Their meeting summed up the possibilities of love at sight. He loved her as she passed him on the stairs, and she him, as she afterwards confided1, while he was being led to her for introduction, an occasion which has—for an Englishman, at any rate—small opportunities of display.
But love at sight is such a miracle to the seer that he never imagines its duplication. Terence saw nothing on Miss Anstruther's features but the attention an intelligent woman might show to any man with a name in the making.
She imagined, in the stern set of his, boredom2 at having to make himself agreeable to a merely pretty girl.
There was, in his mind, no doubt, enough to complicate3 a glance of admiration4, since he saw between him and her the jealous presence of another woman.
What that presence meant to him, now, he realized with despair.
He had endured in silence its unscrupulous intrigues5; he had schooled himself to meet the most preposterous6 of its requirements. But then he stood alone; the worst that could be done him was the most that he need fear. He could live secure since only he could suffer.
Now! He lost his breath as he thought of it.
He saw Lilias several times that month. He did not notice that it seemed easy to see her. That she had a hand in that facility would have been the last thing to strike him.
Love had come to him in the extravagant7 splendours it only wears for those who find it late, with the eyes still unsoiled through which youth sought it. For, to the boy, love is only a white angel, but the man sees it iridescent9 with the colours of his accumulated years of hope.
It was not surprising that Terence, who had never even imagined himself in love before, and whose every instinct forbade a paltering with its substitute, should have been overwhelmed by this putting forth10 of an enchantment11 he had long ceased to expect.
He kept his head from early habit, which made the danger of losing it in Miss Anstruther's presence almost a delight, and he banished12 the acknowledgment of his happiness from every part of him but his eyes.
There, however, in the glow of an accustomed kindliness14 it could escape recognition, and there too it was often absorbed in a stern anxiety when he faced the risks of its discovery by the other woman.
From her he kept, with a man's timorous15 diplomacy16, every echo of the girl's name, until he learnt they were acquainted. Then he had to endure an inquest on his concealment17, and the woman's suspicions were fertilized18 by his replies.
They found food for growth later on in what she was pleased, perhaps rightly, to imagine a preoccupation in his manner.
She was, of course, aware of his effort to dilute19 what was emotional in their intercourse20, and to replace it with a tender and unashamed fraternity.
He had but small success but more than he expected. He declined several invitations to Wallingford during the summer, where she had again a house; and when he went in August, found her, thanks partly to the persistence22 of some exacting23 and undesired guests, more malleable24 than she had ever been before.
He had been so attentively25 kind to her during the season that she found no excuse to upbraid26 him, yet she showed by a dozen disdainful poses how fiercely she resented his determined28 friendliness29.
Meanwhile he had seen little of Lilias. His devotion to her was too sensitive and too entire to allow him even to offer her his company while he had still, however occasionally, to bestow30 his kisses on another woman. That woman too was still a moral charge upon him, and a source beside of incalculable danger.
What she would not do was clearly not everywhere conterminous with what she should not.
He had sufficiently31 realized that his happiness would never appeal to her apart from hers, and that there would be a stormy finish where hers ended. But he still trusted in time, and was satisfied with the slight progress towards reasonableness in their relationship.
Her letters continued to upbraid him with his neglect; but they began to hint at a reciprocal attitude.
She too, they threatened, could be indifferent; the time might come when to his appeal there would be no response.
Terence prayed devoutly32 for that day to hasten, as the months went on; and ran down in November, ostensibly for a week's hunting, to a house in Leicestershire where Miss Anstruther was staying.
Knowing the country better than he, she offered to pilot him, and took him under her charge with a delightful33 assurance, which allowed him no voice nor choice of his own while out of doors.
She rode straight, but used her head, in cutting out a line, to nurse her horse, and showed a most unfeminine appreciation34 of distances, save when the hounds were running late away from home.
During the long easy amble35 homeward in the dusk, on such occasions Terence might have been led to doubt that it was inadvertence which had secured him so much of her company, had he not arrived at conclusions of much greater moment.
To have found, at thirty-five when such discoveries are being despaired of the woman for whom his life had waited for whom, unknown, it had worn its innocence36 untainted, was sufficient of itself to monopolize37 his thoughts.
In her presence he became young again; young in interests, in expectancy38, in purposeless energies. The whole desire of the man was in focus for the first time in his life.
Lilias gave him her company but no other sign of liking39; yet her company was of itself sufficient to make him insanely content.
Still his fears made him cautious. The prize was too great, the thought of failure too consuming, to admit of risk.
So he let the winter go without a word to her of what was eating out his heart, using what chances offered for seeing her, but making none that might attract comment, and all the while attenuating40 the link that bound him to the other, and trying to accustom13 her to do without him.
He seemed in that to be making headway.
She wrote more and more rarely to him, and never in the expansive fashion of the past, and if he kissed her on parting, as occasionally she insisted, it added no warmth to his farewell. Yet he still misdoubted her, and would not have put his fortune to the touch had Fate not forced his hand with the announcement that Miss Anstruther was leaving for India in the spring.
He looked in vain for ways to stop her, but shyly, and conscious of a new distance in her manner, as though she thought his interest might be more explicit41.
On that he spoke42. Her evasions43, chilly44 with the disdain27 of every honest woman for a philanderer45, were intolerable. He saw the risk he ran either way of losing her, but chose that which gave him, at any rate, fighting chances, and told her of his love.
Three days followed in the blue of heaven; then he came back to earth, and took up his trouble.
The other woman was at St. Raphael, so he had to write. He would have vastly preferred to tell her face to face what he had done. He had no courage for a fight in the dark; he wished to see the blow come back, and meet it. But there were reasons insuperable against that.
He expected an intemperate46 reply, but nothing so wildly bereft47 of reason as that which reached him. It was shrill48 with threats which turned his blood to ice and then set it boiling with indignation; threats which seemed to echo from some shrieking49 purlieu of the Mile End Road.
Her soul revolted, she wrote, at what he had done. He had thrown her away like stale water. His selfishness had made her life unbearable50. Her pride, her capacity for caring, her whole womanhood had been hurt and crushed to death.
She went about feeling there was no meaning any more in anything. He had hardened and embittered51 her nature to a terrible degree.
He had hurt her so unendurably that it didn't seem to matter how she hurt others.
She ended by saying she did not know how long she could go on bearing it in silence. The only fair thing seemed to be to tell Miss Anstruther everything that had happened, and let her judge between them.
Despite the sense of his integrity, and a dreary55 memory of the months devoted56 to her whims57, Terence almost felt himself to be, as he read her impeachment58, the unspeakable brute59 that she described.
He even tried to excuse her horrid60 and unexpected forms of speech; the clamour, the invective61, the dismal62 absence of reserve. If she had overleapt the bounds of decency63 he had given her the impetus64, and to be startled by such an exhibition only argued his inexperience.
Yet even his generosity65 could not acquit66 her. He remembered her repeated wail67, "Tell me I haven't spoilt your life!"—a cry which no ardour of his assurance seemed able to satisfy. Well, now she had the only proof that could appease68 her conscience, and this was the result. He showed her that his life was still whole, and she itched69 to break it beyond repair.
His resentment70 quickened. Surely it was more than should be asked of a man's benevolence71 to sacrifice his life to no purpose for a woman's mistake.
He wrote urgently, and as he thought in reason; but the letter read to her as a wrathful menace. He had explained that in trying to hurt others she might hurt herself the more, since to alienate73 Miss Anstruther would be to make a lifelong enemy of himself.
She replied in such spiritless dejection that he had to try to comfort her. She asked why he had been in such a hurry to supersede74 her; and though his patience of many months seemed to him misnamed as hurry, he explained the circumstance which made him speak.
Many letters passed between them: letters coloured on her part by a childish irresponsibility and persistence, and on his by an attempt, a fatal attempt, to treat her as a child, and to let her hug the little salves to her vanity which she invented daily and submitted piteously for his confirmation75.
Terence discovered, when it was too late, that sooner than allow that any one could supplant76 her in his affection, she had pictured his proposal as a man's heroic sacrifice of himself to a girl's forwardness, and his letters had unconsciously confirmed her fatuous77 invention.
Consoled by it, she wrote to Lilias a letter of congratulation, and her correspondence with Terence grew heavy with the odour of a shared and precarious78 secret which she, at least, would make honourable79 pretences80 to ignore.
Terence, at his wit's end for peace, capitulated to her self-complacent theory, after a half-hearted attempt to take it from her.
To destroy her faith in it seemed needlessly unkind, seeing how much her faith in everything else appeared to be bound up therein. And if her comfort in it was false, false it had been all along, from the days when for her sake he had fostered it. Now, at any rate, it brought comfort to them both.
He was shown the letter Lilias had received from her, and thought his danger at an end. Yet he went softly, not daring to own the intensity81 of his happiness even to himself. He tried to keep the joy of it from his mind, to walk humbly82 as a mortal should, lest the gods might grow jealous of his exulting83 dreams.
Yet at times, despite his caution, at the higher tides of his delight, he would laugh up in the face of heaven, not arrogantly84, but with the overrunning sense of his content.
New, since her beauty, like a crystal spar, lent a rainbow border to all things beyond it. His life seemed lifted by a spread of wings at every touch of her fingers.
There was a magic in her influence, that fed from the soft reluctance86 of her body the fuel that burned in his. A magic on which he lived between their meetings, and for whose strange infusion87 he fainted while they were apart.
He told her, laughing, that he was almost frightened to be such a slave; and though she paid no heed88 to the assertion, it sank with melting heat into her heart, and unknown to him the girl's breast throbbed89, behind its shy demurs90, with a fierce exultation91 in the sense that swayed him.
So two months passed, the two months when even the English earth seems mad, mad with the surge of its triumphant92 greenness, and with the singing flood of birds that fills it from the south.
From the south, too, came, in May, the other woman, giving Terence notice of her return, and telling him that she only wished to see him if he felt a meeting was not impossible.
He replied that nothing could make it impossible but his ignorance of her address, which she had omitted to send him.
He called the day after it arrived. He had no avidity for the interview; but, seeing that he would be certain some day to meet her, thought the sooner the safer.
She received him with a curious prescribed coldness, warmed in the strangest way by glances of reproachful pity. She spoke in a compressed tone, and Terence expected that at any moment she would scream and seize him. The prevision was so strong that, on leaving her, he practically backed to the door, keeping his eye deterrently fixed93 upon her, as though she were some savage94 creature that might spring upon him if he turned his head.
She took the line throughout that, despite his perfidy95, he was to be regarded with a grieved compassion96; and she met his profession of attachment97 to the woman he was about to marry with the sad smile of a lenient98 unbelief.
Once or twice the raging bitterness of a soul pent up behind it threatened to engulf99 the passive monotony of her speech, and the dull eyes glowed as though about to scorch100 him; but nothing deplorable happened, and Terence breathed a deep relief as the door closed behind him and shut off, as he trusted, from his future the only danger that threatened it.
His confidence, however, did not live for long. Scarcely more than a week later something serious in Miss Anstruther's face checked him as he greeted her.
"Yes," she answered to his eyes, "there's something I want to ask you. Is it true, as you told me, that you had never loved any one before you met me?"
"Yes," he said.
"Did you never give any one cause to think you loved her?"
"Not with intention."
"But you might have without meaning to?"
"I did, without meaning to."
"Oh, you know?" she exclaimed.
"Yes," he said, "I know. May I ask how you do?"
"No," she replied; "I'd sooner not tell you that. I only wanted to be told it wasn't true."
"But it is true!" he objected.
"Oh, not what matters," she breathed. "Did she care for you very, very much?"
"She cared a good deal more than I deserved," he said gravely; "and more unspeakably than I desired."
"But she didn't find that out?"
"No, she didn't find it out. Think what finding out would have meant to her."
The girl was silent for a moment.
"Did you kiss her?" she asked, below her breath.
"I did many things I would have preferred not to," he said quietly; "but what they were you could not wish, I think, to learn from me."
"On account of what I know?" she asked.
"I don't know what you know," he replied; "but I think that no man who has shared, however unwillingly101, a woman's secret, has any rights over it but those of burial."
She gave him her lips with a smile, and made no further reference to the subject before they parted. She was going into the country, and he was not to see her for ten days.
He spent some part of them wondering idly whence her information had come, but he was in no mood to make enquiry where it might have been effective, and had put the question from his mind, when, at the end of the week, he received from Lilias a feverish102 note saying that everything between them depended on his reply to something that she must ask mm. Would he let her know the first moment he could come.
He named the next morning, but, when leaving his rooms on the way to her me letter was delivered which changed the face of the world for him, and hung the future on his choice of an alternative.
The letter was short, and passionately103 scornful. It admitted no challenge, no reply. She had seen, it said, all he had written to the other woman, and she despised him so utterly105 that she felt no pain in parting from him for ever.
That was all. Yesterday he held for her all the beauty and the savour of the world, to-day she loathed106 him as a leper. In an hour she had repudiated107 the most sacred convictions of her soul.
She had learnt his fineness at every turn of his thoughts. Her spirit, that had touched his at first so timidly, had come to seek with passionate104 security its most intimate caress108. There was nothing she had not revealed to him, no shame so sweet nor so secret which she had feared to let him know.
And now!
"If I had loved a devil unawares," reflected Terence sadly, "I hardly think I would have cast her out like that. Love should not, for its own dignity, degrade so easily what it has ennobled."
Yet not for a moment did he resent the ruthlessness of her letter. His love had indeed exalted109 her above possibility of that.
He had lost her! It was of nothing less that he could think. For some while he did not even wonder how the astounding110 change had come. Her brief note said nothing; nothing of what had happened in that momentous111 fortnight, nothing of the source of her enlightenment, nothing even to excuse the feeding of her suspicions on letters of his which were not addressed to her.
It left, indifferently, everything to his conjecture112; but conjecture was not difficult.
The tragic113 ending of his hopes was the outcome, he had little doubt, of his last visit to the other woman. She saw him then as hers no longer; saw in him too, perhaps, in spite of his concealments, a radiance which her love had never wrought114, and realized, with cruel clearness, how entirely115 he was another's.
And so, inflamed116 with jealousy117 beyond endurance, she had determined that no one should possess him if she might not, and had used her pain, malignantly118, to poison the other's pleasure.
That poison took no doubt at first the form of hints; a woman's pitying innuendoes119, which had roused the girl's suspicions and been the cause of her demands. And when she repeated his disclaimer, further proofs, he supposed, were mentioned, and finally the letters had been produced.
As the story of those two short weeks took shape in his mind—the profitless destruction done to his life and to another's by a woman's venomous malice—he could, in the fierceness of his despair, have made an end to her with his naked hands.
At that, ashamed of himself, he smiled, remembering the frequent vaunting of her pride and the affectations of her honour. This was strange work for either of them. But then a woman's honour was so detachable.
She had it if you had it; and if you hadn't it, neither had she. In that way her morality never placed her at a disadvantage. She could always be as noble or as mean as her opponent.
He smiled again, more grimly, to think that on him of all men such a fate had fallen. That he who all his life had shrunk from women should be execrated120 as a philanderer! Surely ironic121 comedy could go no further?
And to consider, beside it, the kind of man, for whom London is too small a harem, wedded122 gratefully, reverently123, every day, by the kind of woman who found him unworthy, the kind of man, alas124! to whom all too probably, to appease that terrible vanity of a trumpeted125 indifference126, she might fall: to the first brute who desired to possess her.
Her fineness would not save her! Had it ever saved a woman yet from such a fate? By the blaze of his wrath72 he seemed to see the reason.
Woman had no fineness, no sensibility, no subtlety127 of discernment. Her fastidiousness was an affectation, like the cut of her skirt: she wore each because it was the fashion. It was made for her, not by her, and was no part of her at all.
But his anger could only for an instant find fuel to feed it in the woman he loved. It turned at once against the other, and his thoughts turned with it to her letters, the only bond between them which remained.
They formed the packet of many coloured papers which at last, blind with scorn to their sanctity, he had drawn128 from its secret place.
He had kept them without defined intention; certainly with no premonition of needing them in his defence; so far as he could remember, only to remind himself how that strange disturbance129 of his life had come about.
But now, as his anger burnt the better part of him, he saw another use for them. They alone could justify130, could extenuate131 what he had done. No man who had endured an undesired love could read them and condemn132.
But a woman? That was another matter. And a woman, too, who had adored! How would she read their raving133 violence?
Would she believe that the woman who wrote so wildly of the surrender of herself had never dreamed of giving him more by it than her lips.
He wondered. Women were so hopelessly ignorant of one another. So unable to conceive as womanly any qualities but their own; so unable to believe even in the existence of a compulsion which would not move themselves.
Well, whether she believed or not, whether she would divine and forgive, or be confirmed in her contempt, there remained no other way to move, nor even to approach her.
It was horrible to have received such letters from a woman one did not love, more horrible still to use them in one's defence. But she had left him no alternative.
It was through her offence that he came to be fighting for what was dearer than his life. Was any right left her to complain of his weapon?
Besides, as he assured himself, he would only be enlarging a story which she had told: it was her tongue, not his, that had proclaimed it. And whether happiness or despair came to him from the event, it could at least bring her no change of fortune.
But with the very assertion of her security came apprehension134 from a possibility he had not foreseen.
What if Lilias, finding that those letters in no way absolved135 him, but proved the woman guilty of an unforgivable perfidy, should turn vengefully against her the secrets which they held?
The fear swept clear his clouded honour. Here was he answering a woman's baseness in the very fashion he had impeached136 as her habitual137 use.
He was fighting her malicious138 treachery with a betrayal as infamous139, and which could be no whit8 excused by hers.
The sacredness of such letters could not be altered by circumstances; love had written them for love's eye only, and they must be held inviolable though love turned to hate.
And it was not only his personal honour that restrained him, but the honour of love itself; the silence, the gravity which every great service imposes upon those who have borne it; the duty of handing down unsullied, unspoken of, the proud name the brave tradition to those that come after.
It was because Love had indeed touched him with its sceptre that he could shield in silence one who had worn its name unworthily even while under it she had stabbed him to the heart.
He laid his hand upon the packet to return it to its place. Then, with sudden hesitation140 and a rueful smile at the sense of his own weakness, he rose and carried it across to the grate.
He laid it on the coals and lit a match beneath it; and, as he turned away again towards the window, heard in the blaze his hope and his despair together flame indifferently to the sky.
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1
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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2
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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3
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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4
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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5
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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6
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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7
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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8
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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10
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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12
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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16
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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Fertilized
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| v.施肥( fertilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dilute
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| vt.稀释，冲淡；adj.稀释的，冲淡的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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26
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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28
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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29
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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30
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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34
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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35
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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monopolize
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| v.垄断，独占，专营 | |
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38
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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39
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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40
attenuating
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的现在分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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41
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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42
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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43
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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44
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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45
philanderer
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| n.爱和女人调情的男人，玩弄女性的男人 | |
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46
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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47
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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48
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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49
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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50
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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51
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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53
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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54
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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55
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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56
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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57
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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58
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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59
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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60
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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61
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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62
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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63
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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64
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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65
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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66
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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67
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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68
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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69
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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71
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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72
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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73
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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74
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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75
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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76
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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77
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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78
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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79
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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80
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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81
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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82
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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83
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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84
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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85
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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86
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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87
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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88
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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89
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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90
demurs
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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92
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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93
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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94
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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95
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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96
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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97
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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98
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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99
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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100
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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101
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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102
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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103
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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104
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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105
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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106
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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107
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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108
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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109
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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110
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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111
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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112
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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113
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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114
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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115
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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116
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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118
malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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119
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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120
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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121
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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122
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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124
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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125
trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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126
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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127
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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128
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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129
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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130
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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131
extenuate
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| v.减轻，使人原谅 | |
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132
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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133
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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134
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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135
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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136
impeached
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| v.控告（某人）犯罪( impeach的过去式和过去分词 )；弹劾；对（某事物）怀疑；提出异议 | |
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137
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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138
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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139
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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140
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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