IT was long after midnight when Pierre returned to the house. He had rushed forth1 in that complete abandonment of soul, which, in so ardent2 a temperament3, attends the first stages of any sudden and tremendous affliction; but now he returned in pallid4 composure, for the calm spirit of the night, and the then risen moon, and the late revealed stars, had all at last become as a strange subduing5 melody to him, which, though at first trampled6 and scorned, yet by degrees had stolen into the windings7 of his heart, and so shed abroad its own quietude in him. Now, from his height of composure, he firmly gazed abroad upon the charred9 landscape within him; as the timber man of Canada, forced to fly from the conflagration10 of his forests, comes back again when the fires have waned11, and unblinkingly eyes the immeasurable fields of fire-brands that here and there glow beneath the wide canopy13 of smoke.
It has been said, that always when Pierre would seek solitude14 in its material shelter and walled isolation15, then the closet communicating with his chamber16 was his elected haunt. So, going to his room, he took up the now dim-burning lamp he had left there, and instinctively17 entered that retreat, seating himself, with folded arms and bowed head, in the accustomed dragon-footed old chair. With leaden feet, and heart now changing from iciness to a strange sort of indifference18, and a numbing19 sensation stealing over him, he sat there awhile, till, like the resting traveler in snows, he began to struggle against this inertness20 as the most treacherous21 and deadliest of symptoms. He looked up, and found himself fronted by the no longer wholly enigmatical, but still ambiguously smiling picture of his father. Instantly all his consciousness and his anguish22 returned, but still without power to shake the grim tranquillity25 which possessed26 him. Yet endure the smiling portrait he could not; and obeying an irresistible27 nameless impulse, he rose, and without unhanging it, reversed the picture on the wall.
This brought to sight the defaced and dusty back, with some wrinkled, tattered28 paper over the joints29, which had become loosened from the paste. "Oh, symbol of thy reversed idea in my soul," groaned30 Pierre; "thou shalt not hang thus. Rather cast thee utterly31 out, than conspicuously32 insult thee so. I will no more have a father." He removed the picture wholly from the wall, and the closet; and concealed33 it in a large chest, covered with blue chintz, and locked it up there. But still, in a square space of slightly discolored wall, the picture still left its shadowy, but vacant and desolate34 trace. He now strove to banish35 the least trace of his altered father, as fearful that at present all thoughts concerning him were not only entirely36 vain, but would prove fatally distracting and incapacitating to a mind, which was now loudly called upon, not only to endure a signal grief, but immediately to act upon it. Wild and cruel case, youth ever thinks; but mistakenly; for Experience well knows, that action, though it seems an aggravation39 of woe40, is really an alleviative41; though permanently42 to alleviate43 pain, we must first dart44 some added pangs45.
Nor now, though profoundly sensible that his whole previous moral being was overturned, and that for him the fair structure of the world must, in some then unknown way, be entirely rebuilded again, from the lowermost corner stone up; nor now did Pierre torment46 himself with the thought of that last desolation; and how the desolate place was to be made flourishing again. He seemed to feel that in his deepest soul, lurked47 an indefinite but potential faith, which could rule in the interregnum of all hereditary48 beliefs, and circumstantial persuasions50; not wholly, he felt, was his soul in anarchy51. The indefinite regent had assumed the scepter as its right; and Pierre was not entirely given up to his grief's utter pillage52 and sack.
To a less enthusiastic heart than Pierre's the foremost question in respect to Isabel which would have presented itself, would have been, What must I do? But such a question never presented itself to Pierre; the spontaneous responsiveness of his being left no shadow of dubiousness54 as to the direct point he must aim at. But if the object was plain, not so the path to it. How must I do it? was a problem for which at first there seemed no chance of solution. But without being entirely aware of it himself, Pierre was one of those spirits, which not in a determinate and sordid55 scrutiny56 of small pros57 and cons—but in an impulsive58 subservience59 to the god-like dictation of events themselves, find at length the surest solution of perplexities, and the brightest prerogative62 of command. And as for him, What must I do? was a question already answered by the inspiration of the difficulty itself; so now he, as it were, unconsciously discharged his mind, for the present, of all distracting considerations concerning How he should do it; assured that the coming interview with Isabel could not but unerringly inspire him there. Still, the inspiration which had thus far directed him had not been entirely mute and undivulging as to many very bitter things which Pierre foresaw in the wide sea of trouble into which he was plunged64.
If it be the sacred province and—by the wisest, deemed—the inestimable compensation of the heavier woes65, that they both purge66 the soul of gay-hearted errors and replenish67 it with a saddened truth; that holy office is not so much accomplished68 by any covertly69 inductive reasoning process, whose original motive70 is received from the particular affliction; as it is the magical effect of the admission into man's inmost spirit of a before unexperienced and wholly inexplicable71 element, which like electricity suddenly received into any sultry atmosphere of the dark, in all directions splits itself into nimble lances of purifying light; which at one and the same instant discharge all the air of sluggishness72 and inform it with an illuminating73 property; so that objects which before, in the uncertainty74 of the dark, assumed shadowy and romantic outlines, now are lighted up in their substantial realities; so that in these flashing revelations of grief's wonderful fire, we see all things as they are; and though, when the electric element is gone, the shadows once more descend75, and the false outlines of objects again return; yet not with their former power to deceive; for now, even in the presence of the falsest aspects, we still retain the impressions of their immovable true ones, though, indeed, once more concealed.
Thus with Pierre. In the joyous76 young times, ere his great grief came upon him, all the objects which surrounded him were concealingly deceptive77. Not only was the long-cherished image of his rather now transfigured before him from a green foliaged tree into a blasted trunk, but every other image in his mind attested79 the universality of that electral light which had darted80 into his soul. Not even his lovely, immaculate mother, remained entirely untouched, unaltered by the shock. At her changed aspect, when first revealed to him, Pierre had gazed in a panic; and now, when the electrical storm had gone by, he retained in his mind, that so suddenly revealed image, with an infinite mournfulness. She, who in her less splendid but finer and more spiritual part, had ever seemed to Pierre not only as a beautiful saint before whom to offer up his daily orisons, but also as a gentle lady-counsellor and confessor, and her revered81 chamber as a soft satin-hung cabinet and confessional;—his mother was no longer this all-alluring82 thing; no more, he too keenly felt, could he go to his mother, as to one who entirely sympathized with him; as to one before whom he could almost unreservedly unbosom himself; as to one capable of pointing out to him the true path where he seemed most beset84. Wonderful, indeed, was that electric insight which Fate had now given him into the vital character of his mother. She well might have stood all ordinary tests; but when Pierre thought of the touchstone of his immense strait applied85 to her spirit, he felt profoundly assured that she would crumble86 into nothing before it.
She was a noble creature, but formed chiefly for the gilded88 prosperities of life, and hitherto mostly used to its unruffled serenities; bred and expanded, in all developments, under the sole influence of hereditary forms and world-usages. Not his refined, courtly, loving, equable mother, Pierre felt, could unreservedly, and like a heaven's heroine, meet the shock of his extraordinary emergency, and applaud, to his heart's echo, a sublime89 resolve, whose execution should call down the astonishment90 and the jeers91 of the world.
My mother!—dearest mother!—God hath given me a sister, and unto thee a daughter, and covered her with the world's extremest infamy92 and scorn, that so I and thou—thou, my mother, mightest gloriously own her, and acknowledge her, and,—— Nay93, nay, groaned Pierre, never, never, could such syllables94 be one instant tolerated by her. Then, high-up, and towering, and all-forbidding before Pierre grew the before unthought of wonderful edifice95 of his mother's immense pride;—her pride of birth, her pride of affluence96, her pride of purity, and all the pride of high-born, refined, and wealthy Life, and all the Semiramian pride of woman. Then he staggered back upon himself, and only found support in himself. Then Pierre felt that deep in him lurked a divine unidentifiableness, that owned no earthly kith or kin12. Yet was this feeling entirely lonesome, and orphan97-like. Fain, then, for one moment, would he have recalled the thousand sweet illusions of Life; tho' purchased at the price of Life's Truth; so that once more he might not feel himself driven out an infant Ishmael into the desert, with no maternal98 Hagar to accompany and comfort him.
Still, were these emotions without prejudice to his own love for his mother, and without the slightest bitterness respecting her; and, least of all, there was no shallow disdain99 toward her of superior virtue100. He too plainly saw, that not his mother had made his mother; but the Infinite Haughtiness101 had first fashioned her; and then the haughty102 world had further molded her; nor had a haughty Ritual omitted to finish her.
Wonderful, indeed, we repeat it, was the electrical insight which Pierre now had into the character of his mother, for not even the vivid recalling of her lavish103 love for him could suffice to gainsay104 his sudden persuasion49. Love me she doth, thought Pierre, but how? Loveth she me with the love past all understanding? that love, which in the loved one's behalf, would still calmly confront all hate? whose most triumphing hymn106, triumphs only by swelling107 above all opposing taunts108 and despite?—Loving mother, here have I a loved, but world-infamous109 sister to own;—and if thou lovest me, mother, thy love will love her, too, and in the proudest drawing-room take her so much the more proudly by the hand.—And as Pierre thus in fancy led Isabel before his mother; and in fancy led her away, and felt his tongue cleave110 to the roof of his mouth, with her transfixing look of incredulous, scornful horror; then Pierre's enthusiastic heart sunk in and in, and caved clean away in him, as he so poignantly111 felt his first feeling of the dreary112 heart-vacancies of the conventional life. Oh heartless, proud, ice-gilded world, how I hate thee, he thought, that thy tyrannous, insatiate grasp, thus now in my bitterest need—thus doth rob me even of my mother; thus doth make me now doubly an orphan, without a green grave to bedew. My tears,—could I weep them,—must now be wept in the desolate places; now to me is it, as though both father and mother had gone on distant voyages, and, returning, died in unknown seas.
She loveth me, ay;—but why? Had I been cast in a cripple's mold, how then? Now, do I remember that in her most caressing113 love, there ever gleamed some scaly114, glittering folds of pride. Me she loveth with pride's love; in me she thinks she seeth her own curled and haughty beauty; before my glass she stands,—pride's priestess—and to her mirrored image, not to me, she offers up her offerings of kisses. Oh, small thanks I owe thee, Favorable Goddess, that didst clothe this form with all the beauty of a man, that so thou mightest hide from me all the truth of a man. Now I see that in his beauty a man is snared115, and made stone-blind, as the worm within its silk. Welcome then be Ugliness and Poverty and Infamy, and all ye other crafty116 ministers of Truth, that beneath the hoods117 and rags of beggars hide yet the belts and crowns of kings. And dimmed be all beauty that must own the clay; and dimmed be all wealth, and all delight, and all the annual prosperities of earth, that but gild87 the links, and stud with diamonds the base rivets118 and the chains of Lies. Oh, now methinks I a little see why of old the men of Truth went barefoot, girded with a rope, and ever moving under mournfulness as underneath119 a canopy. I remember now those first wise words, wherewith our Savior Christ first spoke120 in his first speech to men:—'Blessed are the poor in spirit, and blessed they that mourn.' Oh, hitherto I have but piled up words; bought books, and bought some small experiences, and builded me in libraries; now I sit down and read. Oh, now I know the night, and comprehend the sorceries of the moon, and all the dark persuadings that have their birth in storms and winds. Oh, not long will Joy abide121, when Truth doth come; nor Grief her laggard122 be. Well may this head hang on my breast—it holds too much; well may my heart knock at my ribs,—prisoner impatient of his iron bars. Oh, men are jailers all; jailers of themselves; and in Opinion's world ignorantly hold their noblest part a captive to their vilest123; as disguised royal Charles when caught by peasants. The heart! the heart! 'tis God's anointed; let me pursue the heart!
II.
BUT if the presentiment125 in Pierre of his mother's pride, as bigotedly126 hostile to the noble design he cherished; if this feeling was so wretched to him; far more so was the thought of another and a deeper hostility127, arising from her more spiritual part. For her pride would not be so scornful, as her wedded128 memories reject with horror, the unmentionable imputation129 involved in the mere130 fact of Isabel's existence. In what galleries of conjecture131, among what horrible haunting toads132 and scorpions133, would such a revelation lead her? When Pierre thought of this, the idea of at all divulging63 his secret to his mother, not only was made repelling134 by its hopelessness, as an infirm attack upon her citadel135 of pride, but was made in the last degree inhuman136, as torturing her in her tenderest recollections, and desecrating137 the whitest altar in her sanctuary138.
Though the conviction that he must never disclose his secret to his mother was originally an unmeditated, and as it were, an inspired one; yet now he was almost pains-taking in scrutinizing139 the entire circumstances of the matter, in order that nothing might be overlooked. For already he vaguely140 felt, that upon the concealment141, or the disclosure of this thing, with reference to his mother, hinged his whole future course of conduct, his whole earthly weal, and Isabel's. But the more and the more that he pondered upon it, the more and the more fixed142 became his original conviction. He considered that in the case of a disclosure, all human probability pointed143 to his mother's scornful rejection144 of his suit as a pleader for Isabel's honorable admission into the honorable mansion145 of the Glendinnings. Then in that case, unconsciously thought Pierre, I shall have given the deep poison of a miserable146 truth to my mother, without benefit to any, and positive harm to all. And through Pierre's mind there then darted a baleful thought; how that the truth should not always be paraded; how that sometimes a lie is heavenly, and truth infernal. Filially infernal, truly, thought Pierre, if I should by one vile124 breath of truth, blast my father's blessed memory in the bosom83 of my mother, and plant the sharpest dagger147 of grief in her soul. I will not do it!
But as this resolution in him opened up so dark and wretched a background to his view, he strove to think no more of it now, but postpone148 it until the interview with Isabel should have in some way more definitely shaped his purposes. For, when suddenly encountering the shock of new and unanswerable revelations, which he feels must revolutionize all the circumstances of his life, man, at first, ever seeks to shun149 all conscious definitiveness in his thoughts and purposes; as assured, that the lines that shall precisely150 define his present misery151, and thereby152 lay out his future path; these can only be defined by sharp stakes that cut into his heart.
III.
MOST melancholy153 of all the hours of earth, is that one long, gray hour, which to the watcher by the lamp intervenes between the night and day; when both lamp and watcher, over-tasked, grow sickly in the pallid light; and the watcher, seeking for no gladness in the dawn, sees naught154 but garish155 vapors156 there; and almost invokes158 a curse upon the public day, that shall invade his lonely night of sufferance.
The one small window of his closet looked forth upon the meadow, and across the river, and far away to the distant heights, storied with the great deeds of the Glendinnings. Many a time had Pierre sought this window before sunrise, to behold159 the blood-red, out-flinging dawn, that would wrap those purple hills as with a banner. But now the morning dawned in mist and rain, and came drizzlingly upon his heart. Yet as the day advanced, and once more showed to him the accustomed features of his room by that natural light, which, till this very moment, had never lighted him but to his joy; now that the day, and not the night, was witness to his woe; now first the dread160 reality came appallingly161 upon him. A sense of horrible forlornness, feebleness, impotence, and infinite, eternal desolation possessed him. It was not merely mental, but corporeal162 also. He could not stand; and when he tried to sit, his arms fell floorwards as tied to leaden weights. Dragging his ball and chain, he fell upon his bed; for when the mind is cast down, only in sympathetic proneness163 can the body rest; whence the bed is often Grief's first refuge. Half stupefied, as with opium164, he fell into the profoundest sleep.
In an hour he awoke, instantly recalling all the previous night; and now finding himself a little strengthened, and lying so quietly and silently there, almost without bodily consciousness, but his soul unobtrusively alert; careful not to break the spell by the least movement of a limb, or the least turning of his head. Pierre steadfastly165 faced his grief, and looked deep down into its eyes; and thoroughly166, and calmly, and summarily comprehended it now—so at least he thought—and what it demanded from him; and what he must quickly do in its more immediate38 sequences; and what that course of conduct was, which he must pursue in the coming unevadable breakfast interview with his mother; and what, for the present must be his plan with Lucy. His time of thought was brief. Rising from his bed, he steadied himself upright a moment; and then going to his writing-desk, in a few at first faltering167, but at length unlagging lines, traced the following note:
"I must ask pardon of you, Lucy, for so strangely absenting myself last night. But you know me well enough to be very sure that I would not have done so without important cause. I was in the street approaching your cottage, when a message reached me, imperatively168 calling me away. It is a matter which will take up all my time and attention for, possibly, two or three days. I tell you this, now, that you may be prepared for it. And I know that however unwelcome this may be to you, you will yet bear with it for my sake; for, indeed, and indeed, Lucy dear, I would not dream of staying from you so long, unless irresistibly169 coerced170 to it. Do not come to the mansion until I come to you; and do not manifest any curiosity or anxiety about me, should you chance in the interval171 to see my mother in any other place. Keep just as cheerful as if I were by you all the time. Do this, now, I conjure172 you; and so farewell!"
He folded the note, and was about sealing it, when he hesitated a moment, and instantly unfolding it, read it to himself. But he could not adequately comprehend his own writing, for a sudden cloud came over him. This passed; and taking his pen hurriedly again, he added the following postscript173:
"Lucy, this note may seem mysterious; but if it shall, I did not mean to make it so; nor do I know that I could have helped it. But the only reason is this, Lucy: the matter which I have alluded174 to, is of such a nature, that, for the present I stand virtually pledged not to disclose it to any person but those more directly involved in it. But where one can not reveal the thing itself, it only makes it the more mysterious to write round it this way. So merely know me entirely unmenaced in person, and eternally faithful to you; and so be at rest till I see you."
Then sealing the note, and ringing the bell, he gave it in strict charge to a servant, with directions to deliver it at the earliest practicable moment, and not wait for any answer. But as the messenger was departing the chamber, he called him back, and taking the sealed note again, and hollowing it in his hand, scrawled175 inside of it in pencil the following words: "Don't write me; don't inquire for me;" and then returned it to the man, who quitted him, leaving Pierre rooted in thought in the middle of the room.
But he soon roused himself, and left the mansion; and seeking the cool, refreshing176 meadow stream, where it formed a deep and shady pool, he bathed; and returning invigorated to his chamber, changed his entire dress; in the little trifling178 concernments of his toilette, striving utterly to banish all thought of that weight upon his soul. Never did he array himself with more solicitude179 for effect. It was one of his fond mother's whims180 to perfume the lighter181 contents of his wardrobe; and it was one of his own little femininenesses—of the sort sometimes curiously182 observable in very robust183-bodied and big-souled men, as Mohammed, for example—to be very partial to all pleasant essences. So that when once more he left the mansion in order to freshen his cheek anew to meet the keen glance of his mother—to whom the secret of his possible pallor could not be divulged184; Pierre went forth all redolent; but alas185! his body only the embalming186 cerements of his buried dead within.
IV.
HIS stroll was longer than he meant; and when he returned up the Linden walk leading to the breakfast-room, and ascended187 the piazza188 steps, and glanced into the wide window there, he saw his mother seated not far from the table; her face turned toward his own; and heard her gay voice, and peculiarly light and buoyant laugh, accusing him, and not her, of being the morning's laggard now. Dates was busy among some spoons and napkins at a side-stand.
Summoning all possible cheerfulness to his face, Pierre entered the room. Remembering his carefulness in bathing and dressing189; and knowing that there is no air so calculated to give bloom to the cheek as that of a damply fresh, cool, and misty190 morning, Pierre persuaded himself that small trace would now be found on him of his long night of watching.
'Good morning, sister;—Such a famous stroll! I have been all the way to—— '
'Where? good heavens! where? for such a look as that!—why, Pierre, Pierre? what ails191 thee? Dates, I will touch the bell presently.'
As the good servitor fumbled192 for a moment among the napkins, as if unwilling193 to stir so summarily from his accustomed duty, and not without some of a well and long-tried old domestic's vague, intermitted murmuring, at being wholly excluded from a matter of family interest; Mrs. Glendinning kept her fixed eye on Pierre, who, unmindful that the breakfast was not yet entirely ready, seating himself at the table, began helping194 himself—though but nervously195 enough—to the cream and sugar. The moment the door closed on Dates, the mother sprang to her feet, and threw her arms around her son; but in that embrace, Pierre miserably196 felt that their two hearts beat not together in such unison197 as before.
'What haggard thing possesses thee, my son? Speak, this is incomprehensible! Lucy;—fie!—not she?—no love-quarrel there;—speak, speak, my darling boy!
'My dear sister,' began Pierre.
'Sister me not, now, Pierre;—I am thy mother.'
'Well, then, dear mother, thou art quite as incomprehensible to me as I to—— '
'Talk faster, Pierre—this calmness freezes me. Tell me; for, by my soul, something most wonderful must have happened to thee. Thou art my son, and I command thee. It is not Lucy; it is something else. Tell me.'
'My dear mother,' said Pierre, impulsively198 moving his chair backward from the table, 'if thou wouldst only believe me when I say it, I have really nothing to tell thee. Thou knowest that sometimes, when I happen to feel very foolishly studious and philosophical199, I sit up late in my chamber; and then, regardless of the hour, foolishly run out into the air, for a long stroll across the meadows. I took such a stroll last night; and had but little time left for napping afterward200; and what nap I had I was none the better for. But I won't be so silly again, soon; so do, dearest mother, stop looking at me, and let us to breakfast.—Dates! Touch the bell there, sister.'
'Stay, Pierre!—There is a heaviness in this hour. I feel, I know, that thou art deceiving me;—perhaps I erred201 in seeking to wrest202 thy secret from thee; but believe me, my son, I never thought thou hadst any secret thing from me, except thy first love for Lucy—and that, my own womanhood tells me, was most pardonable and right. But now, what can it be? Pierre, Pierre! consider well before thou determinest upon withholding203 confidence from me. I am thy mother. It may prove a fatal thing. Can that be good and virtuous204, Pierre, which shrinks from a mother's knowledge? Let us not loose hands so, Pierre; thy confidence from me, mine goes from thee. Now, shall I touch the bell?'
Pierre, who had thus far been vainly seeking to occupy his hands with his cap and spoon; he now paused, and unconsciously fastened a speechless glance of mournfulness upon his mother. Again he felt presentiments205 of his mother's newly-revealed character. He foresaw the supposed indignation of her wounded pride; her gradually estranged206 affections thereupon; he knew her firmness, and her exaggerated ideas of the inalienable allegiance of a son. He trembled to think, that now indeed was come the first initial moment of his heavy trial. But though he knew all the significance of his mother's attitude, as she stood before him, intently eying him, with one hand upon the bell-cord; and though he felt that the same opening of the door that should now admit Dates, could not but give eternal exit to all confidence between him and his mother; and though he felt, too, that this was his mother's latent thought; nevertheless, he was girded up in his well-considered resolution.
"Pierre, Pierre! shall I touch the bell?"
"Mother, stay!—yes do, sister."
The bell was rung; and at the summons Dates entered; and looking with some significance at Mrs. Glendinning, said,—"His Reverence207 has come, my mistress, and is now in the west parlor208."
"Show Mr. Falsgrave in here immediately; and bring up the coffee; did I not tell you I expected him to breakfast this morning?"
"Yes, my mistress; but I thought that—that—just then"—glancing alarmedly from mother to son.
"Oh, my good Dates, nothing has happened," cried Mrs. Glendinning, lightly, and with a bitter smile, looking toward her son,—"show Mr. Falsgrave in. Pierre, I did not see thee, to tell thee, last night; but Mr. Falsgrave breakfasts with us by invitation. I was at the parsonage yesterday, to see him about that wretched affair of Delly, and we are finally to settle upon what is to be done this morning. But my mind is made up concerning Ned; no such profligate209 shall pollute this place; nor shall the disgraceful Delly."
Fortunately, the abrupt211 entrance of the clergyman, here turned away attention from the sudden pallor of Pierre's countenance212, and afforded him time to rally.
"Good morning, madam; good morning, sir;" said Mr. Falsgrave, in a singularly mild, flute213-like voice, turning to Mrs. Glendinning and her son; the lady receiving him with answering cordiality, but Pierre too embarrassed just then to be equally polite. As for one brief moment Mr. Falsgrave stood before the pair, ere taking the offered chair from Dates, his aspect was eminently214 attractive.
There are certain ever-to-be-cherished moments in the life of almost any man, when a variety of little foregoing circumstances all unite to make him temporarily oblivious215 of whatever may be hard and bitter in his life, and also to make him most amiably216 and ruddily disposed; when the scene and company immediately before him are highly agreeable; and if at such a time he chance involuntarily to put himself into a scenically217 favorable bodily posture218; then, in that posture, however transient, thou shalt catch the noble stature219 of his Better Angel; catch a heavenly glimpse of the latent heavenliness of man. It was so with Mr. Falsgrave now. Not a house within a circuit of fifty miles that he preferred entering before the mansion-house of Saddle Meadows; and though the business upon which he had that morning come, was any thing but relishable220 to him, yet that subject was not in his memory then. Before him stood united in one person, the most exalted222 lady and the most storied beauty of all the country round; and the finest, most intellectual, and most congenial youth he knew. Before him also, stood the generous foundress and the untiring patroness of the beautiful little marble church, consecrated223 by the good Bishop224, not four years gone by. Before him also, stood—though in polite disguise—the same untiring benefactress, from whose purse, he could not help suspecting, came a great part of his salary, nominally225 supplied by the rental226 of the pews. He had been invited to breakfast; a meal, which, in a well-appointed country family, is the most cheerful circumstance of daily life; he smelt227 all Java's spices in the aroma228 from the silver coffee-urn; and well he knew, what liquid deliciousness would soon come from it. Besides all this, and many more minutenesses of the kind, he was conscious that Mrs. Glendinning entertained a particular partiality for him (though not enough to marry him, as he ten times knew by very bitter experience), and that Pierre was not behindhand in his esteem229.
And the clergyman was well worthy230 of it. Nature had been royally bountiful to him in his person. In his happier moments, as the present, his face was radiant with a courtly, but mild benevolence231; his person was nobly robust and dignified232; while the remarkable233 smallness of his feet, and the almost infantile delicacy234, and vivid whiteness and purity of his hands, strikingly contrasted with his fine girth and stature. For in countries like America, where there is no distinct hereditary caste of gentlemen, whose order is factitiously perpetuated235 as race-horses and lords are in kingly lands; and especially, in those agricultural districts, where, of a hundred hands, that drop a ballot236 for the Presidency237, ninety-nine shall be of the brownest and the brawniest; in such districts, this daintiness of the fingers, when united with a generally manly238 aspect, assumes a remarkableness239 unknown in European nations.
This most prepossessing form of the clergyman lost nothing by the character of his manners, which were polished and unobtrusive, but peculiarly insinuating240, without the least appearance of craftiness241 or affectation. Heaven had given him his fine, silver-keyed person for a flute to play on in this world; and he was nearly the perfect master of it. His graceful210 motions had the undulatoriness of melodious242 sounds. You almost thought you heard, not saw him. So much the wonderful, yet natural gentleman he seemed, that more than once Mrs. Glendinning had held him up to Pierre as a splendid example of the polishing and gentlemanizing influences of Christianity upon the mind and manners; declaring, that extravagant244 as it might seem, she had always been of his father's fancy,—that no man could be a complete gentleman, and preside with dignity at his own table, unless he partook of the church's sacraments. Nor in Mr. Falsgrave's case was this maxim246 entirely absurd. The child of a poor northern farmer who had wedded a pretty sempstress, the clergyman had no heraldic line of ancestry247 to show, as warrant and explanation of his handsome person and gentle manners; the first, being the willful partiality of nature; and the second, the consequence of a scholastic248 life, attempered by a taste for the choicest female society, however small, which he had always regarded as the best relish221 of existence. If now his manners thus responded to his person, his mind answered to them both, and was their finest illustration. Besides his eloquent249 persuasiveness250 in the pulpit, various fugitive251 papers upon subjects of nature, art, and literature, attested not only his refined affinity252 to all beautiful things, visible or invisible; but likewise that he possessed a genius for celebrating such things, which in a less indolent and more ambitious nature, would have been sure to have gained a fair poet's name ere now. For this Mr. Falsgrave was just hovering253 upon his prime of years; a period which, in such a man, is the sweetest, and, to a mature woman, by far the most attractive of manly life. Youth has not yet completely gone with its beauty, grace, and strength; nor has age at all come with its decrepitudes; though the finest undrossed parts of it—its mildness and its wisdom—have gone on before, as decorous chamberlains precede the sedan of some crutched254 king.
Such was this Mr. Falsgrave, who now sat at Mrs. Glendinning's breakfast table, a corner of one of that lady's generous napkins so inserted into his snowy bosom, that its folds almost invested him as far down as the table's edge; and he seemed a sacred priest, indeed, breakfasting in his surplice.
"Pray, Mr. Falsgrave," said Mrs. Glendinning, "break me off a bit of that roll."
Whether or not his sacerdotal experiences had strangely refined and spiritualized so simple a process as breaking bread; or whether it was from the spotless aspect of his hands: certain it is that Mr. Falsgrave acquitted255 himself on this little occasion, in a manner that beheld256 of old by Leonardo, might have given that artist no despicable hint touching257 his celestial258 painting. As Pierre regarded him, sitting there so mild and meek259; such an image of white-browed and white-handed, and napkined immaculateness; and as he felt the gentle humane260 radiations which came from the clergyman's manly and rounded beautifulness; and as he remembered all the good that he knew of this man, and all the good that he had heard of him, and could recall no blemish261 in his character; and as in his own concealed misery and forlornness, he contemplated262 the open benevolence, and beaming excellent-heartedness of Mr. Falsgrave, the thought darted through his mind, that if any living being was capable of giving him worthy counsel in his strait; and if to any one he could go with Christian243 propriety263 and some small hopefulness, that person was the one before him.
"Pray, Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, pleasantly, as Pierre was silently offering to help him to some tongue—"don't let me rob you of it—pardon me, but you seem to have very little yourself this morning, I think. An execrable pun, I know: but"—turning toward Mrs. Glendinning—"when one is made to feel very happy, one is somehow apt to say very silly things. Happiness and silliness—ah, it's a suspicious coincidence."
"Mr. Falsgrave," said the hostess—"Your cup is empty. Dates!—We were talking yesterday, Mr. Falsgrave, concerning that vile fellow, Ned."
"Well, Madam," responded the gentleman, a very little uneasily.
"He shall not stay on any ground of mine; my mind is made up, sir. Infamous man!—did he not have a wife as virtuous and beautiful now, as when I first gave her away at your altar?—It was the sheerest and most gratuitous264 profligacy265."
The clergyman mournfully and assentingly moved his head.
"Such men," continued the lady, flushing with the sincerest indignation—"are to my way of thinking more detestable than murderers."
"That is being a little hard upon them, my dear Madam," said Mr. Falsgrave, mildly.
"Do you not think so, Pierre"—now, said the lady, turning earnestly upon her son—"is not the man, who has sinned like that Ned, worse than a murderer? Has he not sacrificed one woman completely, and given infamy to another—to both of them—for their portion. If his own legitimate267 boy should now hate him, I could hardly blame him."
"My dear Madam," said the clergyman, whose eyes having followed Mrs. Glendinning's to her son's countenance, and marking a strange trepidation268 there, had thus far been earnestly scrutinizing Pierre's not wholly repressible emotion;—"My dear Madam," he said, slightly bending over his stately episcopal-looking person—"Virtue has, perhaps, an over-ardent champion in you; you grow too warm; but Mr. Glendinning, here, he seems to grow too cold. Pray, favor us with your views, Mr. Glendinning?"
"I will not think now of the man," said Pierre, slowly, and looking away from both his auditors269—"let us speak of Delly and her infant—she has, or had one, I have loosely heard;—their case is miserable indeed."
"The mother deserves it," said the lady, inflexibly—"and the child—Reverend sir, what are the words of the Bible?"
"'The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children to the third generation,'" said Mr. Falsgrave, with some slight reluctance270 in his tones. "But Madam, that does not mean, that the community is in any way to take the infamy of the children into their own voluntary hands, as the conscious delegated stewards271 of God's inscrutable dispensations. Because it is declared that the infamous consequences of sin shall be hereditary, it does not follow that our personal and active loathing272 of sin, should descend from the sinful sinner to his sinless child."
"I understand you, sir," said Mrs. Glendinning, coloring slightly, "you think me too censorious. But if we entirely forget the parentage of the child, and every way receive the child as we would any other, feel for it in all respects the same, and attach no sign of ignominy to it—how then is the Bible dispensation to be fulfilled? Do we not then put ourselves in the way of its fulfilment, and is that wholly free from impiety273?"
Here it was the clergyman's turn to color a little, and there was a just perceptible tremor274 of the under lip.
"Pardon me," continued the lady, courteously275, "but if there is any one blemish in the character of the Reverend Mr. Falsgrave, it is that the benevolence of his heart, too much warps276 in him the holy rigor277 of our Church's doctrines278. For my part, as I loathe279 the man, I loathe the woman, and never desire to behold the child."
A pause ensued, during which it was fortunate for Pierre, that by the social sorcery of such occasions as the present, the eyes of all three were intent upon the cloth; all three for the moment, giving loose to their own distressful280 meditations282 upon the subject in debate, and Mr. Falsgrave vexedly thinking that the scene was becoming a little embarrassing.
Pierre was the first who spoke; as before, he steadfastly kept his eyes away from both his auditors; but though he did not designate his mother, something in the tone of his voice showed that what he said was addressed more particularly to her.
"Since we seem to have been strangely drawn283 into the ethical284 aspect of this melancholy matter," said he, "suppose we go further in it; and let me ask, how it should be between the legitimate and the illegitimate child—children of one father—when they shall have passed their childhood?"
Here the clergyman quickly raising his eyes, looked as surprised and searchingly at Pierre, as his politeness would permit.
"Upon my word"—said Mrs. Glendinning, hardly less surprised, and making no attempt at disguising it—"this is an odd question you put; you have been more attentive285 to the subject than I had fancied. But what do you mean, Pierre? I did not entirely understand you."
"Should the legitimate child shun the illegitimate, when one father is father to both?" rejoined Pierre, bending his head still further over his plate.
The clergyman looked a little down again, and was silent; but still turned his head slightly sideways toward his hostess, as if awaiting some reply to Pierre from her.
"Ask the world, Pierre"—said Mrs. Glendinning warmly—"and ask your own heart."
"My own heart? I will, Madam"—said Pierre, now looking up steadfastly; "but what do you think, Mr. Falsgrave?" letting his glance drop again—"should the one shun the other; should the one refuse his highest sympathy and perfect love for the other, especially if that other be deserted286 by all the rest of the world? What think you would have been our blessed Savior's thoughts on such a matter? And what was that he so mildly said to the adulteress?"
A swift color passed over the clergyman's countenance, suffusing287 even his expanded brow; he slightly moved in his chair, and looked uncertainly from Pierre to his mother. He seemed as a shrewd, benevolent-minded man, placed between opposite opinions—merely opinions—who, with a full, and doubly-differing persuasion in himself, still refrains from uttering it, because of an irresistible dislike to manifesting an absolute dissent289 from the honest convictions of any person, whom he both socially and morally esteems290.
"Well, what do you reply to my son?"—said Mrs. Glendinning at last.
"Madam and sir"—said the clergyman, now regaining291 his entire self-possession. "It is one of the social disadvantages which we of the pulpit labor292 under, that we are supposed to know more of the moral obligations of humanity than other people. And it is a still more serious disadvantage to the world, that our unconsidered, conversational293 opinions on the most complex problems of ethics294, are too apt to be considered authoritative295, as indirectly296 proceeding297 from the church itself. Now, nothing can be more erroneous than such notions; and nothing so embarrasses me, and deprives me of that entire serenity298, which is indispensable to the delivery of a careful opinion on moral subjects, than when sudden questions of this sort are put to me in company. Pardon this long preamble299, for I have little more to say. It is not every question, however direct, Mr. Glendinning, which can be conscientiously300 answered with a yes or no. Millions of circumstances modify all moral questions; so that though conscience may possibly dictate301 freely in any known special case; yet, by one universal maxim, to embrace all moral contingencies302,—this is not only impossible, but the attempt, to me, seems foolish."
At this instant, the surplice-like napkin dropped from the clergyman's bosom, showing a minute but exquisitely303 cut cameo brooch, representing the allegorical union of the serpent and dove. It had been the gift of an appreciative304 friend, and was sometimes worn on secular305 occasions like the present.
"I agree with you, sir"—said Pierre, bowing. "I fully266 agree with you. And now, madam, let us talk of something else."
"You madam me very punctiliously306 this morning, Mr. Glendinning"—said his mother, half-bitterly smiling, and half-openly offended, but still more surprised at Pierre's frigid307 demeanor308.
"'Honor thy father and mother;'" said Pierre—"both father and mother," he unconsciously added. "And now that it strikes me, Mr. Falsgrave, and now that we have become so strangely polemical this morning, let me say, that as that command is justly said to be the only one with a promise, so it seems to be without any contingency309 in the application. It would seem—would it not, sir?—that the most deceitful and hypocritical of fathers should be equally honored by the son, as the purest."
"So it would certainly seem, according to the strict letter of the Decalogue—certainly."
"And do you think, sir, that it should be so held, and so applied in actual life? For instance, should I honor my father, if I knew him to be a seducer310?"
"Pierre! Pierre!" said his mother, profoundly coloring, and half rising; "there is no need of these argumentative assumptions. You very immensely forget yourself this morning."
"It is merely the interest of the general question, Madam," returned Pierre, coldly. "I am sorry. If your former objection does not apply here, Mr. Falsgrave, will you favor me with an answer to my question?"
"There you are again, Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, thankful for Pierre's hint; "that is another question in morals absolutely incapable311 of a definite answer, which shall be universally applicable." Again the surplice-like napkin chanced to drop.
"I am tacitly rebuked312 again then, sir," said Pierre, slowly; "but I admit that perhaps you are again in the right. And now, Madam, since Mr. Falsgrave and yourself have a little business together, to which my presence is not necessary, and may possibly prove quite dispensable, permit me to leave you. I am going off on a long ramble313, so you need not wait dinner for me. Good morning, Mr. Falsgrave; good morning, Madam," looking toward his mother.
As the door closed upon him, Mr. Falsgrave spoke—"Mr. Glendinning looks a little pale to-day: has he been ill?"
"Not that I know of," answered the lady, indifferently, "but did you ever see young gentleman so stately as he was! Extraordinary!" she murmured; "what can this mean—Madam—Madam? But your cup is empty again, sir"—reaching forth her hand.
"No more, no more, Madam," said the clergyman.
"Madam? pray don't Madam me any more, Mr. Falsgrave; I have taken a sudden hatred314 to that title."
"Shall it be Your Majesty315, then?" said the clergyman, gallantly316; "the May Queens are so styled, and so should be the Queens of October."
Here the lady laughed. "Come," said she, "let us go into another room, and settle the affair of that infamous Ned and that miserable Delly."
V.
THE swiftness and unrepellableness of the billow which, with its first shock, had so profoundly whelmed Pierre, had not only poured into his soul a tumult317 of entirely new images and emotions, but, for the time, it almost entirely drove out of him all previous ones. The things that any way bore directly upon the pregnant fact of Isabel, these things were all animate318 and vividly319 present to him; but the things which bore more upon himself, and his own personal condition, as now forever involved with his sister's, these things were not so animate and present to him. The conjectured320 past of Isabel took mysterious hold of his father; therefore, the idea of his father tyrannized over his imagination; and the possible future of Isabel, as so essentially321 though indirectly compromisable by whatever course of conduct his mother might hereafter ignorantly pursue with regard to himself, as henceforth, through Isabel, forever altered to her; these considerations brought his mother with blazing prominence322 before him.
Heaven, after all, hath been a little merciful to the miserable man; not entirely untempered to human nature are the most direful blasts of Fate. When on all sides assailed323 by prospects324 of disaster, whose final ends are in terror hidden from it, the soul of man—either, as instinctively convinced that it can not battle with the whole host at once; or else, benevolently325 blinded to the larger arc of the circle which menacingly hems61 it in;—whichever be the truth, the soul of man, thus surrounded, can not, and does never intelligently confront the totality of its wretchedness. The bitter drug is divided into separate draughts326 for him: to-day he takes one part of his woe; to-morrow he takes more; and so on, till the last drop is drunk.
Not that in the despotism of other things, the thought of Lucy, and the unconjecturable suffering into which she might so soon be plunged, owing to the threatening uncertainty of the state of his own future, as now in great part and at all hazards dedicated327 to Isabel; not that this thought had thus far been alien to him. Icy-cold, and serpent-like, it had overlayingly crawled in upon his other shuddering328 imaginings; but those other thoughts would as often upheave again, and absorb it into themselves, so that it would in that way soon disappear from his cotemporary apprehension329. The prevailing330 thoughts connected with Isabel he now could front with prepared and open eyes; but the occasional thought of Lucy, when that started up before him, he could only cover his bewildered eyes with his bewildered hands. Nor was this the cowardice331 of selfishness, but the infinite sensitiveness of his soul. He could bear the agonizing332 thought of Isabel, because he was immediately resolved to help her, and to assuage333 a fellow-being's grief; but, as yet, he could not bear the thought of Lucy, because the very resolution that promised balm to Isabel obscurely involved the everlasting334 peace of Lucy, and therefore aggravatingly335 threatened a far more than fellow-being's happiness.
Well for Pierre it was, that the penciling presentiments of his mind concerning Lucy as quickly erased336 as painted their tormenting337 images. Standing105 half-befogged upon the mountain of his Fate, all that part of the wide panorama338 was wrapped in clouds to him; but anon those concealings slid aside, or rather, a quick rent was made in them; disclosing far below, half-vailed in the lower mist, the winding8 tranquil24 vale and stream of Lucy's previous happy life; through the swift cloud-rent he caught one glimpse of her expectant and angelic face peeping from the honey-suckled window of her cottage; and the next instant the stormy pinions288 of the clouds locked themselves over it again; and all was hidden as before; and all went confused in whirling rack and vapor157 as before. Only by unconscious inspiration, caught from the agencies invisible to man, had he been enabled to write that first obscurely announcing note to Lucy; wherein the collectedness, and the mildness, and the calmness, were but the natural though insidious339 precursors340 of the stunning341 bolts on bolts to follow.
But, while thus, for the most part wrapped from his consciousness and vision, still, the condition of his Lucy, as so deeply affected342 now, was still more and more disentangling and defining itself from out its nearer mist, and even beneath the general upper fog. For when unfathomably stirred, the subtler elements of man do not always reveal themselves in the concocting343 act; but, as with all other potencies344, show themselves chiefly in their ultimate resolvings and results. Strange wild work, and awfully345 symmetrical and reciprocal, was that now going on within the self-apparently chaotic346 breast of Pierre. As in his own conscious determinations, the mournful Isabel was being snatched from her captivity347 of world-wide abandonment; so, deeper down in the more secret chambers348 of his unsuspecting soul, the smiling Lucy, now as dead and ashy pale, was being bound a ransom349 for Isabel's salvation350. Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. Eternally inexorable and unconcerned is Fate, a mere heartless trader in men's joys and woes.
Nor was this general and spontaneous self-concealment of all the most momentous351 interests of his love, as irretrievably involved with Isabel and his resolution respecting her; nor was this unbidden thing in him unseconded by the prompting of his own conscious judgment352, when in the tyranny of the master-event itself, that judgment was permitted some infrequent play. He could not but be aware, that all meditation281 on Lucy now was worse than useless. How could he now map out his and her young life-chart, when all was yet misty-white with creamy breakers! Still more: divinely dedicated as he felt himself to be; with divine commands upon him to befriend and champion Isabel, through all conceivable contingencies of Time and Chance; how could he insure himself against the insidious inroads of self-interest, and hold intact all his unselfish magnanimities, if once he should permit the distracting thought of Lucy to dispute with Isabel's the pervading353 possession of his soul?
And if—though but unconsciously as yet—he was almost superhumanly prepared to make a sacrifice of all objects dearest to him, and cut himself away from his last hopes of common happiness, should they cross his grand enthusiast53 resolution;—if this was so with him; then, how light as gossamer354, and thinner and more impalpable than airiest threads of gauze, did he hold all common conventional regardings;—his hereditary duty to his mother, his pledged worldly faith and honor to the hand and seal of his affiancement?
Not that at present all these things did thus present themselves to Pierre; but these things were f?tally37 forming in him. Impregnations from high enthusiasms he had received; and the now incipient355 offspring which so stirred, with such painful, vague vibrations356 in his soul; this, in its mature development, when it should at last come forth in living deeds, would scorn all personal relationship with Pierre, and hold his heart's dearest interests for naught.
Thus, in the Enthusiast to Duty, the heaven-begotten Christ is born; and will not own a mortal parent, and spurns357 and rends358 all mortal bonds.
VI.
ONE night, one day, and a small part of the one ensuing evening had been given to Pierre to prepare for the momentous interview with Isabel.
Now, thank God, thought Pierre, the night is past,—the night of Chaos359 and of Doom360; the day only, and the skirt of evening now remain. May heaven new-string my soul, and confirm me in the Christ-like feeling I first felt. May I, in all my least shapeful thoughts still square myself by the inflexible361 rule of holy right. Let no unmanly, mean temptation cross my path this day; let no base stone lie in it. This day I will forsake362 the censuses363 of men, and seek the suffrages364 of the god-like population of the trees, which now seem to me a nobler race than man. Their high foliage78 shall drop heavenliness upon me; my feet in contact with their mighty365 roots, immortal366 vigor177 shall so steal into me. Guide me, gird me, guard me, this day, ye sovereign powers! Bind367 me in bonds I can not break; remove all sinister368 allurings from me; eternally this day deface in me the detested369 and distorted images of all the convenient lies and duty-subterfuges of the diving and ducking moralities of this earth. Fill me with consuming fire for them; to my life's muzzle370, cram245 me with your own intent. Let no world-syren come to sing to me this day, and wheedle371 from me my undauntedness. I cast my eternal die this day, ye powers. On my strong faith in ye Invisibles, I stake three whole felicities, and three whole lives this day. If ye forsake me now,—farewell to Faith, farewell to Truth, farewell to God; exiled for aye from God and man, I shall declare myself an equal power with both; free to make war on Night and Day, and all thoughts and things of mind and matter, which the upper and the nether372 firmaments do clasp!
VII.
BUT Pierre, though, charged with the fire of all divineness, his containing thing was made of clay. Ah, muskets373 the gods have made to carry infinite combustions, and yet made them of clay!
Save me from being bound to Truth, liege lord, as I am now. How shall I steal yet further into Pierre, and show how this heavenly fire was helped to be contained in him, by mere contingent374 things, and things that he knew not. But I shall follow the endless, winding way,—the flowing river in the cave of man; careless whither I be led, reckless where I land.
Was not the face—though mutely mournful—beautiful, bewitchingly? How unfathomable those most wondrous375 eyes of supernatural light! In those charmed depths, Grief and Beauty plunged and dived together. So beautiful, so mystical, so bewilderingly alluring; speaking of a mournfulness infinitely376 sweeter and more attractive than all mirthfulness; that face of glorious suffering; that face of touching loveliness; that face was Pierre's own sister's; that face was Isabel's; that face Pierre had visibly seen; into those same supernatural eyes our Pierre had looked. Thus, already, and ere the proposed encounter, he was assured that, in a transcendent degree, womanly beauty, and not womanly ugliness, invited him to champion the right. Be naught concealed in this book of sacred truth. How, if accosted377 in some squalid lane, a humped, and crippled, hideous378 girl should have snatched his garment's hem60, with—"Save me, Pierre—love me, own me, brother; I am thy sister!"—Ah, if man were wholly made in heaven, why catch we hell-glimpses? Why in the noblest marble pillar that stands beneath the all-comprising vault379, ever should we descry380 the sinister vein381? We lie in nature very close to God; and though, further on, the stream may be corrupted382 by the banks it flows through; yet at the fountain's rim23, where mankind stand, there the stream infallibly bespeaks383 the fountain.
So let no censorious word be here hinted of mortal Pierre. Easy for me to slyly hide these things, and always put him before the eye as perfect as immaculate; unsusceptible to the inevitable384 nature and the lot of common men. I am more frank with Pierre than the best men are with themselves. I am all unguarded and magnanimous with Pierre; therefore you see his weakness, and therefore only. In reserves men build imposing385 characters; not in revelations. He who shall be wholly honest, though nobler than Ethan Allen; that man shall stand in danger of the meanest mortal's scorn.
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1 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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2 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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3 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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4 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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5 subduing | |
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6 trampled | |
踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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7 windings | |
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8 winding | |
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9 charred | |
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10 conflagration | |
n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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11 waned | |
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12 kin | |
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13 canopy | |
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17 instinctively | |
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18 indifference | |
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20 inertness | |
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22 anguish | |
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31 utterly | |
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32 conspicuously | |
ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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33 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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34 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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35 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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36 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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37 tally | |
n.计数器,记分,一致,测量;vt.计算,记录,使一致;vi.计算,记分,一致 | |
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38 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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39 aggravation | |
n.烦恼,恼火 | |
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40 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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41 alleviative | |
adj. 减轻的 n. 使减轻之物, 缓和剂 | |
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42 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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43 alleviate | |
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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44 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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45 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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46 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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47 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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48 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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49 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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50 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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51 anarchy | |
n.无政府状态;社会秩序混乱,无秩序 | |
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52 pillage | |
v.抢劫;掠夺;n.抢劫,掠夺;掠夺物 | |
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53 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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54 dubiousness | |
n.dubious(令人怀疑的)的变形 | |
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55 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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56 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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57 pros | |
abbr.prosecuting 起诉;prosecutor 起诉人;professionals 自由职业者;proscenium (舞台)前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 );赞成的理由;抵偿物;交换物 | |
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58 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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59 subservience | |
n.有利,有益;从属(地位),附属性;屈从,恭顺;媚态 | |
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60 hem | |
n.贴边,镶边;vt.缝贴边;(in)包围,限制 | |
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61 hems | |
布的褶边,贴边( hem的名词复数 ); 短促的咳嗽 | |
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62 prerogative | |
n.特权 | |
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63 divulging | |
v.吐露,泄露( divulge的现在分词 ) | |
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64 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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65 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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66 purge | |
n.整肃,清除,泻药,净化;vt.净化,清除,摆脱;vi.清除,通便,腹泻,变得清洁 | |
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67 replenish | |
vt.补充;(把…)装满;(再)填满 | |
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68 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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69 covertly | |
adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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70 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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71 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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72 sluggishness | |
不振,萧条,呆滞;惰性;滞性;惯性 | |
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73 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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74 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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75 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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76 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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77 deceptive | |
adj.骗人的,造成假象的,靠不住的 | |
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78 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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79 attested | |
adj.经检验证明无病的,经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 );证实;声称…属实;使宣誓 | |
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80 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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81 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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83 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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84 beset | |
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
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85 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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86 crumble | |
vi.碎裂,崩溃;vt.弄碎,摧毁 | |
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87 gild | |
vt.给…镀金,把…漆成金色,使呈金色 | |
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88 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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89 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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90 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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91 jeers | |
n.操纵帆桁下部(使其上下的)索具;嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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93 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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94 syllables | |
n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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95 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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96 affluence | |
n.充裕,富足 | |
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97 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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98 maternal | |
adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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99 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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100 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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101 haughtiness | |
n.傲慢;傲气 | |
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102 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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103 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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104 gainsay | |
v.否认,反驳 | |
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105 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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106 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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107 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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108 taunts | |
嘲弄的言语,嘲笑,奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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109 infamous | |
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
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110 cleave | |
v.(clave;cleaved)粘着,粘住;坚持;依恋 | |
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111 poignantly | |
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112 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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113 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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114 scaly | |
adj.鱼鳞状的;干燥粗糙的 | |
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115 snared | |
v.用罗网捕捉,诱陷,陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
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117 hoods | |
n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 );头巾;(汽车、童车等的)折合式车篷;汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 );头巾;(汽车、童车等的)折合式车篷;汽车发动机罩 | |
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118 rivets | |
铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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119 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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120 spoke | |
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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121 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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122 laggard | |
n.落后者;adj.缓慢的,落后的 | |
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123 vilest | |
adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 );可耻的;极坏的;非常讨厌的 | |
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124 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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125 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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126 bigotedly | |
adj.偏执的,顽固的,心胸狭窄的;古板;泥 | |
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127 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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128 wedded | |
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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129 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
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130 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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131 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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132 toads | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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133 scorpions | |
n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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134 repelling | |
v.击退( repel的现在分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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135 citadel | |
n.城堡;堡垒;避难所 | |
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136 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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137 desecrating | |
毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的现在分词 ) | |
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138 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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139 scrutinizing | |
v.仔细检查,详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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140 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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141 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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142 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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143 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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144 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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145 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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146 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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147 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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148 postpone | |
v.延期,推迟 | |
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149 shun | |
vt.避开,回避,避免 | |
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150 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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151 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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152 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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153 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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154 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
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155 garish | |
adj.华丽而俗气的,华而不实的 | |
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156 vapors | |
n.水汽,水蒸气,无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 );自夸者;幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁(症)v.自夸,(使)蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157 vapor | |
n.蒸汽,雾气 | |
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158 invokes | |
v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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159 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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160 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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161 appallingly | |
毛骨悚然地 | |
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162 corporeal | |
adj.肉体的,身体的;物质的 | |
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163 proneness | |
n.俯伏,倾向 | |
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164 opium | |
n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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165 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
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166 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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167 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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168 imperatively | |
adv.命令式地 | |
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169 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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170 coerced | |
v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 );强迫;(以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段)控制;支配 | |
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171 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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172 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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173 postscript | |
n.附言,又及;(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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174 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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177 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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178 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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179 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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180 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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181 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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182 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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183 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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184 divulged | |
v.吐露,泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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186 embalming | |
v.保存(尸体)不腐( embalm的现在分词 );使不被遗忘;使充满香气 | |
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187 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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189 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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190 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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191 ails | |
v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 );感到不舒服;处境困难;境况不佳 | |
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192 fumbled | |
(笨拙地)摸索或处理(某事物)( fumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 乱摸,笨拙地弄; 使落下 | |
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193 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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194 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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195 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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196 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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197 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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198 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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199 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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200 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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201 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202 wrest | |
n.扭,拧,猛夺;v.夺取,猛扭,歪曲 | |
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203 withholding | |
扣缴税款 | |
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204 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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205 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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206 estranged | |
adj.疏远的,分离的 | |
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207 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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208 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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209 profligate | |
adj.行为不检的;n.放荡的人,浪子,肆意挥霍者 | |
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210 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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211 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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212 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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213 flute | |
n.长笛;v.吹笛 | |
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214 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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215 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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216 amiably | |
adv.和蔼可亲地,亲切地 | |
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217 scenically | |
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218 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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219 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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220 relishable | |
可实现的,可实行的,可了解的 | |
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221 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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222 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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223 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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224 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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225 nominally | |
在名义上,表面地; 应名儿 | |
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226 rental | |
n.租赁,出租,出租业 | |
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227 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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228 aroma | |
n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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229 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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230 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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231 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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232 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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233 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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234 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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235 perpetuated | |
vt.使永存(perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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236 ballot | |
n.(不记名)投票,投票总数,投票权;vi.投票 | |
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237 presidency | |
n.总统(校长,总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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238 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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239 remarkableness | |
异常 | |
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240 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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241 craftiness | |
狡猾,狡诈 | |
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242 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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243 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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244 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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245 cram | |
v.填塞,塞满,临时抱佛脚,为考试而学习 | |
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246 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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247 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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248 scholastic | |
adj.学校的,学院的,学术上的 | |
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249 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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250 persuasiveness | |
说服力 | |
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251 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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252 affinity | |
n.亲和力,密切关系 | |
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253 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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254 crutched | |
用拐杖支持的,有丁字形柄的,有支柱的 | |
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255 acquitted | |
宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(自己)作出某种表现 | |
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256 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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257 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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258 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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259 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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260 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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261 blemish | |
v.损害;玷污;瑕疵,缺点 | |
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262 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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263 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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264 gratuitous | |
adj.无偿的,免费的;无缘无故的,不必要的 | |
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265 profligacy | |
n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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266 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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267 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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268 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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269 auditors | |
n.审计员,稽核员( auditor的名词复数 );(大学课程的)旁听生 | |
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270 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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271 stewards | |
(轮船、飞机等的)乘务员( steward的名词复数 ); (俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的)管理员; (大型活动的)组织者; (私人家中的)管家 | |
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272 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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273 impiety | |
n.不敬;不孝 | |
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274 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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275 courteously | |
adv.有礼貌地,亲切地 | |
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276 warps | |
n.弯曲( warp的名词复数 );歪斜;经线;经纱v.弄弯,变歪( warp的第三人称单数 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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277 rigor | |
n.严酷,严格,严厉 | |
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278 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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279 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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280 distressful | |
adj.苦难重重的,不幸的,使苦恼的 | |
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281 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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282 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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283 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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284 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
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285 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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286 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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287 suffusing | |
v.(指颜色、水气等)弥漫于,布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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288 pinions | |
v.抓住[捆住](双臂)( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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289 dissent | |
n./v.不同意,持异议 | |
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290 esteems | |
n.尊敬,好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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291 regaining | |
复得( regain的现在分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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292 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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293 conversational | |
adj.对话的,会话的 | |
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294 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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295 authoritative | |
adj.有权威的,可相信的;命令式的;官方的 | |
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296 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
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297 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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298 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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299 preamble | |
n.前言;序文 | |
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300 conscientiously | |
adv.凭良心地;认真地,负责尽职地;老老实实 | |
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301 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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302 contingencies | |
n.偶然发生的事故,意外事故( contingency的名词复数 );以备万一 | |
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303 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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304 appreciative | |
adj.有鉴赏力的,有眼力的;感激的 | |
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305 secular | |
n.牧师,凡人;adj.世俗的,现世的,不朽的 | |
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306 punctiliously | |
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307 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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308 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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309 contingency | |
n.意外事件,可能性 | |
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310 seducer | |
n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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311 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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312 rebuked | |
责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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313 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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314 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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315 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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316 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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317 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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318 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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319 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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320 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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321 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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322 prominence | |
n.突出;显著;杰出;重要 | |
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323 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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324 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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325 benevolently | |
adv.仁慈地,行善地 | |
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326 draughts | |
n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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327 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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328 shuddering | |
v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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329 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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330 prevailing | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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331 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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332 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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333 assuage | |
v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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334 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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335 aggravatingly | |
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336 erased | |
v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;清除 | |
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337 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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338 panorama | |
n.全景,全景画,全景摄影,全景照片[装置] | |
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339 insidious | |
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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340 precursors | |
n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 );先行者;先兆;初期形式 | |
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341 stunning | |
adj.极好的;使人晕倒的 | |
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342 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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343 concocting | |
v.将(尤指通常不相配合的)成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 );调制;编造;捏造 | |
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344 potencies | |
n.威力( potency的名词复数 );权力;效力;(男人的)性交能力 | |
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345 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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346 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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347 captivity | |
n.囚禁;被俘;束缚 | |
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348 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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349 ransom | |
n.赎金,赎身;v.赎回,解救 | |
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350 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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351 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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352 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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353 pervading | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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354 gossamer | |
n.薄纱,游丝 | |
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355 incipient | |
adj.起初的,发端的,初期的 | |
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356 vibrations | |
n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 );震动;感受;(偏离平衡位置的)一次性往复振动 | |
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357 spurns | |
v.一脚踢开,拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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358 rends | |
v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 );分裂;(因愤怒、痛苦等而)揪扯(衣服或头发等);(声音等)刺破 | |
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359 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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360 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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361 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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362 forsake | |
vt.遗弃,抛弃;舍弃,放弃 | |
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363 censuses | |
人口普查,统计( census的名词复数 ) | |
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364 suffrages | |
(政治性选举的)选举权,投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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365 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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366 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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367 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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368 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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369 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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370 muzzle | |
n.鼻口部;口套;枪(炮)口;vt.使缄默 | |
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371 wheedle | |
v.劝诱,哄骗 | |
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372 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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373 muskets | |
n.火枪,(尤指)滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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374 contingent | |
adj.视条件而定的;n.一组,代表团,分遣队 | |
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375 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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376 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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377 accosted | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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378 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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379 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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380 descry | |
v.远远看到;发现;责备 | |
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381 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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382 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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383 bespeaks | |
v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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384 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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385 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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