"You are rather late, Alice; where have you been?" said Laura, without turning her head towards the child, still looking fixedly7 at the patch of ground in the moonlight.
"With Lady Mitford, mamma," answered Alice.
"Have the gentlemen left the dining-room?"
"Lord Dollamore came into the drawing-room, and I saw Sir Charles crossing the hall into the library; but I don't know about the others," answered Alice.
Mrs. Hammond said no more; and Alice, having received an affectionate embrace from her father, and the coldest conceivable touch of Mrs. Hammond's lips on the edge of her cheek, went off to bed. The silence continued in the sick man's room, and Laura's gaze never turned from the window. At length a figure passed across the moonlit space, and was instantly lost in the darkness beyond. Then Mrs. Hammond drew down the blind, and changed her seat to a chair close by the bedside. She took up the book which Gifford had laid down, and asked her husband if he would like her to read on.
"If you please, my dear," said Mr. Hammond, "if it won't tire you; and you won't mind my falling asleep, which I may do, for I feel very drowsy8."
Laura was quite sure it would not tire her to read, and she would be delighted if her reading should have so soothing9 an effect.
"If I do fall asleep, you must not stay with me, Laura; you must go downstairs again. Promise me you will; and you need not call Gifford,--I don't require any one; I am much better to-night."
Very well; Laura would promise not to stay in his room if he should fall asleep; and as she really did think him very much better, she would not summon Gifford.
Mrs. Hammond possessed10 several useful and attractive accomplishments11; among others, that of reading aloud to perfection. She did not exhibit her skill particularly on this occasion--her voice was languid and monotonous12; and the author would have had ample reason to complain had he heard his sentences rendered so expressionless. She read on and on, in a sullen13 monotone; and after a quarter of an hour had elapsed, she had the pleasure of seeing that her kind intention was fulfilled. Her voice had been very soothing, and her husband had fallen into a profound sleep. Then she passed through an open door into her dressing-room, and reappeared, wrapped in a dark warm cloak, the hood15 thrown over her head. If any one had taken the place she had so lately occupied at the window, that person would have seen, after the lapse14 of a few moments, a second figure flit across the moonlit space, and disappear into the darkness beyond.
About half an hour later Banks tapped at the door of the smoking-room, and was gruffly bidden to "come in" by Captain Bligh.
"If you please, Captain," said Banks, upon whom the atmosphere of that particular apartment always produced a distressingly-choky and eye-smarting effect,--"if you please, Captain, I can't find Sir Charles. He ain't in the library, nor yet in the droring-room, and he's wanted very particular."
"Perhaps he has gone up to see Mr. Hammond," suggested Bligh.
"No, Captain, he ain't; I've bin16 and ast Gifford, and he says as his missis has been along o' the old gentleman since dinner-time, and she's there now, and nobody ain't with them."
"That's odd," said Captain Bligh; "but who wants him? Perhaps I might do."
"I beg your pardon, Captain," said the peremptory17 Banks, "but nobody won't do but Sir Charles hisself. It's a party as has been sent up from Fishbourne, where my lady comes from, and his orders is to see Sir Charles alone, and not to let out his message to nobody else."
The good-natured Captain looked extremely grave. Only one occurrence could have rendered so much precaution necessary, and he conjectured18 at once that that occurrence had taken place.
"I fear Mr. Stanfield is dead," he said to his companions. "I must go and find Mitford. Just excuse me for a while, and make yourselves comfortable here, will you?--Come with me, Banks, and take care your mistress gets no hint of this person's being here."
"There ain't no fear of that, Captain," replied the man; "my lady's in the droring-room, along o' Lord Dollamore; and I knew that Sir Charles worn't there, so I didn't go to look for him."
The Captain found the messenger in the library, where Banks had sent him to await Sir Charles's appearance. He was a respectable elderly man, and he answered Captain Bligh's inquiry19 at once. He had been sent by poor Georgie's old friend, the curate, to convey to Sir Charles Mitford the melancholy20 intelligence of Mr. Stanfield's death, which had taken place early that morning; and particulars of which event were contained in a letter which he was charged to deliver to the Baronet. He had received special injunctions to communicate the event to Sir Charles alone, and leave it to be "broken" to Lady Mitford by her husband. The simple curate had little thought how difficult Sir Charles would find it to assume even a temporary sympathy with the feelings of his wife.
Captain Bligh ordered refreshments21 to be served to the bringer of evil tidings; requested him not to communicate with any of the other servants; and strictly22 enjoining23 Banks to secrecy24, went out of the front door and into the shrubbery on the left of the house. Mitford was not unaccustomed to take fits of sullen moodiness25 at times, and the Captain thought that he might perhaps find him walking about and smoking, in all the enjoyment26 of his ill-humour.
The intelligent Banks had asked Gifford if he thought it likely that Sir Charles was in his master's room, in the presence of several of the ladies and gentlemen of the household, assembled in a comfortable and spacious27 apartment which the insolence28 of a dominant29 class caused to be known as the servants'-hall. Among the number of those who heard the question and its answer was Mademoiselle Marcelline, Mrs. Hammond's "own maid." She was a trim-looking French girl, who had not anything remarkable30 in her appearance except its neatness, or in her manner except its quietness. She was seated at a large table, on which a number of workboxes were placed, for the women-servants at Redmoor greatly affected31 needlework, and had a good deal of time to devote to it; and she was embroidering32 a collar with neatness, dexterity33, and rapidity, eminently34 French. Mademoiselle Marcelline made no observation, and did not raise her eyes, or discontinue her work for a moment, during the discussion as to where Sir Charles could be, which had ensued upon Banks's inquiry. She had spoken only once indeed since his entrance. When Gifford had said Sir Charles Mitford could not be in Mr. Hammond's room, because her mistress had been, and was there still, he had asked, "Isn't she there still, mam'selle?" Mam'selle had answered, "Yes, Monsieur Giffore, madame is there still."
Mademoiselle Marcelline was so very quiet a little person, and differed so much from French ladies'-maids in general, by the unobtrusiveness of her manners and her extreme taciturnity--to be sure she spoke35 very little English, but that circumstance is rarely found to limit the loquacity36 of her class--that her exit from the servants'-hall was scarcely noticed, when she presently looked at her little Geneva watch, made up her embroidery37 into a tidy parcel, and went away with her usual noiseless step. Mademoiselle Marcelline mounted the stairs with great deliberation, and smiling a little, until she reached the corridor into which the suite38 of apartments occupied by the Hammonds opened. The rooms were five in number, and each communicated with the other. They were two bed-rooms, two dressing-rooms, and a bath-room. The latter occupied the central space, and had no external door. Mademoiselle Marcelline entered the last room of the suite, corresponding with that in which Mr. Hammond lay,--this was Laura's bed-room,--and gently locked the door. She passed through the adjoining apartment--her mistress's dressing-room--and paused before a large wardrobe, without shelves, in which hung a number of dresses and cloaks. She opened the doors, but held them one in each hand, looked in for a moment, and then shut them, and smiled still more decidedly. Then she softly locked the door of this room which opened into the corridor, and passing through the bath-room secured that of Mr. Hammond's dressing-room also; after which, with more precaution against noise than ever, she glided39 into the old man's room. He was sleeping soundly still, and his face looked wasted and ashen40 in the abstraction of slumber41. Mademoiselle Marcelline glanced at him, shrugged42 her shoulders, sat down on a couch at the foot of the bed, where she was effectually screened from view by the heavy carved bedpost and the voluminous folds of the purple curtain, and waited.
Meantime, Captain Bligh had not succeeded in finding Sir Charles, though he had sought for him in the shrubbery and in the stable-yard. He could not make out whither he had gone, and returned to the house to take counsel with Banks. That functionary43 suggested that Sir Charles might have gone up to the keeper's house; and though the Captain could not imagine why Sir Charles should have gone thither44 at such an inconvenient45 time, as he had no other to offer, he accepted this suggestion, and said he would go thither and look for him.
"Shall I go with you, Captain?" asked Banks, who felt curious to discover what "Mitford was up to."
Since Mr. Effingham's visit, and the polite fiction of the yacht--endeared to Mr. Banks by his own joke about the Fleet Prison, which he considered so good that society was injured by its suppression within his own bosom46--the incredulous flunkey had experienced an increased share of the curiosity with which their masters' affairs invariably inspire servants. He was much pleased then that Captain Bligh answered,
"Yes, yes, you can come with me."
The keeper's cottage was not very far from the great house, from which, however, it was entirely47 hidden by a thick fir-plantation48 which covered a long and wide space of undulating land, and through which several narrow paths led to the open ground beyond. The Captain and his attendant struck into one of those paths, which led directly in the direction of the keeper's house.
"We can't miss Sir Charles, I think, if he really has gone up to Hutton's," said the Captain.
"No, sir, I think not, unless he has taken a very roundabout way," answered Banks.
They walked quickly on for some distance, the Captain's impatience49 momentarily increasing, and also his doubts that Mitford had gone in this direction at all. At length they reached a point at which the path, cutting the plantation from east to west, was intersected by one running from north to south. Here they paused, and the Captain said testily50,
"By Jove, Banks, I hardly know what to do. The messenger from Fishbourne's shut up in the library all this time, and all the servants in a fuss, and Sir Charles not forthcoming! I wish I had broken the news of her father's death to Lady Mitford before I came out; it would have been by far the best plan. She's sure to hear it by accident now."
The Captain spoke to himself rather than to the servant, and in a particularly emphatic52 voice--a testimony53 to his vexation. Then he strode onwards with increased speed, little knowing that he had spoken within the startled hearing of the man whom he was seeking, and who was so near him, as he stood where the paths met, that he could have touched him by stretching out his arm,--touched him and his cowering54 frightened companion.
They kept a breathless silence until the Captain and Banks were quite out of hearing. Then Sir Charles said: "What is to be done? Did you hear what Bligh said, Laura? Some one has been sent from Fishbourne to tell me that Mr. Stanfield is dead, and they are searching for me everywhere. What a cursed accident! There is not a chance of concealing55 your absence. My darling, my life, what is to be done?"
"I know not. If we must brave it out we must; but there is a chance yet. Do you stay here, and meet Bligh as he comes back; you can be strolling along the cross path. Have you a cigar? No; you are in dinner-dress, of course. Stay; you have an overcoat on; search the pockets. Yes, yes; what luck! Here's a cigar-case, and your light-box hangs to your chain,--I'll never call it vulgar again,--light a cigar at once, and contrive57 to show the light when you hear them. I will go to the house. You left the side window open, did you not?"
"If I can get into the house unseen, all is right. I can pass through my own rooms into Hammond's. Send there for me if all is safe; the servants think I am there."
She turned away to leave him; but he caught her in his arms, and said in a tone of agony,
"Laura! Laura! if I have exposed you to danger--if--"
"Hush60!" she said, disengaging herself; "you have not exposed me to danger any more than I have exposed myself; but don't talk of this as a hopeless scrape until we know that there is no way out of it." She was out of sight in an instant.
Mademoiselle Marcelline sat at the foot of Mr. Hammond's bed without the least impatience. She did not fidget, she did not look at the clock, she did not doze61. The time passed apparently62 to her perfect satisfaction. The invalid slept on very peacefully, and the whole scene wore an eminently comfortable aspect. At length her acute ears discerned a light footfall at the end of the corridor, and then she heard the handle of Mrs. Hammond's dressing-room door gently turned--in vain. Then the footstep came on, and another door-handle was turned, equally in vain.
Mademoiselle Marcelline smiled. "It would have been so convenient for madame to have hung her cloak up and smoothed her hair before monsieur should see her, after madame's promenade63 in the clear of the moon," thought Mademoiselle Marcelline. "What a pity that those tiresome64 doors should unhappily be locked! What a sorrowful accident!"
The door opened, and Laura looked cautiously into the room. All was as she had left it; the sleeping face of her husband was turned towards her. The pathetic unconsciousness of sleep was upon it; she did not heed65 the pathos66, but the unconsciousness was convenient. The minutest change that would have intimated that any one had entered the room would not have escaped her notice, but there was no such thing. She came in, and softly closed the heavy perfectly-hung door; she made a few steps forward, uttered a deep sigh of relief, and said in an involuntary whisper, "What a risk, and what an escape!"
Her heavy cloak hung upon her; she pushed back the hood, and her chestnut67 hair, in wild disorder68, shone with red gleams in the firelight. She lifted her white hands and snatched impatiently at the tasseled69 cord which held the garment at the throat; and Mademoiselle Marcelline emerged from the shadow of the bed-curtains, and with perfect propriety70 and an air of entire respect requested that madame would permit her to remove the cloak which was so heavy, and also madame's boots, which must be damp, for the promenade of evening had inconveniences.
Laura started violently, and then stood looking at the demure71 figure before her with a kind of incredulous terror. Mademoiselle Marcelline composedly untied72 the refractory73 cords and removed the mantle74, which she immediately replaced in the wardrobe. Would Madame have the goodness to consider what she had said about the boots, and to go into her dressing-room? Madame followed her like one in a dream. She placed a chair before the dressing-table, and Laura mechanically sat down; she took off her boots and substituted slippers75; she restored the symmetry of the crushed dress; she threw a dressing-gown over the beautiful shoulders, folded it respectfully over the bosom heaving with terror and anger, and began to brush her mistress's hair with a wholly unperturbed demeanour. Laura looked at the demure composed face which appeared over her shoulder in the glass, and at length she said:
"How came you in that room?"
"Ah, madame, what a happy chance! One came to the salon76 of the servants, and demanded of Monsieur Giffore if Sir Charles might be in the chamber77 of monsieur. Then Monsieur Giffore say that no; that madame was there, and is there. And Monsieur Giffore asked me if he have reason; and I say, 'Certainly, madame is still in the chamber of monsieur.'"
"Well," said Laura, for Mademoiselle Marcelline had paused, "what has that to do with your being in that room?"
"It has much, if madame will take the trouble to listen. I know that servants are curious,--ah, how curious servants are, my God!--and I thought one of them might have curiosity enough to see for herself madame, so affectionate, passing the long, long evening with poor monsieur, who is not gay,--no, he is not gay, they say that in the salon of the servants. So, as it is not agreeable to be listened and spied, and as servants are so curious, I locked the doors of the rooms consecrated78 to the privacy of madame, and rejoiced to know that madame might read excellent books of exalted79 piety80 to monsieur, or refresh her spirits, so tired by her solicitude81, with a promenade in the clear of the moon--madame is so poetic82!--as she chose, without being teased by observation. I respect also that good Monsieur Giffore, and I would not have him disprove. 'Madame is still there, mam'sell?' he asks; and I say, 'Yes; madame is still there.'"
All the time she was speaking, Mademoiselle Marcelline quietly pursued her task. The long silken tresses lay now in a well-brushed shining heap over her left arm, and she looked at them with complacent83 admiration84.
"Heaven! but madame has beautiful hair!" she went on, while Laura, pale and motionless, at taking into her heart the full meaning of this terrible complication of her position. "It is, however, fortunate that she does not adopt the English style, for promenades85 at the clear of the moon are enemy to curls--to those long curls which the young ladies, lastly gone away, and who were so fond of madame, wore. They avoided the damp of the forest in the evening, the young ladies; they were careful of their curls. But madame has not need to be careful of anything--nothing and nobody can hurt madame, who is so beloved by monsieur. Ah, what a destiny! and monsieur so rich!"
She had by this time braided the shining hair, and was dexterously86 folding the plaits round and round the small head, after a fashion which Laura had lately adopted. Still her mistress sat silent, with moody87 downcast eyes. As she interrupted her speech for a moment to take a fresh handful of hair-pins from the dressing-table, Banks knocked at the door of the adjoining room. Mademoiselle Marcelline did not raise her voice to bid him enter; always considerate, she remembered that an indiscreet sound might trouble the repose88 of the invalid, so she stepped gently to the door and opened it.
"Is Mrs. Hammond here, mam'sell?" asked Banks.
"Oh, but yes, Monsieur Banks, madame is always here."
"Not exactly," thought Banks, puzzled by her idiom; but he merely said, "Bad news has reached the family. My lady's father is dead, which he was a good old gentleman indeed; and she ain't seen him neither, not for some time; and my lady she's been a faintin' away in the libery like anythin'; and Sir Charles, he's been a holdin' of her hup, leastways him and Lord Dollamore, and there's the deuce to pay down there."
Mademoiselle listened with polite attention to Mr. Banks's statement of the condition of affairs; but she was not warmly interested.
"Monsieur Banks will pardon me," she said; "but at present I coif madame; I think he demanded madame?"
"Yes, I did, marm'sell," said Banks, abashed89 and convicted by this quiet little person of undue90 loquacity; "only I thought you'd like to hear. Mostly servants does; but," here Mr. Banks floundered again, "you ain't much like the rest of us, miss--mam'sell, I mean."
Mademoiselle Marcelline acknowledged the compliment with a very frigid91 smile, and again inquired what she might have the pleasure of telling madame, on the part of Monsieur Banks.
"Sir Charles begs Mrs. Hammond will come down to the libery if quite convenient to her, as he wishes to speak to her about some necessary arrangements."
Mr. Banks delivered his message with elaboration, and waited the reply with dignity. Mademoiselle Marcelline repeated the communication to her mistress, word for word, and did not suffer the slightest trace of expression to appear in her face.
"Yes, I will go down immediately," said Laura, much relieved at the prospect92 of escaping from the presence of her maid, and having time to consider her position.
Mr. Banks went away to deliver Mrs. Hammond's message, and mademoiselle, in perfect silence, removed the dressing-gown from her mistress's shoulders; and Laura, her dress in complete order, and her nerves to all appearance as well arranged, rose from her chair.
"Give me a lace shawl," she said, in her customary imperious manner; "if Lady Mitford has lost her father, she will not be gratified by my making my appearance in full-dress, and I have no time to change it."
"Madame is so considerate," remarked Mademoiselle Marcelline, as she folded a web of fine black lace round Mrs. Hammond's form; "and Lady Mitford owes her so much. Poor lady, she is sensitive; she has not the courage of madame. Madame must form her."
"Go for Gifford to sit with Mr. Hammond," said Laura. "You can wait for me in my room as usual;" and she walked out of the dressing-room, having previously93 ordered her maid to unlock the door, without any outward sign of disturbance94. Slowly she went down the great staircase, and as she went she asked herself, "Shall I tell Charles? Could any worse complication arise out of my concealing this dreadful thing from him?" At length she made up her mind, just as she reached the door of the library. "No," she said, "I will not tell him. He has no nerve, and would blunder, and the less one tells any man the better."
Poor Georgie, now indeed lonely and desolate95, had been taken to her room, and induced to lie down on her bed, by the housekeeper96 and her maid, who proposed to watch by their unhappy mistress all night. She and Sir Charles were to proceed to Fishbourne on the following day. She had earnestly entreated97 her husband to take her with him, and he had consented. She was quite worn-out and stupefied with grief, and had hardly noticed Mrs. Hammond's presence in the library at all. It was agreed that Lord. Dollamore should leave Redmoor on the following day, a little later than Sir Charles and Lady Mitford, and that the Hammonds should go to Torquay as soon as the physicians would permit their patient to make so great an effort.
"It is impossible to say how soon I shall get back, or how long I may be detained," said Sir Charles; "and it's a confounded nuisance having to go."
Lord Dollamore looked at him with tranquil98 curiosity, and tapped first his teeth and then his ear with his inseparable cane99.
"I hope they will make you comfortable here. Bligh will see to everything, I know. Perhaps they won't let Hammond move at all--very likely, for there's an east wind--and you'll be here when we return."
Very gravely Mrs. Hammond answered him: "That will be impossible, Sir Charles. Lady Mitford could not possibly be expected to have any one in her house under such circumstances. Mr. Hammond must be brought to Torquay."
Sir Charles was puzzled; he could not quite understand her tone; he did not think it was assumed entirely, owing to the presence of Lord Dollamore, for that had seldom produced any effect on Laura. No, she was completely in earnest. She gave her hand to each gentleman in turn, but the clasp she bestowed100 on each was equally warm; and when Sir Charles, as she passed out of the door, shot one passionate101 glance at her, unseen by Dollamore, she completely ignored it, and walked gracefully102 away.
"By Jove!" said Lord Dollamore, when he had gotten rid of Mitford and was safe in his own room, "it was a lucky thing Buttons made his appearance just when he did. I should have hopelessly committed myself in another minute; and then, on the top of that fine piece of sentiment, we should have had the scene of this evening's news. No matter how she had taken it, I should have been in an awful scrape. If she had taken it well, I should have had to do a frightful103 amount of sympathy and condolence--the regular 'water-cart business' in fact; and if she had taken it ill, egad, she's just the woman to blurt104 it all out in a fit of conscience, and to believe that her father's death is a judgment105 upon her for not showing me up to Mitford! As it is, the matter remains106 in a highly-satisfactory condition; I am not committed to anything: I might have been pleading my own cause, or a friend's, or some wholly imaginary personage's; and I can either resume the argument precisely107 where I dropped it, if I think proper, or I can cut the whole affair. Bless you, my Buttons!"
As Georgie was driving over to the railway-station on the following day,--her maid and she occupying the inside of the carriage, and Sir Charles, availing himself of his well-known objection to allow any one but himself to drive when he was present, to avoid a tête-à-tête with his wife, on the box,--she raised her heavy veil for a while, and drawing a letter from her pocket, read and re-read it through her blinding tears. It was from Colonel Alsager. At length Georgie put it away, and lay back in the carriage, with closed eyes, thinking of the writer.
"He has suffered a great deal also," she thought; "and he has more to suffer. How sorely he must repent108 his neglect of his father! as sorely as I repent my neglect of mine." Here the tears, which had already burned her eyelids109 into a state of excruciating soreness, burst forth51 again. "What must he have felt when he read his father's letter!--the letter written to be read after the writer's death,--the letter he will show to me, he says, though to no one else in the world, except, I suppose, the young lady whom Sir Peregrine entreated him in it to marry. I wonder if he will,--I wonder if she is nice, and good, and likely to make him happy! It is strange that a similar calamity110 should have befallen him and me. He can feel for my grief now--I have always felt for his!"
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1
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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hood
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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peremptory
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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melancholy
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refreshments
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strictly
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enjoining
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secrecy
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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enjoyment
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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29
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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30
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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32
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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33
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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35
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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38
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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39
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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40
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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41
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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42
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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44
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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45
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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46
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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49
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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50
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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53
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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54
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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57
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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59
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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60
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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64
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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67
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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68
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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tasseled
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| v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的过去式和过去分词 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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74
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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76
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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consecrated
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| 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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79
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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80
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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81
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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82
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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83
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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84
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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87
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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88
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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89
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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91
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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92
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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93
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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94
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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96
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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97
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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99
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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100
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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102
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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103
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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104
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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105
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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106
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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107
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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108
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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109
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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110
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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