The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had mastered all the details of Mr. Monk's Bill before it was discussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him he would have done it all himself. But it was assumed that he would not trouble himself with such work, and he perceived that he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a reference to him. He required that everything should be explained as it went on, down to the extension of every borough10 boundary; but he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that Mr. Monk and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them.
Nor did he dare to ask Mr. Monk what would be the fate of the Bill. To devote all one's time and mind and industry to a measure which one knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under such circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate of statesmen. Whether Mr. Monk laboured under such a conviction the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him exactly what he thought. Even the old Duke had become partially13 reticent14, and taken himself off to his own woods at Long Royston. To Phineas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes say a word, but would say even that timidly. On any abstract question, such as that which he had discussed when they had been walking together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter of the day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to himself, and on which one would suppose he would take delight in speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be open. "It must be a long Bill, I suppose?" he said to Phineas one day.
"I'm afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred clauses."
"It will take you the best part of the Session to get through it?"
"If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us ample time."
"Yes;—yes. I suppose so." But he did not dare to ask Phineas Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to the second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime Minister was painfully anxious as to the fate of the Ministry15. It seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the Government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats in that direction had always been made to his old friend the Duke of St. Bungay; but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been declared that that was the rock by which the Coalition16 would probably be wrecked17. The newspapers had repeated the story, and the "People's Banner" had assured the world that if it were so the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good service which it was possible that he should render it. That was at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous18 and when Lopez had destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke, and the "People's Banner" was already accusing him of clinging to power with pertinacious19 and unconstitutional tenacity20. Had not Sir Orlando deserted21 him? Was it not well known that Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing so by a mistaken loyalty22?
Everybody came up to town, Mr. Monk having his Bill in his pocket, and the Queen's speech was read, promising23 the County Suffrage Bill. The address was voted with a very few words from either side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the state of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to be any sides in the House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had for many years commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of members was always on the Government side of the House; but the opposition24 which Mr. Monk expected would, he knew, come from those who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow. About a week after Parliament met the Bill was read for the first time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in March.
The Duke had suggested to Mr. Monk the expedience25 of some further delay, giving as his reason the necessity of getting through certain routine work, should the rejection26 of the Bill create the confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever suspect him of giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed27 by fears of the future. Mr. Monk thought that any delay would be injurious and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so almost sullenly28, signifying his acquiescence29 with haughty30 silence. "I am sorry," said Mr. Monk, "to differ from your Grace, but my opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain31 from expressing it." The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had intended that the smile should be acquiescent32, but it had been as cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not sufficiently33 master of his own manner to be gracious. He told himself on the spot,—though he was quite wrong in so telling himself,—that he had now made an enemy also of Mr. Monk, and through Mr. Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no friend left in whom to trust,—for the old Duke had become cold and indifferent. The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his work and anxious for rest. It was the old Duke who had brought him into this hornets' nest; had fixed34 upon his back the unwilling35 load; had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be a disgrace,—and the old Duke was now deserting him! He was sore all over, angry with every one, ungracious even with his private Secretary and his wife,—and especially miserable36 because he was thoroughly37 aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all, there was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last. Let his colleagues do what they might, and say what they might, he would remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was supported by a majority of the House of Commons.
"I do not know any greater step than this," Phineas said to him pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, "towards that millennium38 of which we were talking at Matching, if we can only accomplish it."
"Those moral speculations39, Mr. Finn," he said, "will hardly bear the wear and tear of real life." The words of the answer, combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern and almost uncivil. Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by which he might correct the injury he had done; but, not finding any, passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged41 his shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received one further injunction not to put his trust in princes.
"We shall be beaten, certainly," said Mr. Monk to Phineas, not long afterwards.
"What makes you so sure?"
"I smell it in the air. I see it in men's faces."
"And yet it's a moderate Bill. They'll have to pass something stronger before long if they throw it out now."
"It's not the Bill that they'll reject, but us. We have served our turn, and we ought to go."
"The House is tired of the Duke?"
"The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even that;—but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies."
"I sometimes think that he is ill."
"He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his chagrin43, and then is doubly wretched because he has betrayed it. I do not know that I ever respected and, at the same time, pitied a man more thoroughly."
"He snubbed me awfully45 yesterday," said Phineas, laughing.
"He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he speaks, and yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to me. His ministry has been of great service to the country. For myself, I shall never regret having joined it. But I think that to him it has been a continual sorrow."
The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the first place, she had herself become so weary of it that she had been unable to continue the exertion46. She had, too, become in some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major Pountney and Mr. Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had lavished47 on Sir Orlando or the smiles she had given to Sir Timothy Beeswax. "I've known a good many vulgar people in my time," she said one day to Mrs. Finn, "but none ever so vulgar as our ministerial supporters. You don't remember Mr. Bott, my dear. He was before your time;—one of the arithmetical men, and a great friend of Plantagenet's. He was very bad, but there have come up worse since him. Sometimes, I think, I like a little vulgarity for a change; but, upon my honour, when we get rid of all this it will be a pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen." This the Duchess said in her extreme bitterness.
"It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of 'all this' already."
"But I haven't got anybody else in their place. I have almost made up my mind not to ask any one into the house for the next twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock me up, but now I feel that I'm almost done for. I hardly dare open my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St. Bungay has cut me. Mr. Monk looks as ominous48 as an owl49; and your husband hasn't a word to say left. Barrington Erle hides his face and passes by when he sees me. Mr. Rattler did try to comfort me the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and sevens, and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to. Don't you think Plantagenet is ill?"
"He is careworn51."
"A man may be worn by care till there comes to be nothing left of him. But he never speaks of giving up now. The old Bishop52 of St. Austell talks of resigning, and he has already made up his mind who is to have the see. He used to consult the Duke about all these things, but I don't think he ever consults any one now. He never forgave the Duke about Lord Earlybird. Certainly, if a man wants to quarrel with all his friends, and to double the hatred53 of all his enemies, he had better become Prime Minister."
"Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen?"
"Ah,—I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get at an answer. I should have thought him a poltroon54 if he had declined. It is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in the world. Do ever so little and the men who write history must write about you. And no man has ever tried to be nobler than he till,—till—."
"Make no exception. If he be careworn and ill and weary, his manners cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the same as ever."
"I don't know that it would remain so. I believe in him, Marie, more than in any man,—but I believe in none thoroughly. There is a devil creeps in upon them when their hands are strengthened. I do not know what I would have wished. Whenever I do wish, I always wish wrong. Ah, me; when I think of all those people I had down at Gatherum,—of the trouble I took, and of the glorious anticipations55 in which I revelled56, I do feel ashamed of myself. Do you remember when I was determined57 that that wretch44 should be member for Silverbridge?"
"You haven't seen her since, Duchess?"
"No; but I mean to see her. I couldn't make her first husband member, and therefore the man who is member is to be her second husband. But I'm almost sick of schemes. Oh, dear, I wish I knew something that was really pleasant to do. I have never really enjoyed anything since I was in love, and I only liked that because it was wicked."
The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St. Bungay had cut them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still remembered the pledge. But he had found it very difficult to maintain his old relations with his friend. It was his opinion that the Coalition had done all that was wanted from it, and that now had come the time when they might retire gracefully58. It is, no doubt, hard for a Prime Minister to find an excuse for going. But if the Duke of Omnium would have been content to acknowledge that he was not the man to alter the County Suffrage, an excuse might have been found that would have been injurious to no one. Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham might have joined, and the present Prime Minister might have resigned, explaining that he had done all that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had, however, yielded at once to Mr. Monk, and now it was to be feared that the House of Commons would not accept the Bill from his hands. In such a state of things,—especially after that disagreement about Lord Earlybird,—it was difficult for the old Duke to tender his advice. He was at every Cabinet Council; he always came when his presence was required; he was invariably good-humoured;—but it seemed to him that his work was done. He could hardly volunteer to tell his chief and his colleague that he would certainly be beaten in the House of Commons, and that therefore there was little more now to be done than to arrange the circumstances of their retirement59. Nevertheless, as the period for the second reading of the Bill came on, he resolved that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He owed it to himself to do so, and he also owed it to the man whom he had certainly placed in his present position. On himself politics had imposed a burden very much lighter60 than that which they had inflicted61 on his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through his long life he had either been in office, or in such a position that men were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken it, when it had come, willingly, and had always left it without a regret. As a man cuts in and out at a whist table, and enjoys both the game and the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St. Bungay been well pleased in either position. He was patriotic62, but his patriotism63 did not disturb his digestion64. He had been ambitious,—but moderately ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified. It never occurred to him to be unhappy because he or his party were beaten on a measure. When President of the Council, he could do his duty and enjoy London life. When in opposition, he could linger in Italy till May and devote his leisure to his trees and his bullocks. He was always esteemed65, always self-satisfied, and always Duke of St. Bungay. But with our Duke it was very different. Patriotism with him was a fever, and the public service an exacting66 mistress. As long as this had been all he had still been happy. Not trusting much in himself, he had never aspired67 to great power. But now, now at last, ambition had laid hold of him,—and the feeling, not perhaps uncommon68 with such men, that personal dishonour69 would be attached to political failure. What would his future life be if he had so carried himself in his great office as to have shown himself to be unfit to resume it? Hitherto any office had sufficed him in which he might be useful;—but now he must either be Prime Minister, or a silent, obscure, and humbled70 man!
Dear Duke,
I will be with you to-morrow morning at 11 a.m., if you can give me half-an-hour.
Yours affectionately,
St. B.
The Prime Minister received this note one afternoon, a day or two before that appointed for the second reading, and meeting his friend within an hour in the House of Lords, confirmed the appointment. "Shall I not rather come to you?" he said. But the old Duke, who lived in St. James's Square, declared that Carlton Terrace would be in his way to Downing Street; and so the matter was settled. Exactly at eleven the two Ministers met. "I don't like troubling you," said the old man, "when I know that you have so much to think of."
"On the contrary, I have but little to think of,—and my thoughts must be very much engaged, indeed, when they shall be too full to admit of my seeing you."
"Of course we are all anxious about this Bill." The Prime Minister smiled. Anxious! Yes, indeed. His anxiety was of such a nature that it kept him awake all night, and never for a moment left his mind free by day. "And of course we must be prepared as to what shall be done either in the event of success or of failure."
"You might as well read that," said the other. "It only reached me this morning, or I should have told you of it." The letter was a communication from the Solicitor-General containing his resignation. He had now studied the County Suffrage Bill closely, and regretted to say that he could not give it a conscientious71 support. It was a matter of sincerest sorrow to him that relations so pleasant should be broken, but he must resign his place, unless, indeed, the clauses as to redistribution could be withdrawn72. Of course he did not say this as expecting that any such concession73 would be made to his opinion, but merely as indicating the matter on which his objection was so strong as to over-rule all other considerations. All this he explained at great length.
"The pleasantness of the relations must have been on one side," said the veteran. "He ought to have gone long since."
"And Lord Drummond has already as good as said that unless we will abandon the same clauses, he must oppose the Bill in the Lords."
"And resign, of course."
"He meant that, I presume. Lord Ramsden has not spoken to me."
"The clauses will not stick in his throat. Nor ought they. If the lawyers have their own way about law they should be contented74."
"The question is, whether in these circumstances we should postpone75 the second reading?" asked the Prime Minister.
"Certainly not," said the other Duke. "As to the Solicitor-General you will have no difficulty. Sir Timothy was only placed there as a concession to his party. Drummond will no doubt continue to hold his office till we see what is done in the Lower House. If the second reading be lost there,—why then his lordship can go with the rest of us."
"Rattler says we shall have a majority. He and Roby are quite agreed about it. Between them they must know," said the Prime Minister, unintentionally pleading for himself.
"They ought to know, if any men do;—but the crisis is exceptional. I suppose you think that if the second reading is lost we should resign?"
"Oh,—certainly."
"Or, after that, if the Bill be much mutilated in Committee? I don't know that I shall personally break my own heart about the Bill. The existing difference in the suffrages76 is rather in accordance with my prejudices. But the country desires the measure, and I suppose we cannot consent to any such material alteration77 as these men suggest." As he spoke40 he laid his hand on Sir Timothy's letter.
"Mr. Monk would not hear of it," said the Prime Minister.
"Of course not. And you and I in this measure must stick to Mr. Monk. My great, indeed my only strong desire in the matter, is to act in strict unison78 with you."
"You are always good and true, Duke."
"For my own part I shall not in the least regret to find in all this an opportunity of resigning. We have done our work, and if, as I believe, a majority of the House would again support either Gresham or Monk as the head of the entire Liberal party, I think that that arrangement would be for the welfare of the country."
"Why should it make any difference to you? Why should you not return to the Council?"
"I should not do so;—certainly not at once; probably never. But you,—who are in the very prime of your life—"
The Prime Minister did not smile now. He knit his brows and a dark shadow came across his face. "I don't think I could do that," he said. "C?sar could hardly have led a legion under Pompey."
"It has been done, greatly to the service of the country, and without the slightest loss of honour or character in him who did it."
"We need hardly talk of that, Duke. You think then that we shall fail;—fail, I mean, in the House of Commons. I do not know that failure in our House should be regarded as fatal."
"In three cases we should fail. The loss of any material clause in Committee would be as bad as the loss of the Bill."
"Oh, yes."
"And then, in spite of Messrs. Rattler and Roby,—who have been wrong before and may be wrong now,—we may lose the second reading."
"And the third chance against us?"
"You would not probably try to carry on the Bill with a very small majority."
"Not with three or four."
"Nor, I think, with six or seven. It would be useless. My own belief is that we shall never carry the Bill into Committee."
"I have always known you to be right, Duke."
"I think that general opinion has set in that direction, and general opinion is generally right. Having come to that conclusion I thought it best to tell you, in order that we might have our house in order." The Duke of Omnium, who with all his haughtiness79 and all his reserve, was the simplest man in the world and the least apt to pretend to be that which he was not, sighed deeply when he heard this. "For my own part," continued his elder, "I feel no regret that it should be so."
"It is the first large measure that we have tried to carry."
"We did not come in to carry large measures, my friend. Look back and see how many large measures Pitt carried,—but he took the country safely through its most dangerous crisis."
"What have we done?"
"Carried on the Queen's Government prosperously for three years. Is that nothing for a minister to do? I have never been a friend of great measures, knowing that when they come fast, one after another, more is broken in the rattle50 than is repaired by the reform. We have done what Parliament and the country expected us to do, and to my poor judgment80 we have done it well."
"I do not feel much self-satisfaction, Duke. Well;—we must see it out, and if it is as you anticipate, I shall be ready. Of course I have prepared myself for it. And if, of late, my mind has been less turned to retirement than it used to be, it has only been because I have become wedded81 to this measure, and have wished that it should be carried under our auspices82." Then the old Duke took his leave, and the Prime Minister was left alone to consider the announcement that had been made to him.
He had said that he had prepared himself, but, in so saying, he had hardly known himself. Hitherto, though he had been troubled by many doubts, he had still hoped. The report made to him by Mr. Rattler, backed as it had been by Mr. Roby's assurances, had almost sufficed to give him confidence. But Mr. Rattler and Mr. Roby combined were as nothing to the Duke of St. Bungay. The Prime Minister knew now,—he felt that he knew, that his days were numbered. The resignation of that lingering old bishop was not completed, and the person in whom he believed would not have the see. He had meditated83 the making of a peer or two, having hitherto been very cautious in that respect, but he would do nothing of the kind if called upon by the House of Commons to resign with an uncompleted measure. But his thoughts soon ran away from the present to the future. What was now to come of himself? How should he use his future life,—he who as yet had not passed his forty-seventh year? He regretted much having made that apparently84 pretentious85 speech about C?sar, though he knew his old friend well enough to be sure that it would never be used against him. Who was he that he should class himself among the big ones of the world? A man may indeed measure small things by great, but the measurer should be careful to declare his own littleness when he illustrates86 his position by that of the topping ones of the earth. But the thing said had been true. Let the Pompey be who he might, he, the little C?sar of the day, could never now command another legion.
He had once told Phineas Finn that he regretted that he had abstained87 from the ordinary amusements of English gentlemen. But he had abstained also from their ordinary occupations,—except so far as politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for furrows88. In regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the farms were large or small. He had been a scholar, and after a certain fitful fashion he had maintained his scholarship, but the literature to which he had been really attached had been that of blue-books and newspapers. What was he to do with himself when called upon to resign? And he understood,—or thought that he understood,—his position too well to expect that after a while, with the usual interval89, he might return to power. He had been Prime Minister, not as the leading politician on either side, not as the king of a party, but,—so he told himself,—as a stop-gap. There could be nothing for him now till the insipidity90 of life should gradually fade away into the grave.
After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment, the room in which she used to prepare her triumphs and where now she contemplated91 her disappointments. "I have had the Duke with me," he said.
"What;—at last?"
"I do not know that he could have done any good by coming sooner."
"And what does his Grace say?"
"He thinks that our days are numbered."
"Psha!—is that all? I could have told him that ever so long ago. It was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at last to come and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't a porter at one of the clubs who doesn't know it."
"Then there will be the less surprise,—and to those who are concerned perhaps the less mortification92."
"Did he tell you who was to succeed you?" asked the Duchess.
"Not precisely93."
"He ought to have done that, as I am sure he knows. Everybody knows except you, Plantagenet."
"If you know, you can tell me."
"Of course, I can. It will be Mr. Monk."
"With all my heart, Glencora. Mr. Monk is a very good man."
"I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how destitute94 we shall be! What if I were to ask him for a place! Would he not give it us?"
"Will it make you unhappy, Cora?"
"What;—your going?"
"Yes;—the change altogether."
She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with a peculiar95 smile in her eyes to which he was well used,—a smile half ludicrous and half pathetic,—having in it also a dash of sarcasm96. "I can dare to tell the truth," she said, "which you can't. I can be honest and straightforward97. Yes, it will make me unhappy. And you?"
"Do you think that I cannot be honest too,—at any rate to you? It does fret42 me. I do not like to think that I shall be without work."
"Yes;—Othello's occupation will be gone,—for awhile; for awhile." Then she came up to him and put both her hands on his breast. "But yet, Othello, I shall not be all unhappy."
"Where will be your contentment?"
"In you. It was making you ill. Rough people, whom the tenderness of your nature could not well endure, trod upon you, and worried you with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I could have turned at them again with my teeth, and given them worry for worry;—but you could not. Now you will be saved from them, and so I shall not be discontented." All this she said looking up into his face, still with that smile which was half pathetic and half ludicrous.
"Then I will be contented too," he said as he kissed her.
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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boroughs
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| （尤指大伦敦的）行政区( borough的名词复数 )； 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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pertinacious
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tenacity
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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loyalty
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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opposition
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expedience
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rejection
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harassed
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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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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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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83
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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85
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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86
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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