Lady Andinnian shook her head. "I think not, Theresa."
"Why, it would be quite a distraction1 for you," urged Miss Blake, using the word in the French sense.
Sir Karl had been in London some three or four days now; and Lucy, all aweary without him, was longing2 and looking for his return every hour of the live-long summer's day. But she was proof against this offered temptation.
"I don't think Karl would like me to go to St. Jerome's, Theresa. Thank you all the same."
"Do you mean to make Sir Karl your guide and model through life, Lucy?"--and Lady Andinnian, sincere and simple herself, detected not the covert3 sarcasm4.
"I hope I shall never do, or wish to do anything that he would object to," was her answer, a sweet blush dyeing her cheeks.
"Well, if you won't appear at church, will you attend the kettledrum afterwards, Lucy?"
"The kettledrum?" echoed Lucy. "What kettledrum?"
"We are going to hold one at Mrs. Jinks's--that is, in Mr. Cattacomb's rooms--for the purpose of introducing him to some of his friends, and to organize the parish work."
Lady Andinnian looked up in surprise. "The parish work? What can you be talking of, Theresa?"
"Oh, there will be district visiting, and that. It must all be arranged and organized."
"Will it not be interfering5 with Mr. Sumnor?" Lucy ventured to ask, after a pause of silence.
"Not at all," was the answer, given loftily. "Shall I come round this way and call for you as we return from the service?"
"Thank you, no, Theresa; I would rather not. I do not think I should myself much care for the kettledrum."
"Very well," coolly replied Miss Blake. "As you please, of course, Lady Andinnian."
The service at St. Jerome's was at length about to be inaugurated: for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly appeared after a few days' delay, for which he satisfactorily accounted. It was to be held in the afternoon, this afternoon, he having arrived in the morning; and Miss Blake, while talking to Lady Andinnian, was already dressed for it. She started forth6 alone: just as other eager young women, mostly young, some middle-aged7, were starting for it, and flocking into St. Jerome's.
Much inward speculation8 had existed as to what the new parson would be like; and the ladies looked at him eagerly when he entered from the vestry to commence the service. They saw a tall young man in a narrow surplice, with a sheep-skin tippet worn hind9 before, and a cross at the back in the opening: spectacles; no hair on his face, and not over much on his head, a few tufts of it only standing10 up like young carrots; eyes very much turned up. Certainly, in regard to personal beauty, the new pastor11 could not boast great things; but he made up for it in zeal12, and--if such a thing may be said of a clergyman--in vanity; for that he was upon remarkably13 good terms with himself and his looks, every tone and gesture betrayed. It was rather a novel service, but a very attractive one. Mr. Cattacomb had a good sonorous14 voice--though it was marred15 by an affected16 accent and a drawling kind of delivery that savoured of insincerity and was most objectionably out of place. Miss Jane St. Henry played the harmonium; the ladies sang: and their singing, so far as it went, was good, but men's voices were much wanted. There was a short sermon, very rapidly delivered, and not to be understood--quite after a new fashion of the day. During its progress, little Miss Etheridge happened to look round, and saw Mr. Moore, the surgeon, at the back of the room.
"If you'll believe me, old Moore's here!" she whispered to Mary St. Henry.
Yes, the surgeon was there. He had laughed a little over this curious new place that was being called a church, and said at home that day that he should look in and see what its services were to be like. He was more surprised than pleased. Just as Mr. Smith, the agent, asked, Is it Roman Catholic or Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally ask the question now. The place was pretty full. Some few people had come over from Basham to be present. Mr. Moore's eyes went ranging amid the chairs, scanning the congregation. His daughters were not there. They are too sensible, thought the doctor: though he did not give them credit for overmuch sense in general. The fact was, the Misses Moore had been afraid to come. Hearing their father say he should look in, they deemed it wise to keep away--and did so, to their own deep mortification17 and disappointment. Mr. Moore was an easy-tempered man, and an indulgent father; but if once in a way he did by chance issue an edict, they knew it might not be disobeyed--and had he seen them there with his own eyes, he might have prohibited their going for the future. So they allowed policy to prevail, and stayed at home.
What with the opening service, and what with the coming party at Mrs. Jinks's, Foxwood was that day stirred to its centre. The preparations for the kettledrum were on an exhaustive scale, the different ladies having vied with each other in sending in supplies. Butter, cream, delicate bread and cakes, jam, marmalade, choice fruit, biscuits, and other things too numerous to mention. Miss Blake had taken a huge packet of tea, and some beautiful flowers, the latter offering cajoled out of old Maclean, the head gardener at the Court.
The walk to St. Jerome's and back, together with the excitement of the new service, had made them thirsty, and it was universally agreed to take tea first, though only four o'clock, and proceed to business afterwards. The table groaned18 under the weight of good things on it, and Miss Blake was president-in-chief. The room was too small for the company, who sat or stood as they could, elbowing each other, and making much of Mr. Cattacomb. Tongues were going fast, Mr. Cattacomb's amidst them, and Miss Blake was getting hot with the work of incessantly19 filling cups from the tea-pots, when a loud knock, announcing further visitors, shook the street door and Paradise Row.
"Who can it be? I'm sure we have no room for more!"
Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing open the front door, there stood the Misses Moore. Though debarred of the opening service, they would not be done out of the kettledrum.
"Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks?" cried the young ladies eagerly.
"Yes, they are here," replied the Widow Jinks, her cap (clean for the occasion, and no bonnet) trembling with suppressed wrath20.
"Oh dear! Has tea begun?"
"Begun, Miss Jemima! it's to be hoped it's three-parts over. I'll tell you what it is, young ladies: when I agreed to let my parlours to the Reverend Cattakin, I didn't bargain to keep the whole parish in kettledrumming. Leastways, not to wait on 'em; and bile kettles for 'em, and toast muffins for 'em by the hour at a stretch. I thought what a nice quiet lodger21 I should have--a single man, and him a minister! Instead of which I might just as well keep an inn."
The young ladies walked on, wisely giving no answer, and entered the parlour. There they were presented to Mr. Cattacomb, and joined the tea-table.
Kettledrums, as we are all aware, cannot last for ever, and before six o'clock Miss Blake was on her way back to Foxwood Court. The discussion as to district visiting and other matters was postponed22 to another day, Mr. Cattacomb pleading fatigue23 (and no wonder); and Miss Blake--who was in point of fact the prime mover and prop24 and stay of it all--inwardly thinking that a less crowded meeting would be more conducive25 to business. As she was nearing the gate at Foxwood Court, she met Mr. Smith sauntering along, apparently26 out for an airing.
"Good afternoon, madam!"
He would have passed with the words, but she stopped to talk with him. The truth was, Miss Blake had taken, she knew not why or wherefore, a liking27 for Mr. Smith. From the first moment she saw him he had possessed28 a kind of attraction for her. It must be said that she believed him to be a gentleman.
"You were not at the opening service at St. Jerome's this afternoon, Mr. Smith?" she said, half-reproachfully.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I should be out of place there, as the congregation was comprised only of ladies," was his reply. "Happening to be walking that way, I saw lots of them go in."
"Foxwood cannot boast of gentlemen in the middle of the day; the few who reside here are off to Basham for their different occupations. But you are an idle man, Mr. Smith."
"I am not always idle, I assure you, Miss Blake. I have Sir Karl Andinnian's interests to look after."
"Oh, indeed! As a friend, I presume?"
"Just so."
"Well, you would not have been quite solitary30 if you had come into the church. Mr. Moore was there."
"Ay. He looked in for five minutes, and came out laughing. I don't know what amused him, unless it was to see the Misses Sumnor there."
"I think you must have been watching us all--all who went in, and all who came out," said Miss Blake. The agent smiled as he disclaimed31 the imputation32: and with that they parted.
"Those flowers were so much admired and appreciated, Maclean," said Miss Blake to the gardener as she passed the lodge--where he sat at tea with his wife--the door open. "There are no such hothouse flowers anywhere as yours."
Maclean rose and thanked her for the compliment. She passed rapidly on, and entered the house by the window of the North room.
"I wonder where Lucy is?--Dressing33, perhaps; or seated at the window looking out for her husband. Foolish child! Does he deserve that love?"
Treading softly on the carpeted staircase, her knock at Lady Andinnian's door and her entrance were simultaneous. Lucy, in her white morning dress with its blue ribbons, was standing up beside her husband. His arm was round her waist, her face lay upon his breast, his own bent34 down upon it.
It was an awkward moment for Miss Blake; she bit her lips as she stammered35 an apology. Lucy, blushing and laughing, drew away. Karl stood his ground, laughing too.
"I did not know you had returned, Sir Karl."
"I have just come; three minutes ago," he said, holding out his hand. "Lucy was telling me you had gone to a kettledrum, and I saucily36 assured her she must have dreamt it. Fancy kettledrums at Foxwood!"
They separated for the purpose of dressing, Miss Blake biting her lips still as she went to her room. The little matter had turned her hot and cold. Do as she would, she could not get rid entirely37 of her love for Karl Andinnian, in spite of the chronic38 resentment39 she indulged towards him.
"If this is jealousy," she murmured, sitting down to think, and undoing40 her veil with fingers that thrilled to their extreme ends, "I must indeed school myself. I thought I had learned to bear calmly."
At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better spirits than usual. He told them he had been to the Opera to hear the new singer, Ilma di Murska, in "Robert le Diable."
"Oh, Karl!--and not to have had me with you!" cried Lucy.
"I will take you up on purpose, Lucy. You must hear her. In the song 'Robert, toi que j'aime' she electrified41 us all. I never heard anything like it in my life. And she is most elegant on the stage. Her dresses are splendid."
"Was anyone there that you knew?"
"I hardly looked at the house at all. I was in the stalls. The Prince and Princess of Wales were in the royal box."
"I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to hear that you went!"
"True, Lucy; but my evenings hung heavily on my hands. What with Plunkett and Plunkett and other business matters, the days were busy enough: I used to wish the evenings were. I felt very dull."
"Just as I have been feeling here, Karl, without you."
His answer to his wife was but a look; but Miss Blake wished she had not caught it. What had she done, that his love should have missed her to be lavished42 on this girl-child?
"Sir Karl," she cried somewhat abruptly43, "who is Mr. Smith?"
"I don't know," carelessly replied Sir Karl, whose thoughts were preoccupied44.
"Not know! but is he not your agent?--and a friend also?"
Sir Karl was fully29 aroused now. "Know who Mr. Smith is?" he
repeated--and he wished to heaven in his secret heart that he did know. "How do you mean, Miss Blake? He is Mr. Smith, and--yes--a kind of agent to me on the estate."
The latter part of the answer was given lightly, half merrily, as if he would pass it off with a laugh. Miss Blake resumed.
"Is he not an old friend of the Andinnian family?"
"Of some of them, I believe. I did not know him myself."
"Who gave him his appointment?"
"My mother. She considered it well to have some responsible person here to look after my interests, as I was living abroad."
"Do you not intend, Sir Karl, to make an acquaintance of him?--a friend?"
For a moment Sir Karl's brows were heavily knitted. "I do not suppose I shall," he quietly said.
"He seems a well-informed, agreeable man; and is, I conclude, a gentleman," returned Miss Blake, quite in a tone of remonstrance45.
"I am glad to hear it," replied Sir Karl, his manner somewhat freezing. "And so, Lucy, you have had some of the neighbours calling here?" he continued, addressing his wife and turning the conversation.
"Oh, Karl, yes! And you were not here to help me; and I did not know them, and confused their names hopelessly with one another."
"I should not have known them either," laughed Sir Karl.
Miss Blake had some letters to write, and got to them after dinner: she had been too much engaged with other things during the day. Tea was taken in early to the drawing-room, and afterwards she went back early to her own room, the North room, to finish her writing by what little light remained. She saw Sir Karl and Lucy in the garden arm-in-arm, conversing47 together in low, confidential48 tones. Evidently they were all-sufficient for each other and did not miss her.
Say what we will, it could but seem to Miss Blake a neglect and something worse, looking upon past matters in her own light; and it told upon her cruelly.
The evening dusk drew on. She heard Lucy at the piano in the
drawing-room, seemingly alone, trying a bit of one song and a bit of, another. There was no doubt that Lucy thought Theresa was still busy and would not interrupt her. Miss Blake put up her desk and sat at the open window. By and by, when it was nearly dark, she threw a shawl on her shoulders, stepped out, crossed the lawn, and lost herself amidst the opposite trees. Miss Blake was that night in no mood for companionship: she preferred her own company to that of Lucy or her husband. As we say by the cross little children, the black dog was on her back; she did not listen even to the sweet melody of the nightingales.
"But for St. Jerome's I would not stay another day here," ran her thoughts. "I almost wish now I had not stirred in the church matter, but let the benighted49 place alone. As it is--and Mr. Cattacomb's
come--why, I must make the best of it, and do my duty. Stay! stay, Theresa Blake!" she broke off in self-soliloquising sternness. "Is this fulfilling your good resolution--to give up all and bear all? Let me put away these most evil thoughts and work bravely on, and stay here cheerfully for Lucy's sake. It may be that she will want a friend, and I--Oh, there he is!"
The last sentence related to Karl. She had gradually got round the house to the other side, which brought her in face of Sir Karl's room. The doors of the window stood wide open; a lamp was on the table, by the light of which he seemed to be reading a note and talking to Hewitt, who stood near. Crossing over on the soft grass she drew within ear-shot, not really with any intention of listening, but in her mind's abstraction--what was there likely to pass between Sir Karl and his servant that concerned her to hear? With the bright lamp inside and the darkness out, they could not see her.
"You must be very cautious, Hewitt," Sir Karl was saying. "Implicitly50 silent."
"I have been, sir, and shall be," was the answer. "There's no fear of me. I have not had the interests of the family at heart all these years, Sir Karl, to compromise them now."
"I know, I know, Hewitt. Well, that's all, I think, for to-night."
Miss Blake passed back again out of hearing, very slowly and thoughtfully. She had heard the words, and was dissecting51 them: it almost sounded as though Sir Karl and his man had some secret together. Stepping on to the terrace, she was about to go in, when she heard Sir Karl enter the drawing-room and speak to his wife.
"I think I shall take a bit of a stroll, Lucy."
"To smoke your cigar? Do so, Karl."
"I--wonder--whether it is an excuse to go where he went the other night?" thought Miss Blake, the idea striking her like a flash of lightning. "I'll watch him. I will. I said I would, and I will. His family may have interests of their own, but Lucy and her family have theirs, and for her sake I'll watch."
Drawing the shawl over her head, she passed out at one of the small gates, crossed the road, and glided52 along under cover of the opposite hedge as far as the Maze53. There she stood, back amidst the trees, and sheltered from observation. The dress she wore happened to be black, for it was one of St. Jerome's fast-days, the shawl was black, and she could not be seen in the shade.
It was a still night. The dew was rising, and there seemed to be some damp exhaled54 from the trees. The time passed, ever so many minutes, and she began to think she had come on a fruitless errand. Or was it that Sir Karl was only lingering with his wife?
"Good gracious! What was that?"
A shrill55 shriek56 right over Miss Blake's head had caused the words and the start. It must have been only a night bird; but her nerves--what few she had--were on the tension, and she began to tremble slightly. It was not a pleasant position, and she wished herself away.
"I'll go," she mentally cried. "I wish I had not come. I--hope--Mr. Smith's--not looking out, or he will see me!" she added, slowly and dubiously57.
The doubt caused her to stay where she was and strain her eyes at the opposite cottage. Was it fancy? One of the windows stood open, and she thought she saw a head and eyes peeping from it. Peeping, not openly looking.
"He must have seen me come!" decided58 Miss Blake. "But surely he'd not know me, wrapped up like this! Hark!"
A very slight sound had dawned upon her ear. Was it Sir Karl advancing? Surely the sound was that of footsteps! At the same moment, there arose another and separate sound; and that was close to her, inside the gates by which she stood.
"Some one must be coming out!" breathed Miss Blake. "It's getting complicated. I wish I was safe away. Two pairs of eyes may see what one would not."
Sir Karl Andinnian--for the footsteps were his--advanced. Very quietly and cautiously. Miss Blake could see that he had changed his dress coat for another, which he had buttoned round him, though the night was close. Halting at the gate he drew the key from his pocket as before, unlocked it, and passed in. Some one met him.
"Karl! I am so glad you have come! I thought you would! I knew you had returned."
It was a soft, sweet voice: the same voice, Miss Blake could have laid a wager59 on it, that had sung "When lovely woman stoops to folly60." Their hands met: she was sure of that. Perhaps their lips also: but she could not see.
"Why, how did you know I was back?" he asked. "Oh, Ann came to the gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass by from the station."
"Why are you out here!" he resumed. "Is it prudent61!"
"I was restless, expecting you. I have so much to say; and, do you know, Karl----"
The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the thirsty ears outside. Both had spoken but in whispers. Miss Blake cautiously stretched forth her head, so as to get a glimpse through the
closely-barred gate. Yes: it was the lovely girl she had seen during that stealthy visit of hers: and she had taken Sir Karl's arm while she talked to him. Another minute, and they both disappeared within the trees of the maze.
Whether Miss Blake was glued to the trunk of the tree she stood at, or whether it was glued to her, remains62 a problem to be solved. It was one of the two. There she stood; and leave it she could not. That the flood-gates of a full tide of iniquity63 had suddenly been opened upon her was as clear to her mind as the light of day. Much that had been incomprehensible in the Maze and its inmates64 admitted of no doubt now. An instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously65: but she had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to dwell on it. And now--it seemed as though she stood at the edge of a yawning precipice66 looking down on a gulf67 of almost unnatural68 evil, from the midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone prominently out, the incarnation of all that was wicked and false and treacherous69. But for the necessity of stillness and silence, Miss Blake could have groaned aloud.
A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to wait or watch for: she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis Cottage and the eyes that might be peeping from it, she got back into the grounds of Foxwood and sat down on the bare terrace in the night to commune with herself. What should her course be? Surely she ought to impart the secret to that poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife.
Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was by nature, she strove to do her duty in all conscientiousness70 at all times and in all places. Sin she detested71, no matter of what nature; detested it both as sin and for its offence against God. That Sir Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his innocent and unsuspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not be allowed to go on--at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To allow her to remain the loving and unsuspicious partner of this man would be almost like making her a third in the wickedness, was what Miss Blake thought in her anger. And she decided on her course.
"And I--if I did not enlighten her, knowing what I know--should be countenancing72 and administering to the sin," she said aloud. "Good heavens! what a pit seems to be around us! may I be helped to do right!"
Rising, and shaking the night dew from her hair, she passed upstairs to her own chamber73. Lady Andinnian was moving about her dressing-room. Impulse induced Miss Blake to knock at the door. Not that she intended to speak then.
"Are you undressing, Lucy?" she asked, an unconscious pity in her voice for the poor young wife.
"Not yet, Theresa. Aglaé's coming up, though, I think. It was dull downstairs by myself, and I thought I might as well come on. I could not find you anywhere. I thought you must have gone to bed."
"I was out of doors."
"Were you? I called to you outside on the terrace, but no one answered."
"Sir Karl is out, then?"
"He is strolling about somewhere," replied Lucy. "He does not sleep well, and likes to take half an hour's stroll the last thing. It strikes me sometimes that Karl's not strong, Theresa: but I try to throw the fear off."
Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting them to an enforced silence. She was burning to say what she could say, but knew it would be premature74.
"I will wish you goodnight, Lucy, my dear. I am tired, and--and out of sorts."
"Good night, Theresa: dormez bien," was the gay answer.
"To waste her love and solicitude75 upon him!" thought Miss Blake, as she stepped along the corridor with erect76 head and haughty77 brow. "I told Colonel Cleeve before the marriage that he was wild--little Dennet had said so--but I was put down. No wonder Sir Karl cannot spend his income on his home! he has other ways and means for it. Oh, how true are the words of holy writ46! 'The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately78 wicked.'"
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1
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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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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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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34
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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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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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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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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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenancing
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的现在分词 ) | |
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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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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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