"I can't pretend that she likes him, or that she does not like Frere," he had said over and over again, as he turned the hopeful project, which had succeeded so perfectly13, in his mind. "He is not quite such a flat as to believe any thing of that sort. It all depends on his being satisfied to have the girl at any price; and he knows so little of the world and of women, that I do believe he'll be idiot enough to take her against her will. A pretty life she'll lead him; but that's no business of mine."
Mr. Guyon possessed one trivial and negative virtue--he never tried to deceive himself. Perhaps one reason why his hypocrisy14 had frequently been crowned with success was, that he reserved it entirely15 for his transactions, sternly extruding16 it from his meditations17. Vis-à-vis Ned Guyon, he was the soul of candour. True to this characteristic, when screwing up his courage to the inevitable18 interview with his daughter, which was the next performance in his programme, Mr. Guyon did not try to persuade himself, as a more shallow scoundrel would have done, that he was in reality doing the very best thing within his power for her, and establishing, in truth, a clear claim to her gratitude19. He did not repeat that the man she loved was a frivolous20 fellow, who could never fill the heart and the intellect of such a woman, and was unworthy of her affection. He said nothing to himself of all he had said to Robert Streightley. He knew nothing, and he cared nothing about Frere's character; and the consideration of Katharine's unhappiness did not concern him in the least.
"She will be very rich," he thought; "and if that does not make her happy, she is a greater fool than I take her for--a greater fool even than Streightley."
Callous21 and unhesitating as he was, nevertheless Mr. Guyon felt considerable apprehension11 about the impending22 explanation with Katharine. No material disagreement had ever taken place between his daughter and himself. He had always had a sense of Katharine's intellectual superiority which had governed him in certain respects; and an unexpressed unwillingness23 to rouse a temper which he felt a tacit conviction he could not rule had restrained him from opposing her unnecessarily; so that his daughter had always given him credit for much more amiability24 and complaisance25 than he actually possessed. He was not afraid of her in any actively26 restraining sense, or he would not have entertained such a design as that he was now prosecuting27 against her; but he was afraid of a war of words with her; he was afraid that her keenness might lead her to suspicion; above all, he dreaded her girlish ignorance, her disregard of wealth, when wealth only was what he had to urge upon her acceptance.
The announcement of Gordon Frere's departure was the cause of almost as profound an emotion to Mr. Guyon as to his daughter. To her it meant the extinction28 of hope, the blighting29 of joy, the outraging30 of love and pride, the awakening31 of passionate32 anger and agonising grief. To him it meant the termination of a period of most unpleasant suspense33, during which he did not dare to take a step towards the furtherance of his plans, lest at any moment they might collapse34, and defeat insure detection. But all had turned out rightly for him; he was safe; the young man--"the biggest fool of the lot" Mr. Guyon called him, with coarse contempt for the pliability35 of his victim--had received his sentence in silence and without protest, and had left England; a circumstance beyond Mr. Guyon's hopes, which had extended only to his keeping out of Katharine's way until the scheme should have succeeded.
On his return from the dinner at Greenwich, which had been rather tedious, and during which Robert Streightley's abstracted look and dispirited manner had excited Mr. Guyon's scorn and apprehension, inducing him to think that if there were much delay Robert might become troublesome and scrupulous36 after all, he, too, read in the evening journals the announcement which had come upon his daughter like the stroke of doom37. Unmixed satisfaction was rapidly succeeded by a determination to act at once. He had seen as little as possible of Katharine for some time, pleading engagements and business when the rapid "thinning" of London prevented his procuring38 the presence of a third person to insure him against a tête-à-tête. But he had watched her; he had observed her restlessness, her anxiety, her abstraction and indifference39. He had noted40 the shadow on her beauty, he had heard the harsh tone which now sounded in her voice, the unreal ring of her laugh,--had noted them without one touch of pity or hesitation, and been satisfied with the result. He recognised grief in all these symptoms, but he saw still more anger, pride, and defiance41. Every thing that he observed gave him encouragement; and Lady Henmarsh, who did not know the whole truth, but had guessed at something very like it, had made satisfactory reports. She understood Katharine much better than her father understood her, and had played the irritating game, in his interests, with a charming air of unconsciousness, and complete success. The first thing to be done was to see Lady Henmarsh; and as she was going to take Sir Timothy out of town in a day or two, no time was to be lost. Mr. Guyon could be an early man when it suited his convenience, and it happened to do so just then. He presented himself at Lady Henmarsh's breakfast-table, much to the surprise and a little to the confusion of "cousin Hetty," who had never quite lost the habit of liking42 to look well for "cousin Ned," and was conscious that she might have looked better than on this occasion. But "cousin Ned" had neither time nor inclination43 for the revival44 of ci-devant sentiment, and Lady Henmarsh soon perceived that "business" engrossed45 him wholly.
"My dearest Kate," said Lady Henmarsh, as, three hours later, she entered Miss Guyon's room, and found her up and dressed, indeed, but sitting icily by her bedroom-window, and looking as though a month's illness had robbed her eyes of their lustre46 and her cheek of its bloom,--"what is wrong with you? Clarke tried to prevent my coming upstairs, but of course I knew you would see me. My dear girl, you look shockingly!"
"Do I?" said Katharine, forcing a smile; "I feel wretched enough. It is only the heat, I suppose, and the season. It is time for every one to leave town."
"Every one seems to think so," returned Lady Henmarsh; "except yourself and ourselves, almost every one is gone. I had such a number of callers yesterday, I was quite sick of them. So sorry you could not come round, dear; but you did quite right to keep quiet, if you did not feel well. By the way, Mr. Mostyn--I must not say your admirer, I suppose; but the gentleman who kindly47 permits you to admire him--came in while the Daventrys were there, and he looked quite sentimental48 when your message came. He actually condescended49 to ask why you did not go to Mrs. Tresillian's ball, and to say, but for Miss Guyon's absence, he should have pronounced it the best ball of the season. You know his formal way. I am sorry you missed it, Kate; they all agreed that it was a brilliant affair; and Lily Daventry was in ecstasies51 about it. To be sure she's new to balls; but how she did go on about Coote and Tinney's band and Gordon Frere's waltzing!"
Katharine winced52. Lady Henmarsh played with a ring-stand, took up the rings one by one and examined them, keeping a close watch on the girl as she talked on.
"What a goose that girl is, to be sure, but so pretty! and if the men admire her so much, though she has not any sense, she is as well without it. What a flirt53 she is too! It amused me to watch her trying her ringlets and her attitudes upon Mr. Mostyn. Now that Gordon Frere--as great a flirt as herself--is out of the way, she tries her hand upon him; and he is so horribly vain, that though he was at the Tresillians' and saw her flirtation54 with Frere, he actually believes she is quite captivated. Why do you wear an opal ring, Kate? you were not born in October; it's unlucky, my dear."
"Is it?" said Katharine languidly. "I did not know. Are the Daventrys going to Leyton?"
"Yes, they start to-morrow. By the bye, I was so surprised at Gordon Frere's appointment; weren't you? I never heard him mention it, and yet it appears it had been settled a long time. I am sorry I did not see him when he called."
"How do you mean that his appointment was settled?" asked Katharine, with great self-command. Lady Henmarsh turned her head away from the dressing-table, and looked full at her, as she answered:
"Why, Lord A. had promised to take him as his private secretary, when his turn should come; you know those diplomatic people have their regular order of succession; he told Lily Daventry all about it at the Tresillians' ball. He had been idling through the season, he said, and amusing himself the best way he could, in anticipation55 of going to work in earnest. He rather thought he should have gone a little earlier; and to tell you the truth, Kate, I wish he had." There was meaning in the speaker's tone, and Katharine understood it. Her eye lighted angrily, as she asked, in the coldest possible voice:
"Indeed! may I ask you why Mr. Gordon Frere's movements are of interest to you, Lady Henmarsh?"
"Come, come, Kate, don't speak like that to me," said her friend; "you know perfectly well how dear you are to me, and what an interest I take in every thing that nearly or remotely concerns you. I'm sure you can't deny that, my dear."
"And I must say," continued Lady Henmarsh, "I am very much mortified57 at the way Gordon Frere has set people talking about you."
"About me?"
"Yes, my dear, about you. He paid you very marked attention, and you received it with quite enough complacency to set people talking--don't be angry, Kate, I don't blame you; you were not to know that he meant nothing. And then, for you, and me, the nearest friend you had--a friend standing58, in the eyes of the world, in the place of a mother--to be the only people of his acquaintance, as it appears we are, ignorant of the fact that he was going abroad immediately. Just suppose, Kate, you had cared for him as much as he tried to make you, and as I am very much afraid many people think you do! No, a male flirt is my abhorrence59, and Gordon is one aux bouts60 des ongles. I assure you, Lady Daventry--and you know she is not at all an ill-natured woman, or given to scandal--asked some very unpleasant questions. I really wish I had seen the gentleman; every one else seems to have seen him. He was in town only three days, and I really believe he called in person on every one else, though he only left a card for Sir Timothy. Did he call here?" Lady Henmarsh asked the question very suddenly; and as Katharine answered it, her cheeks reddened with a painful blush, which did not fade again during the interview.
"No, Lady Henmarsh, he did not."
"Ah, I thought so. And now, my dear Kate, let me speak to you, as I feel, with the affection of a mother and the experience of a woman of the world. Gordon Frere has treated you very ill; he has exposed you to comments, very injurious and painful to any girl, still more so to a girl situated61 as you are. He might have made you miserable62, as well as ridiculous, if he had succeeded in making you love him. Now you must defeat his unmanly triumph, and silence all the talk among our countless63 dear friends who are amusing themselves at your expense. Your being ill just now is peculiarly unfortunate; I know they will say you are shutting yourself up, and doing the Didone abbandonata. You have rather unfortunately good health, Katharine, for this sort of thing, and have long defied hot suns and iced creams too successfully to escape suspicion by pleading them now. I really wish, my dear girl, you would come out for a drive; there are still many people to see you--take an old woman's advice, Kate, and don't disdain65 precaution, because you are not conscious of its need. No one can afford to be laughed at; and if you are wise, you will reject Mr. Gordon Frere's legacy66 of ridicule67."
Lady Henmarsh spoke68 earnestly and with much mental trepidation69. She had ventured very, very far; much farther than, when she entered Katharine's room, she had believed she would dare to venture, for she too knew that Katharine had what her father called "a devil of a temper;" and there were few things she would not have preferred to rousing it. But the silence of the girl, something of forlornness under her pride, the patience with which she had borne her first approaches, had given Lady Henmarsh courage, and Katharine's demeanour satisfied her that all her suspicions had been more than just, that she had loved Gordon Frere frankly70, fully64, and with all the truth and ardour which were characteristic of her better nature. A moment's silence ensued when she had ceased speaking, and then Katharine, stately, cold, and graceful71, rose from her chair, and, placing her hand upon the bell to summon her maid, said:
"I appreciate your kindness and your advice, Lady Henmarsh. If you will come back for me in half an hour, I will go with you any where you please. But--this subject must never be spoken of again between you and me."
Katharine's maid entered the room, and Lady Henmarsh left it, merely saying in an assenting72 tone, "Very well, my dear," and descended50 the stairs to the hall. There she met Mr. Guyon, who attended her to her carriage with great solicitude73. A whisper only passed between them, for they treated servants with systematic74 caution. It was from Lady Henmarsh, who said:
"I don't think you will have much trouble, Ned."
Several persons of her acquaintance met Miss Guyon driving in the Park that afternoon, and had ample leisure to observe her amid the diminished throng75. A few regarded her with curiosity--for though Lady Henmarsh had grossly exaggerated the facts, she and Gordon Frere had been "talked of" in their own set--many with admiration76, and remarked that she looked particularly well and blooming, not at all cut up by the season. None knew that something had gone out of the beautiful face that was never to return to it--that the woman they admired that day was not the same they had been accustomed to see and to admire, but who was now a thing of the past, never more to have any terrene existence.
"Katharine," said Mr. Guyon to his daughter on the following day, as she sat opposite him at breakfast, while he furtively77 watched her countenance78 from behind the defence of a convenient newspaper, "I have something to say to you."
"Have you, papa? What is it?"
She looked at him uninterested and unconcerned. Mr. Guyon threw down his newspaper, left his chair, and took up a position on the hearthrug suggestive of wintry weather. He felt and he looked awkward; he cleared his throat, and pulled at the blue-silk ribbon which encircled it, as though its pressure incommoded him. His daughter did not move, and the expression of her face was still uninterested, unconcerned.
"Yes, Katie," he recommenced. "I have indeed, my dear, something very particular to say to you. I don't often speak seriously to you, you know, and never bother you about business. So you must not think I want to bother you now, and you must really attend to me."
"If it's about going out of town, papa, I really don't care where----"
"No, no, Kate, it's not that," said her father, interrupting her; "it's nothing so easily settled as that. The fact is--Kate," he said abruptly79, and in a changed tone, "what do you think of our friend Streightley?"
"What do I think of Mr. Streightley, papa? I can hardly tell you; I don't think I know,--I don't think I have any thoughts about him. But what has that to do with any thing important or particular that you want to speak to me about?"
"It has every thing to do with it, Kate. Robert Streightley is the best friend I have in the world, and he is the best fellow I know."
Katharine looked at her father with surprise. She was very far from understanding him perfectly; but she certainly had a notion that Mr. Streightley did not resemble the sort of person to whom she would have expected her father to apply the favourite epithet80, "good-fellow." She said nothing, however; and Mr. Guyon, watching her more eagerly than he suffered his features to tell, continued:
"I need not weary you by explaining the services Streightley has done me in detail, but I must tell you that I have been unfortunate in money matters in many ways; I have trusted friends, and been deceived--" again Katharine's face expressed surprise, which she certainly felt, and yet would have been puzzled to explain. "I have been speculating, and have been ill-advised; the result has been disastrous81; in short, Katie, I must have gone to the wall had it not been for Robert Streightley."
Katharine had become exceedingly pale now, and she fixed82 her eyes on her father with more steadiness than he liked. He leaned his right elbow on the chimney-piece, and kept his right hand hovering83 about his mouth and chin, ready to cover an undesirable84 expression of candour or embarrassment85.
"Do you mean that Mr. Streightley has lent you money, papa?" asked Katharine.
"Yes, my dear, he has, and large sums too; and I have lost so heavily by those speculations86 I mentioned, that I cannot pay him without the greatest inconvenience indeed almost ruin. He does not know how I am situated; and of course it would be painful and humiliating to me to tell him, unless I could also tell him the best news he could hear, Kate----"
"What is that, papa?" she asked, perfectly without suspicion. Mr. Guyon found his change of attitude very useful now, and he critically examined his boots before he said:
"Well, my dear--I know you will be surprised, and indeed I was astonished when he mentioned the subject to me. The best news that Mr. Streightley could hear, Katie, would be that you had consented to become his wife--" and at the last words he raised his head and looked at her. Katharine started up, and exclaimed:
"Me! I!--O papa, what are you saying?"
Her father approached her, put one arm round her waist, and took her hand in his. He seldom caressed87 his daughter, and she instinctively88 shrunk from the encircling arm, as if a danger threatened her; but he held her firmly, and she stood still and listened.
"I daresay you can't understand it, Kate, but it's quite true for all that; and you know you are a doosid sensible girl, and doosid lucky too, I can tell you." Mr. Guyon was recovering himself. "Now look here. You've always lived like a lady--a long way better than many ladies, by Jove--and you don't know what difficulties and poverty mean; and it will be your own fault if you do know now, or ever. You've no fortune, Kate; and a girl who hasn't can't choose for herself--that's a fact. Men can't and won't marry without money; and though you don't know much of the world, except the ball, supper, promenade89, and park side of it, Katie, I daresay you know enough of it not to deny that. You don't know much of Streightley; and I daresay he's not the sort of fellow you would fancy if you did know ever so much of him. But then, you see, the sort of fellow you would fancy can't marry you, because you have no money, or won't, which comes to the same thing,--at all events doesn't--" Here Katharine released herself, and sat down. Still she turned her white face and attentive90 eyes steadfastly91 upon him, and showed no sign of emotion, save the occasional twitching92 of the hand which she laid upon the table. Immensely reassured93 by her quietness, Mr. Guyon went on, quite cheerily:
"It's all nonsense thinking about love-matches in these days; and indeed at any time I don't think they turned out well. Now, Kate, this is the real fact. If you don't marry Streightley, who is a first-rate fellow, and immensely rich, and ready to do all sorts of generous and noble things, in addition to giving me time to look about me until I can pay him the money I owe him, absolute ruin is staring me in the face, and you too. Don't speak, Kate; don't say any thing in a hurry; and don't say I ask you to marry Streightley for my sake; but just listen to the alternative. Well, suppose that you determine not to accept Streightley;--and remember, beautiful and admired as you are, he is the first man who has ever asked you to marry him--a pretty strong proof, I think, of the truth of my statement that men won't marry without money, especially if you will take the trouble to count up the number of ugly heiresses married since you have been out, and to several of your own admirers too;--we all go to smash here; I must shift for myself the best way I can--get off abroad, and escape imprisonment94; though I can't escape disgrace--and never hope to show my face in England again. And as for you, Katie, don't think me hard or cruel--I must tell you the truth; I must tell you the whole truth, that you may know what you really reject or accept. I see nothing for you but becoming a companion to a lady--which I take it is the most infernal kind of white slavery going--or being dependent on the charity of Lady Henmarsh. You can't live with your aunt, because she is going to live with her daughter; and you can't come abroad with me, for many reasons, the chief being that I could not afford to take you. Cousin Hetty is very pleasant and nice now, and a capital chaperone; but you are, as I said before, a doosid sensible girl, and I daresay you can guess what cousin Hetty would be to a poor relation, with a shady father, living on her charity,--so I won't dwell upon that."
He paused a little, but still she did not speak. Still she looked at him, her face white, her lips firmly closed, and the hand on the table twitching occasionally. Once or twice there was a sound in her throat as if she swallowed with difficulty, but she uttered no word. Mr. Guyon felt exceedingly hot and uncomfortable, but he went on, less glibly95 perhaps, and looking rather over than at her.
"The other side of the medal is this, Katie. You have the opportunity of marrying a rich man, in an honourable96 and advancing position, so desperately97 in love with you that you may choose your own manner of life. He is very good-looking and well-bred, and I don't see any reason why you may not like him quite well enough to get on with him as happily as any woman gets on with any man. Let me tell you, my dear, the strength of your position will be incalculably increased by your not being in love with him; in nine cases out of ten a woman in love with her husband bores him horribly, and brings out all the bad points in his temper, which she might never find out, or at all events might easily manage, otherwise. You will have every material of reasonable happiness, and the power of indulging your tastes--and they are not economical, Kate. And now choose for yourself; and remember I don't play the sentimental parent, and urge you to this for my sake. We have always been good friends, Katie, but I don't expect a sacrifice from you; and I don't talk the absurd nonsense of representing a splendid offer like this, involving advantages which no girl in London knows better than yourself how to appreciate, as a fearful trial, affording you an opportunity of performing martyrdom to filial duty."
There was a coarse sneer98 in his voice, which he would have done well to repress, which was dangerous; but his temper was getting the better of his prudence99. Katharine shrunk from the tone, and felt even in that moment of tumultuous emotion that the love she had for her father was but a weak affection. It was dying while he spoke, dying as her fresh knowledge of him was born; it would soon be dead she knew, with that other love now for ever lost to her; and only the hopeless pain, the weariness of contempt, would live where the two honest natural affections had sprung up, to be blighted100. Mutual101 avoidance, something like mutual fear, was in the faces that looked at each other, and were so strangely like, now that the expression of each was one of its worst. With no enviable sensations Mr. Guyon waited for Katharine to speak. She rose from her seat before she did so; then she said:
"Mr. Streightley does not imagine that I entertain any feeling of regard for him, I suppose?"
This was a puzzling question, and Mr. Guyon allowed the embarrassment it caused him to be evident.
"I understand," said Katharine, and she bent103 her head slowly and emphatically. "And he is willing to purchase me on those terms? It is well the bargain should be distinctly understood."
If Mr. Guyon had ever understood, had ever cared to understand his daughter, these words must have taught him how great a change had passed upon her. They would have been impossible of utterance104 to the Katharine of three weeks ago; but a wide gulf105, never to be spanned, of pain and injury lay between that time and the present. He felt afraid of the girl; but rallying courage for a decisive effort, he said:
"Your answer, Katharine; you see the case as clearly as I do;--what am I to say to Mr. Streightley?"
"Nothing," she answered, "but that I will see him myself. Tell him to come here this evening, to-morrow, any time you please,--I will see him, I will hear what he has to say. There must be no mistake in this case, no self-deception106, no mutual deception. The truth is not beautiful or holy, but at least it shall be told."
She left the room as soon as she had spoken the last words. Her father remained as she had left him; an ugly dark shadow had spread itself over his face. After some minutes he looked up, shrugged107 his shoulders, and strolled over to one of the windows. He looked out idly for a little then roused himself, and went into his own room. There he wrote two letters, bestowing108 considerable: time and pains on the first, which was addressed to Robert Streightley, but scribbling109 the other off with careless rapidity. It bore Lady Henmarsh's name upon the envelope, and contained the following words:
"DEAR HETTY,--I have done my part of this business, and I think things look well. As to my having very little trouble, perhaps if you had heard and seen, you would have continued to think so; but I should be devilish sorry to do it over again.--Yours, E. G."
Katharine did not appear at dinner that day, and Mr. Streightley partook of that meal, for which he had a very moderate appetite, tête-à-tête with her father. When the two gentlemen adjourned110 to the drawing-room, Katharine was seated by the window, and they could hardly discern her features, so rapidly was the autumn twilight111 deepening into darkness. While Mr. Guyon was calling rather angrily for lights, Robert Streightley advanced towards the motionless figure, awaiting his greeting; and as Mr. Guyon heard his daughter reply to the confused and agitated112 words which Robert addressed to her, he started at the changed tone of the voice, as if a stranger had spoken.
END OF VOL. I.
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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repentance
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confirmation
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dreaded
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conscientiousness
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apprehension
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apprehensions
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perfectly
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hypocrisy
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entirely
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extruding
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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inevitable
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gratitude
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frivolous
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callous
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impending
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unwillingness
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amiability
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complaisance
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actively
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prosecuting
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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30
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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31
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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33
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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34
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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35
pliability
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| n.柔韧性；可弯性 | |
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36
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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37
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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38
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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39
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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40
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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41
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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42
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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43
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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44
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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45
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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46
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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49
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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50
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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51
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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54
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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55
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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56
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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57
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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58
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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59
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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60
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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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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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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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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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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68
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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69
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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73
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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78
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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80
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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81
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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82
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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83
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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84
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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85
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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86
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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87
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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89
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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90
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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92
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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93
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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94
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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95
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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96
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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97
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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98
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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99
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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100
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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101
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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102
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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103
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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104
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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105
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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106
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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107
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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108
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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109
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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110
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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112
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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