The Delandres had an ancient record and were proud of it in their way as the Brents were of theirs. But the family had never risen above yeomanry; and although they had been once well-to-do in the good old times of foreign wars and protection, their fortunes had withered3 under the scorching4 of the free trade sun and the 'piping times of peace.' They had, as the elder members used to assert, 'stuck to the land', with the result that they had taken root in it, body and soul. In fact, they, having chosen the life of vegetables, had flourished as vegetation does—blossomed and thrived in the good season and suffered in the bad. Their holding, Dander's Croft, seemed to have been worked out, and to be typical of the family which had inhabited it. The latter had declined generation after generation, sending out now and again some abortive5 shoot of unsatisfied energy in the shape of a soldier or sailor, who had worked his way to the minor6 grades of the services and had there stopped, cut short either from unheeding gallantry in action or from that destroying cause to men without breeding or youthful care—the recognition of a position above them which they feel unfitted to fill. So, little by little, the family dropped lower and lower, the men brooding and dissatisfied, and drinking themselves into the grave, the women drudging at home, or marrying beneath them—or worse. In process of time all disappeared, leaving only two in the Croft, Wykham Delandre and his sister Margaret. The man and woman seemed to have inherited in masculine and feminine form respectively the evil tendency of their race, sharing in common the principles, though manifesting them in different ways, of sullen8 passion, voluptuousness9 and recklessness.
The history of the Brents had been something similar, but showing the causes of decadence10 in their aristocratic and not their plebeian11 forms. They, too, had sent their shoots to the wars; but their positions had been different and they had often attained12 honour—for without flaw they were gallant7, and brave deeds were done by them before the selfish dissipation which marked them had sapped their vigour14.
The present head of the family—if family it could now be called when one remained of the direct line—was Geoffrey Brent. He was almost a type of worn out race, manifesting in some ways its most brilliant qualities, and in others its utter degradation15. He might be fairly compared with some of those antique Italian nobles whom the painters have preserved to us with their courage, their unscrupulousness, their refinement16 of lust17 and cruelty—the voluptuary actual with the fiend potential. He was certainly handsome, with that dark, aquiline18, commanding beauty which women so generally recognise as dominant19. With men he was distant and cold; but such a bearing never deters20 womankind. The inscrutable laws of sex have so arranged that even a timid woman is not afraid of a fierce and haughty21 man. And so it was that there was hardly a woman of any kind or degree, who lived within view of Brent's Rock, who did not cherish some form of secret admiration22 for the handsome wastrel23. The category was a wide one, for Brent's Rock rose up steeply from the midst of a level region and for a circuit of a hundred miles it lay on the horizon, with its high old towers and steep roofs cutting the level edge of wood and hamlet, and far-scattered mansions24.
So long as Geoffrey Brent confined his dissipations to London and Paris and Vienna—anywhere out of sight and sound of his home—opinion was silent. It is easy to listen to far off echoes unmoved, and we can treat them with disbelief, or scorn, or disdain25, or whatever attitude of coldness may suit our purpose. But when the scandal came close home it was another matter; and the feelings of independence and integrity which is in people of every community which is not utterly26 spoiled, asserted itself and demanded that condemnation27 should be expressed. Still there was a certain reticence28 in all, and no more notice was taken of the existing facts than was absolutely necessary. Margaret Delandre bore herself so fearlessly and so openly—she accepted her position as the justified29 companion of Geoffrey Brent so naturally that people came to believe that she was secretly married to him, and therefore thought it wiser to hold their tongues lest time should justify30 her and also make her an active enemy.
The one person who, by his interference, could have settled all doubts was debarred by circumstances from interfering31 in the matter. Wykham Delandre had quarrelled with his sister—or perhaps it was that she had quarrelled with him—and they were on terms not merely of armed neutrality but of bitter hatred32. The quarrel had been antecedent to Margaret going to Brent's Rock. She and Wykham had almost come to blows. There had certainly been threats on one side and on the other; and in the end Wykham, overcome with passion, had ordered his sister to leave his house. She had risen straightway, and, without waiting to pack up even her own personal belongings33, had walked out of the house. On the threshold she had paused for a moment to hurl34 a bitter threat at Wykham that he would rue2 in shame and despair to the last hour of his life his act of that day. Some weeks had since passed; and it was understood in the neighbourhood that Margaret had gone to London, when she suddenly appeared driving out with Geoffrey Brent, and the entire neighbourhood knew before nightfall that she had taken up her abode35 at the Rock. It was no subject of surprise that Brent had come back unexpectedly, for such was his usual custom. Even his own servants never knew when to expect him, for there was a private door, of which he alone had the key, by which he sometimes entered without anyone in the house being aware of his coming. This was his usual method of appearing after a long absence.
Wykham Delandre was furious at the news. He vowed36 vengeance37—and to keep his mind level with his passion drank deeper than ever. He tried several times to see his sister, but she contemptuously refused to meet him. He tried to have an interview with Brent and was refused by him also. Then he tried to stop him in the road, but without avail, for Geoffrey was not a man to be stopped against his will. Several actual encounters took place between the two men, and many more were threatened and avoided. At last Wykham Delandre settled down to a morose38, vengeful acceptance of the situation.
Neither Margaret nor Geoffrey was of a pacific temperament39, and it was not long before there began to be quarrels between them. One thing would lead to another, and wine flowed freely at Brent's Rock. Now and again the quarrels would assume a bitter aspect, and threats would be exchanged in uncompromising language that fairly awed40 the listening servants. But such quarrels generally ended where domestic altercations41 do, in reconciliation42, and in a mutual43 respect for the fighting qualities proportionate to their manifestation44. Fighting for its own sake is found by a certain class of persons, all the world over, to be a matter of absorbing interest, and there is no reason to believe that domestic conditions minimise its potency45. Geoffrey and Margaret made occasional absences from Brent's Rock, and on each of these occasions Wykham Delandre also absented himself; but as he generally heard of the absence too late to be of any service, he returned home each time in a more bitter and discontented frame of mind than before.
At last there came a time when the absence from Brent's Rock became longer than before. Only a few days earlier there had been a quarrel, exceeding in bitterness anything which had gone before; but this, too, had been made up, and a trip on the Continent had been mentioned before the servants. After a few days Wykham Delandre also went away, and it was some weeks before he returned. It was noticed that he was full of some new importance—satisfaction, exaltation—they hardly knew how to call it. He went straightway to Brent's Rock, and demanded to see Geoffrey Brent, and on being told that he had not yet returned, said, with a grim decision which the servants noted46:
'I shall come again. My news is solid—it can wait!' and turned away. Week after week went by, and month after month; and then there came a rumour47, certified48 later on, that an accident had occurred in the Zermatt valley. Whilst crossing a dangerous pass the carriage containing an English lady and the driver had fallen over a precipice49, the gentleman of the party, Mr. Geoffrey Brent, having been fortunately saved as he had been walking up the hill to ease the horses. He gave information, and search was made. The broken rail, the excoriated50 roadway, the marks where the horses had struggled on the decline before finally pitching over into the torrent51—all told the sad tale. It was a wet season, and there had been much snow in the winter, so that the river was swollen52 beyond its usual volume, and the eddies53 of the stream were packed with ice. All search was made, and finally the wreck54 of the carriage and the body of one horse were found in an eddy55 of the river. Later on the body of the driver was found on the sandy, torrent-swept waste near T?sch; but the body of the lady, like that of the other horse, had quite disappeared, and was—what was left of it by that time—whirling amongst the eddies of the Rhone on its way down to the Lake of Geneva.
Wykham Delandre made all the enquiries possible, but could not find any trace of the missing woman. He found, however, in the books of the various hotels the name of 'Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Brent'. And he had a stone erected56 at Zermatt to his sister's memory, under her married name, and a tablet put up in the church at Bretten, the parish in which both Brent's Rock and Dander's Croft were situated57.
There was a lapse58 of nearly a year, after the excitement of the matter had worn away, and the whole neighbourhood had gone on its accustomed way. Brent was still absent, and Delandre more drunken, more morose, and more revengeful than before.
Then there was a new excitement. Brent's Rock was being made ready for a new mistress. It was officially announced by Geoffrey himself in a letter to the Vicar, that he had been married some months before to an Italian lady, and that they were then on their way home. Then a small army of workmen invaded the house; and hammer and plane sounded, and a general air of size and paint pervaded59 the atmosphere. One wing of the old house, the south, was entirely re-done; and then the great body of the workmen departed, leaving only materials for the doing of the old hall when Geoffrey Brent should have returned, for he had directed that the decoration was only to be done under his own eyes. He had brought with him accurate drawings of a hall in the house of his bride's father, for he wished to reproduce for her the place to which she had been accustomed. As the moulding had all to be re-done, some scaffolding poles and boards were brought in and laid on one side of the great hall, and also a great wooden tank or box for mixing the lime, which was laid in bags beside it.
When the new mistress of Brent's Rock arrived the bells of the church rang out, and there was a general jubilation60. She was a beautiful creature, full of the poetry and fire and passion of the South; and the few English words which she had learned were spoken in such a sweet and pretty broken way that she won the hearts of the people almost as much by the music of her voice as by the melting beauty of her dark eyes.
Geoffrey Brent seemed more happy than he had ever before appeared; but there was a dark, anxious look on his face that was new to those who knew him of old, and he started at times as though at some noise that was unheard by others.
And so months passed and the whisper grew that at last Brent's Rock was to have an heir. Geoffrey was very tender to his wife, and the new bond between them seemed to soften62 him. He took more interest in his tenants63 and their needs than he had ever done; and works of charity on his part as well as on his sweet young wife's were not lacking. He seemed to have set all his hopes on the child that was coming, and as he looked deeper into the future the dark shadow that had come over his face seemed to die gradually away.
All the time Wykham Delandre nursed his revenge. Deep in his heart had grown up a purpose of vengeance which only waited an opportunity to crystallise and take a definite shape. His vague idea was somehow centred in the wife of Brent, for he knew that he could strike him best through those he loved, and the coming time seemed to hold in its womb the opportunity for which he longed. One night he sat alone in the living-room of his house. It had once been a handsome room in its way, but time and neglect had done their work and it was now little better than a ruin, without dignity or picturesqueness64 of any kind. He had been drinking heavily for some time and was more than half stupefied. He thought he heard a noise as of someone at the door and looked up. Then he called half savagely65 to come in; but there was no response. With a muttered blasphemy66 he renewed his potations. Presently he forgot all around him, sank into a daze67, but suddenly awoke to see standing68 before him someone or something like a battered69, ghostly edition of his sister. For a few moments there came upon him a sort of fear. The woman before him, with distorted features and burning eyes seemed hardly human, and the only thing that seemed a reality of his sister, as she had been, was her wealth of golden hair, and this was now streaked71 with grey. She eyed her brother with a long, cold stare; and he, too, as he looked and began to realise the actuality of her presence, found the hatred of her which he had had, once again surging up in his heart. All the brooding passion of the past year seemed to find a voice at once as he asked her:
'Why are you here? You're dead and buried.'
'I am here, Wykham Delandre, for no love of you, but because I hate another even more than I do you!' A great passion blazed in her eyes.
'Him?' he asked, in so fierce a whisper that even the woman was for an instant startled till she regained72 her calm.
'Yes, him!' she answered. 'But make no mistake, my revenge is my own; and I merely use you to help me to it.' Wykham asked suddenly:
'Did he marry you?'
The woman's distorted face broadened out in a ghastly attempt at a smile. It was a hideous73 mockery, for the broken features and seamed scars took strange shapes and strange colours, and queer lines of white showed out as the straining muscles pressed on the old cicatrices.
'So you would like to know! It would please your pride to feel that your sister was truly married! Well, you shall not know. That was my revenge on you, and I do not mean to change it by a hair's breadth. I have come here tonight simply to let you know that I am alive, so that if any violence be done me where I am going there may be a witness.'
'Where are you going?' demanded her brother.
'That is my affair! and I have not the least intention of letting you know!' Wykham stood up, but the drink was on him and he reeled and fell. As he lay on the floor he announced his intention of following his sister; and with an outburst of splenetic humour told her that he would follow her through the darkness by the light of her hair, and of her beauty. At this she turned on him, and said that there were others beside him that would rue her hair and her beauty too. 'As he will,' she hissed74; 'for the hair remains75 though the beauty be gone. When he withdrew the lynch-pin and sent us over the precipice into the torrent, he had little thought of my beauty. Perhaps his beauty would be scarred like mine were he whirled, as I was, among the rocks of the Visp, and frozen on the ice pack in the drift of the river. But let him beware! His time is coming!' and with a fierce gesture she flung open the door and passed out into the night.
Later on that night, Mrs. Brent, who was but half-asleep, became suddenly awake and spoke61 to her husband:
'Geoffrey, was not that the click of a lock somewhere below our window?'
But Geoffrey—though she thought that he, too, had started at the noise—seemed sound asleep, and breathed heavily. Again Mrs. Brent dozed76; but this time awoke to the fact that her husband had arisen and was partially77 dressed. He was deadly pale, and when the light of the lamp which he had in his hand fell on his face, she was frightened at the look in his eyes.
'What is it, Geoffrey? What dost thou?' she asked.
'Hush78! little one,' he answered, in a strange, hoarse79 voice. 'Go to sleep. I am restless, and wish to finish some work I left undone80.'
'Bring it here, my husband,' she said; 'I am lonely and I fear when thou art away.'
For reply he merely kissed her and went out, closing the door behind him. She lay awake for awhile, and then nature asserted itself, and she slept.
Suddenly she started broad awake with the memory in her ears of a smothered81 cry from somewhere not far off. She jumped up and ran to the door and listened, but there was no sound. She grew alarmed for her husband, and called out: 'Geoffrey! Geoffrey!'
After a few moments the door of the great hall opened, and Geoffrey appeared at it, but without his lamp.
'Hush!' he said, in a sort of whisper, and his voice was harsh and stern. 'Hush! Get to bed! I am working, and must not be disturbed. Go to sleep, and do not wake the house!'
With a chill in her heart—for the harshness of her husband's voice was new to her—she crept back to bed and lay there trembling, too frightened to cry, and listened to every sound. There was a long pause of silence, and then the sound of some iron implement82 striking muffled83 blows! Then there came a clang of a heavy stone falling, followed by a muffled curse. Then a dragging sound, and then more noise of stone on stone. She lay all the while in an agony of fear, and her heart beat dreadfully. She heard a curious sort of scraping sound; and then there was silence. Presently the door opened gently, and Geoffrey appeared. His wife pretended to be asleep; but through her eyelashes she saw him wash from his hands something white that looked like lime.
In the morning he made no allusion85 to the previous night, and she was afraid to ask any question.
From that day there seemed some shadow over Geoffrey Brent. He neither ate nor slept as he had been accustomed, and his former habit of turning suddenly as though someone were speaking from behind him revived. The old hall seemed to have some kind of fascination86 for him. He used to go there many times in the day, but grew impatient if anyone, even his wife, entered it. When the builder's foreman came to inquire about continuing his work Geoffrey was out driving; the man went into the hall, and when Geoffrey returned the servant told him of his arrival and where he was. With a frightful87 oath he pushed the servant aside and hurried up to the old hall. The workman met him almost at the door; and as Geoffrey burst into the room he ran against him. The man apologised:
'Beg pardon, sir, but I was just going out to make some enquiries. I directed twelve sacks of lime to be sent here, but I see there are only ten.'
'Damn the ten sacks and the twelve too!' was the ungracious and incomprehensible rejoinder.
The workman looked surprised, and tried to turn the conversation.
'I see, sir, there is a little matter which our people must have done; but the governor will of course see it set right at his own cost.'
'What do you mean?'
'That 'ere 'arth-stone, sir: Some idiot must have put a scaffold pole on it and cracked it right down the middle, and it's thick enough you'd think to stand hanythink.' Geoffrey was silent for quite a minute, and then said in a constrained88 voice and with much gentler manner:
'Tell your people that I am not going on with the work in the hall at present. I want to leave it as it is for a while longer.'
'All right sir. I'll send up a few of our chaps to take away these poles and lime bags and tidy the place up a bit.'
'No! No!' said Geoffrey, 'leave them where they are. I shall send and tell you when you are to get on with the work.' So the foreman went away, and his comment to his master was:
'I'd send in the bill, sir, for the work already done. 'Pears to me that money's a little shaky in that quarter.'
Once or twice Delandre tried to stop Brent on the road, and, at last, finding that he could not attain13 his object rode after the carriage, calling out:
'What has become of my sister, your wife?' Geoffrey lashed90 his horses into a gallop91, and the other, seeing from his white face and from his wife's collapse92 almost into a faint that his object was attained, rode away with a scowl93 and a laugh.
That night when Geoffrey went into the hall he passed over to the great fireplace, and all at once started back with a smothered cry. Then with an effort he pulled himself together and went away, returning with a light. He bent94 down over the broken hearth95-stone to see if the moonlight falling through the storied window had in any way deceived him. Then with a groan96 of anguish97 he sank to his knees.
There, sure enough, through the crack in the broken stone were protruding98 a multitude of threads of golden hair just tinged99 with grey!
He was disturbed by a noise at the door, and looking round, saw his wife standing in the doorway100. In the desperation of the moment he took action to prevent discovery, and lighting101 a match at the lamp, stooped down and burned away the hair that rose through the broken stone. Then rising nonchalantly as he could, he pretended surprise at seeing his wife beside him.
For the next week he lived in an agony; for, whether by accident or design, he could not find himself alone in the hall for any length of time. At each visit the hair had grown afresh through the crack, and he had to watch it carefully lest his terrible secret should be discovered. He tried to find a receptacle for the body of the murdered woman outside the house, but someone always interrupted him; and once, when he was coming out of the private doorway, he was met by his wife, who began to question him about it, and manifested surprise that she should not have before noticed the key which he now reluctantly showed her. Geoffrey dearly and passionately102 loved his wife, so that any possibility of her discovering his dread84 secrets, or even of doubting him, filled him with anguish; and after a couple of days had passed, he could not help coming to the conclusion that, at least, she suspected something.
That very evening she came into the hall after her drive and found him there sitting moodily103 by the deserted104 fireplace. She spoke to him directly.
'Geoffrey, I have been spoken to by that fellow Delandre, and he says horrible things. He tells to me that a week ago his sister returned to his house, the wreck and ruin of her former self, with only her golden hair as of old, and announced some fell intention. He asked me where she is—and oh, Geoffrey, she is dead, she is dead! So how can she have returned? Oh! I am in dread, and I know not where to turn!'
For answer, Geoffrey burst into a torrent of blasphemy which made her shudder105. He cursed Delandre and his sister and all their kind, and in especial he hurled106 curse after curse on her golden hair.
'Oh, hush! hush!' she said, and was then silent, for she feared her husband when she saw the evil effect of his humour. Geoffrey in the torrent of his anger stood up and moved away from the hearth; but suddenly stopped as he saw a new look of terror in his wife's eyes. He followed their glance, and then he too, shuddered—for there on the broken hearth-stone lay a golden streak70 as the point of the hair rose though the crack.
'Look, look!' she shrieked108. 'Is it some ghost of the dead! Come away—come away!' and seizing her husband by the wrist with the frenzy109 of madness, she pulled him from the room.
That night she was in a raging fever. The doctor of the district attended her at once, and special aid was telegraphed for to London. Geoffrey was in despair, and in his anguish at the danger of his young wife almost forgot his own crime and its consequences. In the evening the doctor had to leave to attend to others; but he left Geoffrey in charge of his wife. His last words were:
'Remember, you must humour her till I come in the morning, or till some other doctor has her case in hand. What you have to dread is another attack of emotion. See that she is kept warm. Nothing more can be done.'
Late in the evening, when the rest of the household had retired110, Geoffrey's wife got up from her bed and called to her husband.
'Come!' she said. 'Come to the old hall! I know where the gold comes from! I want to see it grow!'
Geoffrey would fain have stopped her, but he feared for her life or reason on the one hand, and lest in a paroxysm she should shriek107 out her terrible suspicion, and seeing that it was useless to try to prevent her, wrapped a warm rug around her and went with her to the old hall. When they entered, she turned and shut the door and locked it.
'We want no strangers amongst us three tonight!' she whispered with a wan89 smile.
'We three! nay111 we are but two,' said Geoffrey with a shudder; he feared to say more.
'Sit here,' said his wife as she put out the light. 'Sit here by the hearth and watch the gold growing. The silver moonlight is jealous! See, it steals along the floor towards the gold—our gold!' Geoffrey looked with growing horror, and saw that during the hours that had passed the golden hair had protruded112 further through the broken hearth-stone. He tried to hide it by placing his feet over the broken place; and his wife, drawing her chair beside him, leant over and laid her head on his shoulder.
'Now do not stir, dear,' she said; 'let us sit still and watch. We shall find the secret of the growing gold!' He passed his arm round her and sat silent; and as the moonlight stole along the floor she sank to sleep.
He feared to wake her; and so sat silent and miserable113 as the hours stole away.
Before his horror-struck eyes the golden-hair from the broken stone grew and grew; and as it increased, so his heart got colder and colder, till at last he had not power to stir, and sat with eyes full of terror watching his doom114.
In the morning when the London doctor came, neither Geoffrey nor his wife could be found. Search was made in all the rooms, but without avail. As a last resource the great door of the old hall was broken open, and those who entered saw a grim and sorry sight.
There by the deserted hearth Geoffrey Brent and his young wife sat cold and white and dead. Her face was peaceful, and her eyes were closed in sleep; but his face was a sight that made all who saw it shudder, for there was on it a look of unutterable horror. The eyes were open and stared glassily at his feet, which were twined with tresses of golden hair, streaked with grey, which came through the broken hearth-stone.
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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scorching
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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sullen
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voluptuousness
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decadence
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plebeian
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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vigour
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degradation
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refinement
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lust
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aquiline
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dominant
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deters
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haughty
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admiration
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wastrel
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mansions
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disdain
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utterly
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condemnation
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reticence
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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30
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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31
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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32
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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33
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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34
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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35
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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36
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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38
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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39
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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40
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
altercations
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| n.争辩，争吵( altercation的名词复数 ) | |
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42
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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43
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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44
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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45
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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48
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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49
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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50
excoriated
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| v.擦伤( excoriate的过去式和过去分词 )；擦破（皮肤）；剥（皮）；严厉指责 | |
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51
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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52
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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53
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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54
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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55
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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56
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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57
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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58
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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59
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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61
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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62
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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63
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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picturesqueness
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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66
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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67
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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68
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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72
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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75
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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76
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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78
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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79
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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80
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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81
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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82
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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83
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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84
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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85
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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86
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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87
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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88
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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89
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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90
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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91
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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92
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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93
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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94
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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95
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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96
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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97
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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98
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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99
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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101
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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102
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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103
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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104
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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105
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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106
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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107
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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108
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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110
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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111
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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112
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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114
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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