She brought a little basket along with her; and while the footman was gone to inquire my lady’s wishes (for I don’t think that Lady Ludlow expected Miss Galindo so soon to assume her clerkship; nor, indeed, had Mr. Horner any work of any kind ready for his new assistant to do), she launched out into conversation with me.
“It was a sudden summons, my dear! However, as I have often said to myself, ever since an occasion long ago, if Lady Ludlow ever honours me by asking for my right hand, I’ll cut it off, and wrap the stump2 up so tidily she shall never find out it bleeds. But, if I had had a little more time, I could have mended my pens better.{221} You see, I have had to sit up pretty late to get these sleeves made”—and she took out of her basket a pair of brown-holland over-sleeves, very much such as a grocer’s apprentice3 wears—“and I had only time to make seven or eight pens, out of some quills4 Farmer Thomson gave me last autumn. As for ink, I’m thankful to say, that’s always ready; an ounce of steel filings, an ounce of nut-gall, and a pint5 of water (tea, if you’re extravagant6, which, thank Heaven! I’m not), put all in a bottle, and hang it up behind the house door, so that the whole gets a good shaking every time you slam it to—and even if you are in a passion and bang it, as Sally and I often do, it is all the better for it—and there’s my ink ready for use; ready to write my lady’s will with, if need be.”
“O, Miss Galindo!” said I, “don’t talk so; my lady’s will! and she not dead yet.”
“And if she were, what would be the use of talking of making her will! Now, if you were Sally, I should say, ‘Answer me that, you goose!’ But, as you’re a relation of my lady’s, I must be civil, and only say, ‘I can’t think how you can talk so like a fool!’ To be sure, poor thing, you’re lame7!”
I do not know how long she would have gone on; but my lady came in, and I, released from my duty of entertaining Miss Galindo, made my limping way into{222} the next room. To tell the truth, I was rather afraid of Miss Galindo’s tongue, for I never knew what she would say next.
After a while my lady came, and began to look in the bureau for something; and as she looked she said:
“I think Mr. Horner must have made some mistake, when he said he had so much work that he almost required a clerk, for this morning he cannot find anything for Miss Galindo to do; and there she is, sitting with her pen behind her ear, waiting for something to write. I am come to find her my mother’s letters, for I should like to have a fair copy made of them. O, here they are! don’t trouble yourself, my dear child.”
When my lady returned again, she sat down and began to talk of Mr. Gray.
“Miss Galindo says she saw him going to hold a prayer-meeting in a cottage. Now, that really makes me unhappy, it is so like what Mr. Wesley used to do in my younger days; and since then we have had rebellion in the American colonies and the French revolution. You may depend upon it, my dear, making religion and education common—vulgarising them, as it were—is a bad thing for a nation. A man who hears prayers read in the cottage where he has just supped on bread and bacon, forgets the respect due to a{223} church: he begins to think that one place is as good as another, and, by-and-by, that one person is as good as another; and after that, I always find that people begin to talk of their rights, instead of thinking of their duties. I wish Mr. Gray had been more tractable8, and had left well alone. What do you think I heard this morning? Why, that the Home Hill estate, which niches9 into the Hanbury property, was bought by a Baptist baker10 from Birmingham!”
“A Baptist baker!” I exclaimed. I had never seen a Dissenter11, to my knowledge; but, having always heard them spoken of with horror, I looked upon them almost as if they were rhinoceroses13. I wanted to see a live Dissenter, I believe, and yet I wished it were over. I was almost surprised when I heard that any of them were engaged in such peaceful occupations as baking.
“Yes! so Mr. Horner tells me. A Mr. Lambe, I believe. But, at any rate, he is a Baptist, and has been in trade. What with his schismatism and Mr. Gray’s methodism, I am afraid all the primitive14 character of this place will vanish.”
From what I could hear, Mr. Gray seemed to be taking his own way; at any rate, more than he had done when he first came to the village, when his natural timidity had made him defer15 to my lady, and seek her consent and sanction before embarking16 in any new{224} plan. But newness was a quality Lady Ludlow especially disliked. Even in the fashions of dress and furniture, she clung to the old, to the modes which had prevailed when she was young; and, though she had a deep personal regard for Queen Charlotte (to whom, as I have already said, she had been maid-of-honour), yet there was a tinge17 of Jacobitism about her, such as made her extremely dislike to hear Prince Charles Edward called the Young Pretender, as many loyal people did in those days, and made her fond of telling of the thorn-tree in my lord’s park in Scotland, which had been planted by bonny Queen Mary herself, and before which every guest in the Castle of Monkshaven was expected to stand bare-headed, out of respect to the memory and misfortunes of the royal planter.
We might play at cards, if we so chose, on a Sunday; at least, I suppose we might, for my lady and Mr. Mountford used to do so often when I first went. But we must neither play cards, nor read, nor sew on the fifth of November and on the thirtieth of January, but must go to church, and meditate19 all the rest of the day—and very hard work meditating20 was. I would far rather have scoured21 a room. That was the reason, I suppose, why a passive life was seen to be better discipline for me than an active one.{225}
But I am wandering away from my lady, and her dislike to all innovation. Now, it seemed to me, as far as I heard, that Mr. Gray was full of nothing but new things, and that what he first did was to attack all our established institutions, both in the village and the parish, and also in the nation. To be sure, I heard of his ways of going on principally from Miss Galindo, who was apt to speak more strongly than accurately22.
“There he goes,” she said, “clucking up the children just like an old hen, and trying to teach them about their salvation23 and their souls, and I don’t know what—things that it is just blasphemy24 to speak about out of church. And he potters old people about reading their Bibles. I am sure I don’t want to speak disrespectfully about the Holy Scriptures25, but I found old Job Horton busy reading his Bible yesterday. Says I, ‘What are you reading, and where did you get it, and who gave it you?’ So he made answer, ‘That he was reading Susannah and the Elders, for that he had read Bel and the Dragon till he could pretty near say it off by heart, and they were two as pretty stories as ever he had read, and that it was a caution to him what bad old chaps there were in the world.’ Now, as Job is bed-ridden, I don’t think he is likely to meet with the Elders, and I say that I think repeating his Creed26, the Commandments, and the Lord’s Prayer, and, maybe,{226} throwing in a verse of the Psalms27, if he wanted a bit of a change, would have done him far more good than his pretty stories, as he called them. And what’s the next thing our young parson does? Why he tries to make us all feel pitiful for the black slaves, and leaves little pictures of negroes about, with the question printed below, ‘Am I not a man and a brother?’ just as if I was to be hail-fellow-well-met with every negro footman. They do say he takes no sugar in his tea, because he thinks he sees spots of blood in it. Now I call that superstition28.”
The next day it was a still worse story.
“Well, my dear! and how are you? My lady sent me in to sit a bit with you, while Mr. Horner looks out some papers for me to copy. Between ourselves, Mr. Steward29 Horner does not like having me for a clerk. It is all very well, he does not; for, if he were decently civil to me, I might want a chaperone, you know, now poor Mrs. Horner is dead.” This was one of Miss Galindo’s grim jokes. “As it is, I try to make him forget I’m a woman, I do everything as ship-shape as a masculine man-clerk. I see he can’t find a fault—writing good, spelling correct, sums all right. And then he squints30 up at me with the tail of his eye, and looks glummer31 than ever, just because I’m a woman—as if I could help that. I have gone good lengths to{227} set his mind at ease. I have stuck my pen behind my ear, I have made him a bow instead of a curtsey, I have whistled—not a tune18, I can’t pipe up that—nay32, if you won’t tell my lady, I don’t mind telling you that I have said ‘Confound it!’ and ‘Zounds!’ I can’t get any farther. For all that, Mr. Horner won’t forget I am a lady, and so I am not half the use I might be, and if it were not to please my Lady Ludlow, Mr. Horner and his books might go hang (see how natural that came out!). And there is an order for a dozen nightcaps for a bride, and I am so afraid I shan’t have time to do them. Worst of all, there’s Mr. Gray taking advantage of my absence to seduce33 Sally!”
“To seduce Sally! Mr. Gray!”
“Pooh, pooh, child! There’s many a kind of seduction. Mr. Gray is seducing34 Sally to want to go to church. There has he been twice at my house, while I have been away in the mornings, talking to Sally about the state of her soul and that sort of thing. But when I found the meat all roasted to a cinder35, I said, ‘Come, Sally, let’s have no more praying when beef is down at the fire. Pray at six o’clock in the morning and nine at night, and I won’t hinder you.’ So she sauced me, and said something about Martha and Mary, implying that, because she had let the beef get so overdone36 that I declare I could hardly find a bit fit for{228} Nancy Pole’s sick grandchild, she had chosen the better part. I was very much put about, I own, and perhaps you’ll be shocked at what I said—indeed, I don’t know if it was right myself—but I told her I had a soul as well as she, and if it was to be saved by my sitting still and thinking about salvation and never doing my duty, I thought I had as good a right as she had to be Mary, and save my soul. So, that afternoon I sat quite still, and it was really a comfort, for I am often too busy, I know, to pray as I ought. There is first one person wanting me, and then another, and the house and the food and the neighbours to see after. So, when tea-time comes, there enters my maid with her hump on her back, and her soul to be saved. ‘Please, ma’am, did you order the pound of butter?’—-‘No, Sally,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘this morning I did not go round by Hale’s farm, and this afternoon I have been employed in spiritual things.’
“Now, our Sally likes tea and bread-and-butter above everything, and dry bread was not to her taste.
“‘I’m thankful,’ said the impudent37 hussy, ‘that you have taken a turn towards godliness. It will be my prayers, I trust, that’s given it you.’
“I was determined38 not to give her an opening towards the carnal subject of butter, so she lingered still, longing39 to ask leave to run for it. But I gave{229} her none, and munched40 my dry bread myself, thinking what a famous cake I could make for little Ben Pole with the bit of butter we were saving; and when Sally had had her butterless tea, and was in none of the best of tempers because Martha had not bethought herself of the butter, I just quietly said:
“‘Now, Sally, to-morrow we’ll try to hash that beef well, and to remember the butter, and to work out our salvation all at the same time, for I don’t see why it can’t all be done, as God has set us to do it all.’ But I heard her at it again about Mary and Martha, and I have no doubt that Mr. Gray will teach her to consider me a lost sheep.”
I had heard so many little speeches about Mr. Gray from one person or another, all speaking against him, as a mischief-maker, a setter-up of new doctrines41, and of a fanciful standard of life (and you may be sure that, where Lady Ludlow led, Mrs. Medlicott and Adams were certain to follow, each in their different ways showing the influence my lady had over them), that I believe I had grown to consider him as a very instrument of evil, and to expect to perceive in his face marks of his presumption42, and arrogance43, and impertinent interference. It was now many weeks since I had seen him, and when he was one morning shown into the blue drawing-room (into which I had been{230} removed for a change), I was quite surprised to see how innocent and awkward a young man he appeared, confused even more than I was at our unexpected tête-à-tête. He looked thinner, his eyes more eager, his expression more anxious, and his colour came and went more than it had done when I had seen him last. I tried to make a little conversation, as I was, to my own surprise, more at my ease than he was; but his thoughts were evidently too much preoccupied44 for him to do more than answer me with monosyllables.
Presently my lady came in. Mr. Gray twitched45 and coloured more than ever; but plunged46 into the middle of his subject at once.
“My lady, I cannot answer it to my conscience, if I allow the children of this village to go on any longer the little heathens that they are. I must do something to alter their condition. I am quite aware that your ladyship disapproves47 of many of the plans which have suggested themselves to me; but nevertheless I must do something, and I am come now to your ladyship to ask respectfully, but firmly, what you would advise me to do.”
His eyes were dilated48, and I could almost have said they were full of tears with his eagerness. But I am sure it is a bad plan to remind people of decided49 opinions which they have once expressed, if you wish{231} them to modify those opinions. Now, Mr. Gray had done this with my lady; and though I do not mean to say she was obstinate50, yet she was not one to retract51.
She was silent for a moment or two before she replied.
“You ask me to suggest a remedy for an evil of the existence of which I am not conscious,” was her answer—very coldly, very gently given. “In Mr. Mountford’s time I heard no such complaints: whenever I see the village children (and they are not unfrequent visitors at this house, on one pretext52 or another), they are well and decently behaved.”
“Oh, madam, you cannot judge,” he broke in. “They are trained to respect you in word and deed; you are the highest they ever look up to; they have no notion of a higher.”
“Nay, Mr. Gray,” said my lady, smiling, “they are as loyally disposed as any children can be. They come up here every fourth of June, and drink his Majesty’s health, and have buns, and (as Margaret Dawson can testify) they take a great and respectful interest in all the pictures I can show them of the Royal family.”
“But, madam, I think of something higher than any earthly dignities.”
My lady coloured at the mistake she had made; for she herself was truly pious53. Yet when she resumed{232} the subject, it seemed to me as if her tone was a little sharper than before.
“Such want of reverence54 is, I should say, the clergyman’s fault. You must excuse me, Mr. Gray, if I speak plainly.”
“My lady, I want plain-speaking. I myself am not accustomed to those ceremonies and forms which are, I suppose, the etiquette55 in your ladyship’s rank of life, and which seem to hedge you in from any power of mine to touch you. Among those with whom I have passed my life hitherto, it has been the custom to speak plainly out what we have felt earnestly. So, instead of needing any apology from your ladyship for straightforward56 speaking, I will meet what you say at once, and admit that it is the clergyman’s fault, in a great measure, when the children of his parish swear, and curse, and are brutal57, and ignorant of all saving grace; nay, some of them of the very name of God. And because this guilt58 of mine, as the clergyman of this parish, lies heavy on my soul, and every day leads but from bad to worse, till I am utterly59 bewildered how to do good to children who escape from me as if I were a monster, and who are growing up to be men fit for and capable of any crime, but those requiring wit or sense, I come to you, who seem to me all-powerful, as far as material power goes—for your ladyship only knows{233} the surface of things, and barely that, that pass in your village—to help me with advice, and such outward help as you can give.”
Mr. Gray had stood up and sat down once or twice while he had been speaking, in an agitated60, nervous kind of way, and now he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, after which he trembled all over.
My lady rang for a glass of water, and looked much distressed61.
“Mr. Gray,” said she, “I am sure you are not well; and that makes you exaggerate childish faults into positive evils. It is always the case with us when we are not strong in health. I hear of you exerting yourself in every direction: you over-work yourself, and the consequence is, that you imagine us all worse people than we are.”
And my lady smiled very kindly63 and pleasantly at him, as he sat, a little panting, a little flushed, trying to recover his breath. I am sure that now they were brought face to face, she had quite forgotten all the offence she had taken at his doings when she heard of them from others; and, indeed, it was enough to soften64 any one’s heart to see that young, almost boyish face, looking in such anxiety and distress62.
“O, my lady, what shall I do?” he asked, as soon as he could recover breath, and with such an air of{234} humility65 that I am sure no one who had seen it could have ever thought him conceited66 again. “The evil of this world is too strong for me. I can do so little. It is all in vain. It was only to-day——” And again the cough and agitation67 returned.
“My dear Mr. Gray,” said my lady (the day before, I could never have believed she could have called him My dear), “you must take the advice of an old woman about yourself. You are not fit to do anything just now but attend to your own health: rest, and see a doctor (but, indeed, I will take care of that), and when you are pretty strong again, you will find that you have been magnifying evils to yourself.”
“But, my lady, I cannot rest. The evils do exist, and the burden of their continuance lies on my shoulders. I have no place to gather the children together in, that I may teach them the things necessary to salvation. The rooms in my own house are too small; but I have tried them. I have money of my own; and, as your ladyship knows, I tried to get a piece of leasehold68 property on which to build a school-house at my own expense. Your ladyship’s lawyer comes forward, at your instructions, to enforce some old feudal69 right, by which no building is allowed on leasehold property without the sanction of the Lady of the Manor70. It may be all very true; but it was a cruel{235} thing to do,—that is, if your ladyship had known (which I am sure you do not) the real moral and spiritual state of my poor parishioners. And now I come to you to know what I am to do? Rest! I cannot rest, while children whom I could possibly save are being left in their ignorance, their blasphemy, their uncleanness, their cruelty. It is known through the village that your ladyship disapproves of my efforts, and opposes all my plans. If you think them wrong, foolish, ill-digested (I have been a student, living in a college, and eschewing71 all society but that of pious men, until now: I may not judge for the best, in my ignorance of this sinful human nature), tell me of better plans and wiser projects for accomplishing my end; but do not bid me rest, with Satan compassing me round, and stealing souls away.”
“Mr. Gray,” said my lady, “there may be some truth in what you have said. I do not deny it, though I think, in your present state of indisposition and excitement, you exaggerate it much. I believe—nay, the experience of a pretty long life has convinced me—that education is a bad thing, if given indiscriminately. It unfits the lower orders for their duties, the duties to which they are called by God, of submission72 to those placed in authority over them, of contentment with that state of life to which it has pleased God to call{236} them, and of ordering themselves lowly and reverently73 to all their betters. I have made this conviction of mine tolerably evident to you; and have expressed distinctly my disapprobation of some of your ideas. You may imagine, then, that I was not well pleased when I found that you had taken a rood or more of Farmer Hale’s land, and were laying the foundations of a school-house. You had done this without asking for my permission, which, as Farmer Hale’s liege lady, ought to have been obtained legally, as well as asked for out of courtesy. I put a stop to what I believed to be calculated to do harm to a village, to a population in which, to say the least of it, I may be supposed to take as much interest as you can do. How can reading and writing, and the multiplication-table (if you choose to go so far), prevent blasphemy, and uncleanness and cruelty? Really, Mr. Gray, I hardly like to express myself to strongly on the subject in your present state of health, as I should do at any other time. It seems to me that books do little; character much; and character is not formed from books.”
“I do not think of character: I think of souls. I must get some hold upon these children, or what will become of them in the next world? I must be found to have some power beyond what they have, and which they are rendered capable of appreciating, before they{237} will listen to me. At present, physical force is all they look up to; and I have none.”
“Nay, Mr. Gray, by your own admission, they look up to me.”
“They would not do anything your ladyship disliked if it was likely to come to your knowledge; but if they could conceal74 it from you, the knowledge of your dislike to a particular line of conduct would never make them cease from pursuing it.”
“Mr. Gray”—surprise in her air, and some little indignation—“they and their fathers have lived on the Hanbury lands for generations!”
“I cannot help it, madam. I am telling you the truth, whether you believe me or not.” There was a pause; my lady looking perplexed75, and somewhat ruffled76; Mr. Gray as though hopeless and wearied out. “Then, my lady,” said he, at last, rising as he spoke12, “you can suggest nothing to ameliorate the state of things which, I do assure you, does exist on your lands, and among your tenants77. Surely, you will not object to my using Farmer Hale’s great barn every Sabbath? He will allow me the use of it, if your ladyship will grant your permission.”
“You are not fit for any extra work at present,” (and indeed he had been coughing very much all through the conversation). “Give me time to consider{238} of it. Tell me what you wish to teach. You will be able to take care of your health and grow stronger while I consider. It shall not be the worse for you, if you leave it in my hands for a time.”
My lady spoke very kindly; but he was in too excited a state to recognise the kindness, while the idea of delay was evidently a sore irritation78. I heard him say: “And I have so little time in which to do my work. Lord! lay not this sin to my charge.”
But my lady was speaking to the old butler, for whom, at her sign, I had rung the bell some little time before. Now she turned round.
“Mr. Gray, I find I have some bottles of Malmsey, of the vintage of seventeen hundred and seventy-eight, yet left. Malmsey, as perhaps you know, used to be considered a specific for coughs arising from weakness. You must permit me to send you half-a-dozen bottles, and, depend upon it, you will take a more cheerful view of life and its duties before you have finished them, especially if you will be so kind as to see Doctor Trevor, who is coming to see me in the course of the week. By the time you are strong enough to work, I will try and find some means of preventing the children from using such bad language, and otherwise annoying you.”
“My lady, it is the sin, and not the annoyance79. I wish I could make you understand.” He spoke with{239} some impatience80; poor fellow, he was too weak, exhausted81, and nervous. “I am perfectly82 well; I can set to work to-morrow; I will do anything not to be oppressed with the thought of how little I am doing. I do not want your wine. Liberty to act in the manner I think right, will do me far more good. But it is of no use. It is preordained that I am to be nothing but a cumberer of the ground. I beg your ladyship’s pardon for this call.”
He stood up, and then turned dizzy. My lady looked on, deeply hurt, and not a little offended. He held out his hand to her, and I could see that she had a little hesitation83 before she took it. He then saw me, I almost think, for the first time; and put out his hand once more, drew it back, as if undecided, put it out again, and finally took hold of mine for an instant in his damp, listless hand, and was gone.
Lady Ludlow was dissatisfied with both him and herself, I was sure. Indeed, I was dissatisfied with the result of the interview myself. But my lady was not one to speak out her feelings on the subject; nor was I one to forget myself, and begin on a topic which she did not begin. She came to me, and was very tender with me; so tender, that that, and the thoughts of Mr. Grays sick, hopeless, disappointed look, nearly made me cry.{240}
“You are tired, little one,” said my lady. “Go and lie down in my room, and hear what Medlicott and I can decide upon in the way of strengthening dainties for that poor young man, who is killing84 himself with his over-sensitive conscientiousness85.”
“O, my lady!” said I, and then I stopped.
“Well. What?” asked she.
“If you would but let him have Farmer Hale’s barn at once, it would do him more good than all.”
“Pooh, pooh, child!” though I don’t think she was displeased86, “he is not fit for more work just now. I shall go and write for Doctor Trevor.”
And, for the next half-hour, we did nothing but arrange physical comforts and cures for poor Mr. Gray. At the end of the time, Mrs. Medlicott said:
“Has your ladyship heard that Harry87 Gregson has fallen from a tree, and broken his thigh-bone, and is like to be a cripple for life?”
“Harry Gregson! That black-eyed lad who read my letter? It all comes from over-education!”
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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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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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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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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rhinoceroses
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| n.钱，钞票( rhino的名词复数 )；犀牛(=rhinoceros)；犀牛( rhinoceros的名词复数 )；脸皮和犀牛皮一样厚 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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glummer
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，忧郁的( glum的比较级 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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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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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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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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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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leasehold
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| n.租赁，租约，租赁权，租赁期，adj.租(来)的 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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80
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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81
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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84
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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85
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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86
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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