Katharine did not see her father on the morning after the Botanical Fête. When she went down to breakfast the dusty footman gave her a message from Mr. Guyon, to the effect that he found himself obliged to go out early on particular business, and as he could not say how long he might be detained, she must not expect him to ride with her--he would return to dinner. This message was a fresh annoyance14 to Katharine, a new exacerbation15 of her already irritated temper. There now, she should be unable to ride, and no doubt Gordon was looking forward to meeting her in the Park, and would be again disappointed; indeed he might think she was purposely avoiding him,--who could tell? Katharine pushed her untasted breakfast from her and hurried upstairs to the drawing-room, where she paced up and down before the long windows with an impatient tread. Would he come? Would he call on her at the delightfully16 unconventional early hour he had selected for his first well-remembered visit? Perhaps--nay surely, he would! It was not far from eleven now; she glanced at the chimney-glass, smoothed her glossy18 hair, inspected the condition of her neat morning-dress; and then sat down to her piano to play all the tunes19 which he liked, and so get over the interval20 before his coming would be possible. But the expedient21 was not successful; the gay strains died away in harmonised reveries, sometimes into silence, as the girl sat and thought of her lover--glorified by her imagination and exalted22 by her own fervent24 nature into a very different being from the real Gordon Frere. If Katharine could but have seen him at that hour, what a difference might it not have made to them and to others! He was turning over the leaves of a Railway Guide, and talking away to Yeldham in all the newborn impetuosity of his approval of his friend's advice, and his resolution to act upon it. Yes, he would go at once; he would not delay an hour, he would not trust himself to see Katharine again. If he had met her at the Tresillians, he should certainly have committed himself; and Yeldham was right, quite right; of course Mr. Guyon would only laugh at him; and very justly, unless he could put forward some decided25 prospect26 for his consideration. Perhaps it was better that he had had no understanding with Katharine as to meeting within a day or two; he might not have been able to resist seeing her again. He would write her a note though, just a line saying he should be out of town for a few days--he must indeed, for she had asked him to inquire for some music she wanted at Cramer's: he could just write the note and get the music, and send both to Queen Anne Street before starting for the station. He flung down the Railway Guide, took up his hat and departed, whistling as he descended28 the staircase with an invincible29 light-heartedness, whereat Charles Yeldham smiled. The smile was not gay, however, and it vanished quickly, and the barrister laid down his pen, leaned his chin upon his folded hands, and gazed out of the window with eyes that saw nothing they looked upon. It was a most unusual thing for Charles Yeldham to indulge in a fit of abstraction, and the indulgence was brief. He brought his gaze and his thoughts back again with an effort, shook his hair from his forehead, and resumed his work doggedly30.
Mr. Guyon, returning from his business expedition at about one o'clock, and proposing to let himself into the house by means of his latch-key, as he did not feel particularly desirous of an interview with Katharine just then, and feared she might come down to seek him, if she heard a ring, found a commissionaire just in the act of pulling the bell.
"Wait a minute, my man," said Mr. Guyon in his cheery way; "I'll open the door," and he suited the action to the word. "What have you got there? O, I see,--a parcel and a note for my daughter. You're paid, are you, eh? Never mind; here's another sixpence--good-day."
The man turned away, well pleased, and Mr. Guyon, carrying the parcel in his hand, went on into his own room. There was a note with the parcel; which was evidently a roll of music. Mr. Guyon looked at it, considered it, finally, muttering "It will always be easy to say the fellow must have lost it," he opened and read the missive. As he did so, his face brightened up. "Out of town, eh? on important business; trusts to see her the moment he returns, eh? Not if I know it, Mr. Frere,--not if I know it." Then Mr. Guyon put the note carefully away in his pocketbook, for destruction at a convenient season.
He next proceeded to search among a heap of cards stuck into the frame of the chimney-glass for one bearing the inscription32 "Mr. Gordon Frere," passed it under the riband with which the parcel was fastened, and rang the bell.
"Take this to Miss Guyon," said he to the footman, who answered the summons. "A commissionaire brought it just now."
Katharine was standing27 by one of the windows when the man entered the drawing-room, salver in hand. Her tall graceful33 figure and proud head expressed eager anticipation34 and waiting in their attitude.
"A parcel, ma'am," said the man; "a commissioner35 'ave brought it."
"Put it down," she said, without turning her head; and several minutes elapsed before she looked round, or remembered the interruption. At length she sighed impatiently, and said aloud: "He will hardly come now, it is too near lunchtime; and if he comes later, the room is sure to be full of bores, as usual. However, I had rather he came, no matter who may be here. But it is very stupid of him not to call early." At this moment her eye lighted on the parcel, and the card attached to it. The colour rushed violently into her face, and then subsided36, leaving Katharine many shades paler than usual.
Mr. Guyon was in very good spirits when he met his daughter at lunch. He talked and laughed and made himself as agreeable as if she had been somebody else's daughter and worth cultivating. He congratulated Katharine on her appearance both at the fête and at dinner on the previous day; he asked her where her bonnet37 came from, and whether her milliner was determined38 to ruin him completely this season? To all these sallies Katharine replied little; she was pale, distraite, decidedly out of humour. Mr. Guyon shot sharp inquiring glances at her across the table, wholly unperceived. He was a little surprised at her mood. "By Jove!" he thought, "she has been harder bit than I suspected, and this has been a near thing, I fancy. I've only given Hetty the office just in time. Something must be done before this dandy fellow comes back,--and it won't be too easy to manage Kate either."
These reflections troubled Mr. Guyon a little, and repressed the fine flow of his spirits; but his daughter took as little notice of one of his moods as of the other.
"Have you heard how Lady Henmarsh is to-day?" she asked absently; and the seemingly harmless question brought a more impartially39 diffused40 colour to Mr. Guyon's face than the evenly-defined bloom which usually embellished41 it.
"No," he replied decisively; "have you?"
"I have not," said Katharine. "I was thinking of walking round there to inquire for her; but James makes out that there is so much to do, after yesterday, that I saw he would only grumble42 if I took him out,"--Mr. Guyon breathed rather quickly, and then looked relieved,--"and, as I knew if any thing serious had been the matter with her or Sir Timothy, she would have put us off for to-day, it didn't matter."
"Ah, by the bye, yes!" returned her father, "we dine there to-day."
It was rather odd that Mr. Guyon should have said this in a tone of reminiscent surprise; for his particular business of that morning had included, if not entirely43 consisted of, a long interview with Lady Henmarsh; which interview had concluded with these words:
"Well, then, good-bye until seven. You quite understand?" on the part of the gentleman; and "Yes, I quite understand," on the part of the lady.
It will be remembered that Mr. Guyon had despatched a note to his complaisant44 cousin in the course of the preceding day, which note had borne fruit in Katharine's disappointment of the evening. It had also prepared Lady Henmarsh for Mr. Guyon's visit, and had convinced her that he "meant business." It is unnecessary to go into the details of the interview, which had taken place while Katharine had watched and waited throughout the dreary45 hours, and in which her fate was settled, so far as it was in the power of her father and her chaperone to settle it. Its bearings will all be clearly developed by the results; it is enough at present that each of the parties was satisfied with the views entertained and the promises made by the other.
Katharine looked very bright and beautiful that evening, and her manner was as gay and gracious as if Lady Henmarsh had not inflicted46 a severe disappointment upon her and seriously disconcerted all, her plans and hopes for one day and night at least. Her pride had received a slight wound, not a deep or deadly one as yet, but it was keen, and sensitive, and thrilled to a touch; and that card, without note or message, had touched it. She recalled her last words to Gordon Frere, his last words to her, and their tone, which meant so much more; and she could not but recoil47 from this incident. There was some relief in fancying that he might have taken this way of evincing pique48 at her absence from the ball; and when this idea occurred to her she cherished it, and at last it gave her complete comfort. There is a sort of charm in such piques49 and pets, when they are not carried too far, and Katharine did not care to remember that had Gordon been offended, and taken such a way of showing it, he must have indulged temper at the cost of sense, as he must have known her absence arose from no fault of hers. But Katharine, a remarkably50 clear-sighted person in most cases, was as blind and as silly as the rest of the world in this, and caught with eagerness at a reason which seemed to exalt23 her lover's devotion at the expense of his common sense. Yes, that was it of course! How foolish she had been! they would meet to-morrow; even if he did not call, he always went to Lady Tredgold's "evenings," and there they should meet, and "make it up." Katharine's girlish spirits rose, under the influence of the conviction that she had been worrying herself unnecessarily, and she was even unusually charming. The dinner-party was a pleasantly-assorted one; Sir Timothy, a perfect gentleman, old and invalided51 as he was, prosed away indeed, at the end of the table, but she was not near him at dinner, and he never appeared in the drawing-room. She talked brilliantly; her low well-bred laugh was heard like frequent music amid the buzz of conversation; and Mr. Mostyn, who honoured Lady Henmarsh on the present occasion, made up his mind that Katharine should be his next heroine. He calmly contemplated52 her animated53 face, and studied the details of her dress, considering whether she should be wedded54 to a clever Irish political adventurer (he knew a man whom he could "do" for the part admirably, and what was more and better, every one else knew him also), rescued from his brutality55 by the hero (Mr. Mostyn would be his own hero), and suffered to die of a broken heart in consequence of her hopeless passion for her rescuer; or whether she should merely retire, in her maiden56 bloom, into a convent, when the hero marries the duchess, out of compassion57, and hangs wreaths of immortelles on the bell-handle of the holy house of our Lady of the Seven Dolours on each anniversary of the double event. While his mind was agitated58 by this dilemma59, he heard Mr. Guyon say to Lady Henmarsh,
"Yes, we saw him yesterday at the Botanical Fête. I don't know that he mentioned your invitation. Katharine, did Mr. Frere say whether he was to dine with Lady Henmarsh to-day?"
Katharine turned her head quickly towards her father, and there was a slight frown on her fair brow as she answered,
"No, papa,--certainly not! I did not know he had been asked. When did you invite him, Lady Henmarsh?"
"Several days ago, Kate;--when I asked you all. I suppose he had something better to do; and really he is so horribly conceited60, and represents himself as in such request every where, he is quite welcome to stay away for me."
The matter dropped there, but Katharine was very silent now; and Mr. Mostyn, attributing her depression to the near termination of dinner, and the inevitable61 move, decided that her pensive62 tenderness was even more charming than her sparkling allurement63.
In the drawing-room she was silent still. When opportunity offered she said to Lady Henmarsh:
"How did you send Mr. Frere your invitation?"
"How? Why, Kate, how inquisitive64 you are!" and her ladyship laughed,--rather a forced laugh;--"by post, of course. To the Temple; that's all right, isn't it? I said, to meet a few friends, the Guyons, and one or two others. But, my child, I can't stay gossipping with you; there's Mrs. Weldon preparing to consider herself neglected and to take offence."
Katharine was not so much annoyed as she was puzzled by this incident. It is hardly necessary to tell the intelligent reader that no such invitation had ever been sent to Gordon Frere, and that the fabrication had been a happy idea of Mr. Guyon's, and hurriedly imparted to his colleague by a note before dinner. Frere's absence might be very short, and was undoubtedly66 very precious; and Mr. Guyon had determined to play a game which, if not exactly desperate, was very daring. This was the first card; he had played it, not with perfect, but with tolerable, success. With increased eagerness Katharine looked forward to the morrow; with such eagerness as took the healthy colour from her cheek and the limpid67 brightness from her eye, and replaced the one by a flickering68 flush, and the other by a look of anxiety and absorption. The morrow came, and she rode in the Park with her father, but did not see Gordon Frere. The routine of a London day followed; she drove out with Mrs. Stanbourne, and on her return looked over the cards which had been left during her absence, but there was not one bearing the name she longed to see. At dinner her father was in the gay spirits which had distinguished70 him since he had made Robert Streightley's acquaintance, and took no notice of her silence and dejection. She went to Lady Tredgold's reception, and there endured such pangs71 of expectation, suspense, mortification72 and anger, love and longing73, as only a mind totally undisciplined by sorrow, and unaccustomed to finding its calculations disturbed by conflicting results, could undergo.
The history of the two days which succeeded that of the Botanical Fête, which had been such an eventful date in Katharine's life, and was destined74 to remain fixed75 in her memory for ever, was repeated in those which followed them. Weary waiting and wondering, heartsick longing and anger, the blind wrath76 of a proud heart stung and outraged77, the remorseful78 relenting of a girlish passionate79 heart,--through all these, and numberless other phases of feeling and suffering, Katharine Guyon struggled friendless and alone. Pride ruled the girl outwardly, as much as love reigned80 in her inwardly; and the only person to whom she would have spoken, Mrs. Stanbourne, had left town suddenly, having been called away to a friend who was dangerously ill. Katharine might not have spoken to her indeed, had she been available for purposes of confidence--the calmness and steadiness of the lady's nature might have repelled81 her, for this was an unfortunate effect which those qualifies had frequently produced upon the impetuous and passionate young girl; but now that she was away, she felt that she would have done so, and regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's absence as an additional grievance82 and aggravation83 of the bitterness of her lot. The season was over, town was thinning fast, their own particular set had all broken up, and autumn engagements were either being eagerly discussed or busily entered upon. Days wore on--how wearily, they only who know how long time is to those who watch and wait, can tell--and Katharine did not see the face of Gordon Frere or hear his name. The girl changed visibly under the suffering of this period; the anxious look, so strange to her lustrous84 eyes, became fixed in them; the soft music of her laugh ceased to ring in the ears of her companions; her girlish gracefulness85 hardened into something defiant86, very attractive to strangers, but which would have made one who loved her sad to see, and apprehensive87 for her future; but no one who loved her was there to watch the change in Katharine Guyon with prescient eyes.
The day was hot, sultry, breathless; the autumn had fairly set in, and beat fiercely upon the weary Londoners; the sense of oppression produced by the immense circumference88 of stone and brick was heavy upon such of the world as had any chance of escaping from it. Such as had no chance probably did not like it; "but then," in homely89 expressive90 speech, they had to "lump it;" and very few were likely to trouble themselves about them. The last flicker69 of the gaieties of the season had died out; and even Mr. Guyon had found it impossible to get up a Greenwich dinner-party to comprise more than four individuals, including Robert Streightley and Daniel Thacker. He had avoided his daughter as much as possible of late; and Mr. Streightley had sedulously91 sought her society, with every kind of tacit encouragement within her father's power to give him. It was the day named for the Greenwich dinner; and Katharine, glad to be alone, and yet feverish92 and miserable in her solitude93, had refused to go to Lady Henmarsh's, there to hold a causerie on their several autumn plans.
"She will drag poor old Sir Timothy to some German baths or French watering-place, and she wants me to back her up in the cruelty," thought Katharine, as she contemptuously twisted up the note, which had contained the invitation, and desired Lady Henmarsh's page to tell his mistress she was busy and could not come; "but I won't. Why can't she go down to Deanthorpe and keep quiet?" She had been dawdling94 over her luncheon95 and feeding her Skye terrier, without taking any interest in either occupation; and she now leaned idly against the window-frame and gazed out wearily. She saw the hot, baked streets; she saw the poor old woman opposite sitting by her basket of full-blown blowsy nosegays, sheltering them and herself under the shade of a huge umbrella, fallen from its high estate on some family coach-box, and displaying sundry96 patches ignominious97 in their discrepancy98 with each other and general incongruity99 with the original fabric65. The old woman was yawning, and sleeping by snatches, and Katharine's impatient weariness was increased by watching her. She turned away, and went upstairs to her own room. A newspaper lay on the table in the hall, and she took it up mechanically, and carried it with her. Her own room was spacious100 and airy, and physical ease and refreshment101 at least came to her with its stillness and its shade.
She sat down in an arm-chair by the window, and fell a-thinking on the invariable subject; wondering, yearning102, raging, as she had done now for days which had run on into weeks, during every hour which had not been tranquillised by the anodyne103 of sleep. After a while she looked idly at the newspaper in her hand; and in a few minutes her eyes lighted on a paragraph which announced the departure of Lord A---- as British chargé d'affaires to the court of F----, accompanied by Mr. Gordon Frere, who attended his lordship in the character of private secretary, and a numerous suite31.
Katharine Guyon was not a fainting woman. She had never fainted in her life, and hysterical104 affections she held in equal suspicion and disdain105. No merciful weakness came to lessen106 the physical anguish107 she experienced, when these few lines conveyed to her shrinking soul the full assurance of the fate that had befallen her. The physical suffering of a sudden grief is always terrible, most terrible where strength reigns108 with tolerable equality in body and mind. Her flesh crept and burned; acute, agonising pain darted109 into her eyeballs, and transfixed them; a slow shivering anguish seized upon her limbs, and caused her lips to part and shudder110 over the clenched111 teeth. No cry escaped her, nor sound except a moan, half of mental pain, half of the deadly sickness, the actual nausea112, which every one who has ever sustained a severe shock of pain or fear knows is its invariable accompaniment. Black rings formed themselves in the air, and dropped from under her eyes, into what seemed to her like infinite space. She wondered dimly whether this could be any thing like death; and sat there, so feeling, so wondering, she had no idea what length of time. Her maid came to her when the hour for dressing113 for dinner arrived, and found her pale, motionless, and tearless.
"I'm not well, Marwood," she said; "as papa is out, I need not go down. If you'll help me to undress, I will go to bed."
The woman was utterly surprised. Illness was unknown to Katharine's vigorous frame and eager spirit. She acknowledged that her mistress looked ill, and suggested sending James for a doctor.
"Not on any account," said Katharine; "I am suffering for my obstinacy114 in riding too long in the sun yesterday, and eating ices last night. I shall be quite well in the morning."
The woman assisted her to undress, and left her, and Katharine lay down in her bed, feeling as if she should never rise from it again. The evening fell, the beautiful autumn night succeeded the brief twilight115, and the fair morning dawned, and still she lay quite motionless, tearless, sleepless116; speechless too, but for one short sentence whose agony of anger and outraged feeling defied restraint. It sounded strangely in the quiet of the room:
"He was only amusing himself, after all. He dared to amuse himself with ME!"
Hester Gould had fulfilled her intention of finding out all she could about Robert Streightley's new friends, as she usually fulfilled all her intentions, quietly and completely. She had paid a friendly visit to Daniel Thacker's sisters, resident at Hampstead; and having timed her visit fortunately, or it would be more correct to say judiciously117, she had met Daniel, and extracted from him all the information he was disposed to give. She was not in the least deceived in her estimate of his frankness; she knew that he had more to tell respecting Mr. Guyon and his handsome daughter (Mr. Thacker called her "stunning") than the general facts into the disclosure of which she led him; but she was not unreasonable118, and she read character accurately119. She had not seen much of Daniel Thacker; for not being mistress of her own time, she could rarely visit the dwellers120 at Corby House at the hours which found that gentleman in the bosom121 of his family; but she had seen enough of him to understand him much better than most of his acquaintances did, and to feel a comfortable assurance that she could gain an influence over him, if any thing should occur to make it worth her while to do so.
Daniel Thacker possessed122 at least one sterling123 virtue--he was an excellent brother. Nothing in reason and within the compass of his means did he deny the handsome, red-lipped, dark-browed girls, who strongly resembled him, and were even more Jewish-looking than he. They had a good house, a comfortable establishment, a sufficiency of society among their own persuasion124 generally, a sufficiency of theatre- and concert-going, and plenty of the savoury meat which their souls loved. They would have been happier perhaps--or they thought so--if their beloved brother, whom they devoutly125 believed to be the handsomest and most elegant man in Christendom or Jewry, had lived with them at Corby House; but he had fully17 explained the impossibility on "business" grounds, and the docile126 Hebrews, Rebecca and Rachel, acknowledged the plea without hesitation127. They were among the firmest, warmest, and most useful of Hester Gould's friends, and they had been for a time her pupils. They had perseveringly128 spread her fame abroad among their habitués; and as music is an invariable taste among the Jews, and their musical entertainments are splendid and numerous, their praises had done her solid service, and Hester's time was fully filled by very lucrative129 engagements.
Rachel and Rebecca had been infinitely130 delighted by Hester's arrival to pass the evening with them, and had gushingly131 expressed their pleasure.
"Tuesday evening too, Daniel's evening: how delightful!--he hardly ever misses. I am so glad; isn't she a dear?" said Miss Rachel in a sort of monologue132, while she applied133 her large red lips several times to Hester's olive cheek.
The calculations of the sisters did not deceive them. Daniel came, smooth, good-humoured, affectionate, and obliging; and they passed a very agreeable evening. Miss Gould had what she called a "confidential134 cab," which attended her on special occasions, of which this was one; and as she drove away, having accepted an invitation to accompany the sisters to a Botanical "promenade135" (it was the last of the season they said, and dear Hester must come), she made a little calculation of the gain of her visit, thus:
"Mr. Guyon is a fast man out at elbows, and a great friend of Daniel Thacker's. That means that he is largely in Daniel's power. Miss Guyon is a handsome, high-spirited girl, much admired, and with no fortune. I can see that Daniel has no notion of her--he would be snubbed, rich as he is, I suspect, even by the out-at-elbows father. But he has seen Robert with Mr. Guyon, and for some reason or other--I don't know what reason yet--he is concerned in promoting a match between him and Miss Guyon. Can I prevent this? I fear not. We shall see; I must be most cautious not to purchase even a fair chance of doing so too dearly,"--here she thought intensely, and her brow clouded over heavily. "If I could find out that the girl does not care for him, I might make my way to her and put her on her guard; but suppose she does? No, no; I must not risk all until I know all."
Mr. Daniel Thacker's perfectly136 appointed brougham was conveying him rapidly to St. James's half-an-hour later; and as he smoked a choice cigar (part of a bankrupt lot dirt cheap at the price), he pulled his silky beard, and meditated137 upon Hester Gould and her questions.
"Knows Streightley and his mother and sister very well, does she? Thinks him a 'nice' man, but easily led--thinks his mother is so anxious he should marry, eh? Now what the deuce is her little game? Can't be to marry him herself, I should think, or she's just the woman to do it--to have done it long ago. Devilish nice girl; real good-looking, and a rasper for determination, I should say. 'Gad138, I should like to see a good deal more of Hester Gould."
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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steadily
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opposition
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brook
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miserable
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imputed
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utterly
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humbled
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enchanting
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mingled
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rapture
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suspense
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delightful
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annoyance
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exacerbation
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delightfully
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glossy
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tunes
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interval
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exalt
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fervent
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decided
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prospect
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invincible
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30
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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31
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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32
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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33
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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34
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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35
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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36
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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37
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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40
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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41
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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42
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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45
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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46
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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47
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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48
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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49
piques
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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50
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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51
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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53
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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54
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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55
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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56
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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57
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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58
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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59
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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60
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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61
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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62
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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63
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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64
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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65
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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66
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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67
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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68
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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69
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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70
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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71
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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72
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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73
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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74
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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75
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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76
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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77
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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78
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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79
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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80
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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81
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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82
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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83
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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84
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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85
gracefulness
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86
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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87
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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88
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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89
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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90
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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91
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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92
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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93
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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94
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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95
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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96
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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97
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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98
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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99
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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100
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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101
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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102
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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103
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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104
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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105
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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106
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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107
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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108
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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109
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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110
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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111
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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113
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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114
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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115
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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116
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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117
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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118
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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119
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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120
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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121
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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122
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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123
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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124
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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125
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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126
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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127
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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128
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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129
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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130
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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131
gushingly
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132
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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133
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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134
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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135
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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136
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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137
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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138
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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