is stocked who has the money to pay four-and-sixpence a pair for stockings.”
“Then may I ask if you have any time in your active days at liberty?” said my lady, drawing a little nearer to her proposal, which I fancy she found it a little awkward to make.
“Why, the village keeps me busy, your ladyship, when I have neither knitting or sewing to do. You know I took X. for my letter at the repository, because it stands for Xantippe, who was a great scold in old times, as I have learnt. But I’m sure I don’t know how the world would get on without scolding, your ladyship. It would go to sleep, and the sun would stand still.”
“I don’t think I could bear to scold, Miss Galindo,” said her ladyship, smiling.{213}
“No! because your ladyship has people to do it for you. Begging your pardon, my lady, it seems to me the generality of people may be divided into saints, scolds, and sinners. Now, your ladyship is a saint, because you have a sweet and holy nature, in the first place; and have people to do your anger and vexation for you, in the second place. And Jonathan Walker is a sinner, because he is sent to prison. But here am I, half way, having but a poor kind of disposition79 at best, and yet hating sin, and all that leads to it, such as wasting and extravagance, and gossiping,—and yet all this lies right under my nose in the village, and I am not saint enough to be vexed80 at it; and so I scold. And though I had rather be a saint, yet I think I do good in my way.”
“No doubt you do, dear Miss Galindo,” said Lady Ludlow. “But I am sorry to hear that there is so much that is bad going on in the village,—very sorry.”
“O, your ladyship! then I am sorry I brought it out. It was only by way of saying, that when I have no particular work to do at home, I take a turn abroad, and set my neighbours to rights, just by way of steering81 clear of Satan.
For Satan finds some mischief82 still
For idle hands to do,
you know, my lady.”{214}
There was no leading into the subject by delicate degrees, for Miss Galindo was evidently so fond of talking, that, if asked a question, she made her answer so long, that before she came to an end of it, she had wandered far away from the original starting point. So Lady Ludlow plunged83 at once into what she had to say.
“Miss Galindo, I have a great favour to ask of you.”
“My lady, I wish I could tell you what a pleasure it is to hear you say so,” replied Miss Galindo, almost with tears in her eyes; so glad were we all to do anything for her ladyship, which could be called a free service and not merely a duty.
“It is this. Mr. Horner tells me that the business-letters, relating to the estate, are multiplying so much that he finds it impossible to copy them all himself, and I therefore require the services of some confidential84 and discreet person to copy these letters, and occasionally to go through certain accounts. Now, there is a very pleasant little sitting-room85 very near to Mr. Horner’s office (you know Mr. Horner’s office? on the other side of the stone hall?) and if I could prevail upon you to come here to breakfast and afterwards sit there for three hours every morning, Mr. Horner should bring or send you the papers——”
Lady Ludlow stopped. Miss Galindo’s countenance{215} had fallen. There was some great obstacle in her mind to her wish for obliging Lady Ludlow.
“What would Sally do?” she asked at length. Lady Ludlow had not a notion who Sally was. Nor if she had had a notion, would she have had a conception of the perplexities that poured into Miss Galindo’s mind, at the idea of leaving her rough forgetful dwarf without the perpetual monitorship of her mistress. Lady Ludlow, accustomed to a household where everything went on noiselessly, perfectly, and by clock-work, conducted by a number of highly-paid, well-chosen, and accomplished86 servants, had not a conception of the nature of the rough material from which her servants came. Besides, in her establishment, so that the result was good, no one inquired if the small economies had been observed in the production. Whereas every penny—every halfpenny, was of consequence to Miss Galindo; and visions of squandered87 drops of milk and wasted crusts of bread filled her mind with dismay. But she swallowed all her apprehensions88 down, out of her regard for Lady Ludlow, and desire to be of service to her. No one knows how great a trial it was to her when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every morning. But all she said was,—
“‘Sally, go to the Deuce.’ I beg your pardon, my{216} lady, if I was talking to myself; it’s a habit I have got into of keeping my tongue in practice, and I am not quite aware when I do it. Three hours every morning! I shall be only too proud to do what I can for your ladyship; and I hope Mr. Horner will not be too impatient with me at first. You know, perhaps, that I was nearly being an authoress once, and that seems as if I was destined89 to ‘employ my time in writing.’”
“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, if you please. An authoress, Miss Galindo! You surprise me!”
“But, indeed, I was. All was quite ready. Doctor Burney used to teach me music: not that I ever could learn, but it was a fancy of my poor father’s. And his daughter wrote a book, and they said she was but a very young lady, and nothing but a music-master’s daughter; so why should not I try?”
“Well?”
“Well! I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all ready——”
“And then——”
“O, it ended in my having nothing to say, when I sat down to write. But sometimes, when I get hold of a book, I wonder why I let such a poor reason stop me. It does not others.”{217}
“But I think it was very well it did, Miss Galindo,” said her ladyship. “I am extremely against women usurping90 men’s employments, as they are very apt to do. But perhaps, after all, the notion of writing a book improved your hand. It is one of the most legible I ever saw.”
“I despise z’s without tails,” said Miss Galindo, with a good deal of gratified pride at my lady’s praise. Presently, my lady took her to look at a curious old cabinet, which Lord Ludlow had picked up at the Hague; and while they were out of the room on this errand, I suppose the question of remuneration was settled, for I heard no more of it.
When they came back, they were talking of Mr. Gray. Miss Galindo was unsparing in her expressions of opinion about him: going much farther than my lady—in her language, at least.
“A little blushing man like him, who can’t say boo to a goose without hesitating and colouring, to come to this village—which is as good a village as ever lived—and cry us down for a set of sinners, as if we had all committed murder and that other thing!—I have no patience with him, my lady. And then, how is he to help us to heaven, by teaching us our a b, ab—b a, ba? And yet, by all accounts, that’s to save poor children’s souls. O, I knew your ladyship would agree with me.{218} I am sure my mother was as good a creature as ever breathed the blessed air; and if she’s not gone to heaven, I don’t want to go there; and she could not spell a letter decently. And does Mr. Gray think God took note of that?”
“I was sure you would agree with me, Miss Galindo,” said my lady. “You and I can remember how this talk about education—Rousseau, and his writings—stirred up the French people to their Reign91 of Terror, and all those bloody92 scenes.”
“I’m afraid that Rousseau and Mr. Gray are birds of a feather,” replied Miss Galindo, shaking her head. “And yet there is some good in the young man, too. He sat up all night with Billy Davis, when his wife was fairly worn out with nursing him.”
“Did he, indeed!” said my lady, her face lighting93 up, as it always did when she heard of any kind or generous action, no matter who performed it. “What a pity he is bitten with these new revolutionary ideas, and is so much for disturbing the established order of society!”
When Miss Galindo went, she left so favourable94 an impression of her visit on my lady, that she said to me with a pleased smile:
“I think I have provided Mr. Horner with a far better clerk than he would have made of that lad{219} Gregson in twenty years. And I will send the lad to my lord’s grieve, in Scotland, that he may be kept out of harm’s way.”
But something happened to the lad before this purpose could be accomplished.
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收听单词发音
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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3
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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phantom
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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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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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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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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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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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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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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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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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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70
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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81
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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82
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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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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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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86
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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87
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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89
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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91
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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93
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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