Her walk was quite solitary9 and uninterrupted. She slid the letters into a convenient slit10 of a window-shutter of the general-shop, to which the dignity and emoluments11 of a post-office were attached; glanced up and down the little street, listened to certain desultory12 sounds which spoke13 of the commencement of activity in adjacent stable-yards, and to the barking with which some vagabond dogs of her acquaintance greeted her and C?sar; satisfied herself that she was unobserved, and then retraced14 her steps as rapidly as possible. The large white-faced clock over the stables at Poynings--an unimpeachable15 instrument, never known to gain or lose within the memory of man--was striking six as Clare Carruthers carefully replaced the bolt of the breakfast-room window, and crept upstairs again, with a faint flutter of satisfaction that her errand had been safely accomplished16 contending with the dreariness17 and dread18 which filled her heart. She put away her hat and cloak, changed her dress, which was wet with the dew, and sat down by the door of the room to listen for the first stir of life in the house.
Soon she heard her uncle's step, lighter19, less creaky than usual, and went out to meet him. He did not show any surprise on seeing her so early, and the expression of his face told her in a moment that he had no good news of the invalid20 to communicate.
"Brookes says she has had a very bad night," he said gravely. "I am going to send for Munns at once, and to telegraph to London for more advice." Then he went on in a state of subdued21 creak; and Clare, in increased bewilderment and misery22, went to Mrs. Carruthers's room, where she found the reign23 of dangerous illness seriously inaugurated.
Doctor Munns came, and early in the afternoon a grave and polite gentleman arrived from London, who was very affable, but rather reserved, and who was also guilty of the unaccountable bad taste of suggesting a shock in connection with Mrs. Carruthers's illness. He also was emphatically corrected by Mr. Carruthers, but not with the same harshness which had marked that gentleman's reception of Dr. Munns's suggestion. The grave gentleman from London made but little addition to Dr. Munns's treatment, declined to commit himself to any decided25 opinion on the case, and went away, leaving Mr. Carruthers with a sensation of helplessness and vague injury, to say nothing of downright misery and alarm, to which the Grand Lama was entirely26 unaccustomed.
Before the London physician made his appearance Clare and her uncle had met at breakfast, and she had learned all there was to be known on the subject which had taken entire and terrible possession of her mind: It seemed to Clare now that she had no power of thinking of anything else, that it was quite impossible that only yesterday morning she was a careless unconscious girl musing27 over a romantic incident in her life, speculating vaguely28 upon the possibility of any result accruing29 from it in the future, and feeling as far removed from the crimes and dangers of life as if they had no existence. Now she took her place opposite her uncle with a face whose pallor and expression of deep-seated trouble even that unobservant and self-engrossed potentate30 could not fail to notice. He did observe the alteration31 in Clare's looks, and was not altogether displeased32 by it. It argued deep solicitude33 for Mrs. Carruthers of Poynings--an extremely proper sentiment; so Mr. Carruthers consoled his niece after his stately fashion, acknowledging, at the same time, the unaccountable vagaries34 of fever, and assuring Clare that there was nothing infectious in the case--a subject on which it had never occurred to the girl to feel any uneasiness. Not so with Mr. Carruthers, who had a very great dread of illness of every kind, and a superstitious35 reverence36 for the medical art. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the post, and Mr. Carruthers's attention was again drawn37 to the subject of the murder and the possibility of promoting his own importance in connection with it. Clare's pale face turned paler as her uncle took up the first letter of the number presented to him by Thomas (footman), that official looking peculiarly intelligent on the occasion; for the letter bore the magic inscription38, "On Her Majesty's Service," and the seal of the Home Office.
Mr. Carruthers took some time to read the letter, even with the aid of the gold eye-glasses. It came from Mr. Dalrymple, who wrote an abnormally bad hand even for a government official--a circumstance which Mr. Carruthers mentally combined with the beard, of which he retained an indignant remembrance as a sign of the degeneracy of the age. The irrepressible pompousness39 of the man showed itself even in this crisis of affairs, as he perused41 the document, and laid it down upon the table under the hand armed with the eye-glasses.
Clare waited breathless.
"Hem42! my dear," he began; "this letter is connected with the matter I mentioned to you yesterday. You remember, I daresay, about the murder, and the inquiry43 I was requested by the government to make at Amherst."
O yes, Clare remembered; she had been very much interested. Had anything since transpired44?
"Nothing of any moment. This letter is from Mr. Dalrymple--the gentleman who came here, as I told you, from Lord Wolstenholme."
Clare, still breathless, bowed. There was no use in trying to accelerate Mr. Carruthers's speech. He was not to be hurried.
"He writes to me that the Home Secretary regrets very much the failure of our inquiries45 at Amherst, in eliciting46 any information concerning the only person on whom suspicion has as yet alighted. He informs me that, as I expected, and as I explained to you yesterday"--Mr. Carruthers paused condescendingly for Clare's silent gesture of assent--"the jury at the coroner's inquest (it closed yesterday) have returned an open verdict--wilful murder against some person or persons unknown; and the police have been instructed to use all possible vigilance to bring the criminal to light."
"Have they learned anything further about the dead man?" asked Clare, with a timid look (half of anxiety, half of avoidance) towards the newspaper, which Mr. Carruthers had not yet opened, and which no member of the family would have ventured to touch unsanctioned by the previous perusal48 of its august head.
"About the murdered man?--no, I believe not. Mr. Dalrymple further informs me that the fur-lined coat, and all the other less remarkable49 articles of clothing found on the body, are placed in the hands of the police, in hope of future identification. There is nothing more to be done, then, that I can see. Can you suggest anything, Clare!" Mr. Carruthers asked the question in a tone almost of banter50, as though there were something ridiculous in his expecting a suggestion from such a quarter, but with very little real anxiety nevertheless.
"I--I really do not know, uncle," returned Clare; "I cannot tell. You are quite sure Evans told you all he knew?"
"Everything," replied Mr. Carruthers. "The clue furnished by the coat was very slight, but it was the only one. I am convinced, myself, that the man who wore the coat, and was last seen in company with the murdered man, was the man who committed the murder." Clare shivered. "But," continued Mr. Carruthers in an argumentative tone, "the thing to establish is the identity of the man who wore the coat with the man who bought it six weeks ago."
A bright flush rose on Clare's cheeks--a flush of surprise, of hope. "Is there any doubt about that, uncle?" she asked. "The waiter described the man, didn't he? Besides, no one would part with an overcoat in six weeks."
"That is by no means certain," said Mr. Carruthers with an air of profound wisdom. "Artists and writers, and foreigners, and generally people of the vagabond kind, sell and barter51 their clothes very frequently. The young man whom Evans describes might have been any one, from his purposeless indistinguishable description; the waiter's memory is clearer, as is natural, being newer."
"And what is the description he gives?" asked Clare faintly.
"You will find it in the weekly paper, my dear," returned Mr. Carruthers, stretching his hand out towards the daily journal. "Meantime let's see yesterday's proceedings52."
Hope had arisen in Clare's heart. Might not all her fear be unfounded, all her sufferings vain? What if the coat had not been purchased by Paul Ward47 at all? She tried to remember exactly what he had said in the few jesting words that had passed on the subject. Had he said he had bought it at Amherst, or only that it had been made at Amherst? By an intense effort, so distracting and painful that it made her head ache with a sharp pain, she endeavoured to force her memory to reproduce what had passed, but in vain; she remembered only the circumstance, the fatal identification of the coat. "Artists and writers," her uncle had said, in his disdainful classification, occasionally made certain odd arrangements concerning their garments unknown to the upper classes, to whom tailors and valets appertain of right; and Paul Ward was both a writer and an artist. Might he not have bought the coat from an acquaintance? Men of his class, she knew, often had queer acquaintances. The possession was one of the drawbacks of the otherwise glorious career of art and literature--people who might require to sell their coats, and be equal to doing it.
Yes there was a hope, a possibility that it might be so, and the girl seized on it with avidity. But, in a moment, the terrible recollection struck her that she was considering the matter at the wrong end. Who had bought the coat made by Evans of Amherst, and what had been its intermediate history, were things of no import. The question was, in whose possession was it when the unknown man was murdered. Had Paul Ward dined with him at the Strand54 Tavern55? Was Paul Ward the man whom the waiter could undertake to identify, in London? If so--and the terrible pang56 of the conviction that so, indeed, it was, returned to her with redoubled force from the momentary57 relief of the doubt--the danger was in London, not there at Amherst; from the waiter, not from Evans. Distracted between the horror, overwhelming to the innocent mind of the young girl, to whom sin and crime had been hitherto dim and distant phantoms58, of such guilt24 attaching itself to the image which she had set up for the romantic worship of her girlish heart, and the urgent terrified desire which she felt that, however guilty, he might escape--nay, the more firmly she felt convinced that he must be guilty, the more ardently59 she desired it,--Clare Carruthers's gentle breast was rent with such unendurable torture as hardly any after happiness could compensate60 for or efface61. All this time Mr. Carruthers was reading the newspaper, and at length he laid it down, and was about to address Clare, when the footman entered the room, and informed him that Mr. Evans, the tailor, from Amherst, wished to be permitted to speak to him as soon as convenient. With much more alacrity62 than he usually displayed, Mr. Carruthers desired that Evans should be shown into the library, and declared his intention of going to speak to him immediately.
"I have no doubt, Clare, that he has come about this business," said Mr. Carruthers, when the servant had left the room. With this consolatory63 assurance he left her to herself. She snatched up the newspaper, and read a brief account of the proceedings of the previous day--the close of the inquest, and some indignant remarks upon the impunity64 with which so atrocious a crime had, to all appearance, been committed; which wound up with a supposition that this murder was destined65 to be included in the number of those mysteries whose impenetrability strengthened the hand of the assassin, and made our police system the standing66 jest of continental67 nations. How ardently she hoped, how nearly she dared to pray, that it might indeed be so!
She lingered in the breakfast-room, waiting for her uncle's return. The restlessness, the uncertainty68 of misery, were upon her; she dreaded69 the sight of every one, and yet she feared solitude70, because of the thoughts, the convictions, the terrors, which peopled it. Three letters lay on the table still unopened; and when Clare looked at them, she found they were addressed to Mrs. Carruthers, and that two of the three were from America. The postmark on each was New York, and on one were stamped the words, "Too late."
"She is too ill to read any letters now, or even to be told there are any," thought Clare. "I had better put them away, or ask my uncle to do so."
She was looking at the third letter, which was from George Dallas; but she had never seen his writing, to her knowledge; and the two words, which he had written on the slip of paper she had seen, being a Christian71 and surname, afforded her no opportunity of recognizing it as that of Paul Ward; when Mr. Carruthers returned, looking very pompous40 and fussy72.
"I shall communicate with the Home Office immediately," he began. "This is very important. Evans has been here to tell me he has read all the proceedings at the inquest, and the waiter's description of the suspected individual tallies73 precisely74 with his own recollection of the purchaser of the coat."
"But, uncle," said Clare, with quick intelligence, "you told me the man's evidence and Evans's description were as vague as possible. Indeed, I was quite struck by what you said: 'A description that describes nothing' were your words. And don't you remember telling me how frequently you had observed in your magisterial75 capacity that these people never could be depended on to give an accurate account of an impression or a circumstance? And how you have told me that it was one of the chief distinctions between the educated and uneducated mind, that only the former could comprehend the real value and meaning of evidence? Depend on it, Evans has no new ground for his conviction. He has been reading the papers, and thinking over the importance of being mixed up in the matter, until he has persuaded himself into this notion. Don't you recollect53 that is just what you said you were sure he would do?"
Mr. Carruthers did not remember anything of the kind, nor did Clare. But the girl was progressing rapidly in the lessons which strong emotion teaches, and which add years of experience to hours of life. Instinctively76 she took advantage of the weakness of her uncle's character, which she comprehended without acknowledging. Mr. Carruthers had no objection to the imputation77 of superior sagacity conveyed in Clare's remark, and accepted the suggestion graciously; he was particularly pleased to learn that he had drawn that acute distinction between the educated and uneducated mind. It was like him, he thought: he was not a man on whom experience was wasted.
"Yes, yes, I remember, of course, my dear," replied Mr. Carruthers, graciously; "but then, you see, however little I may think of Evans's notions on the subject, I am bound to communicate with the Home Office. If Mrs. Carruthers's illness did not render my absence improper78 and impossible, I should go to London myself, and lay the matter before Lord Wolstenholme; but, as I cannot do that, I must write at once." Mr. Carruthers, in his secret soul, regarded the obligation with no little dread, and would have been grateful for a suggestion which he would not have condescended79 to ask for.
"Then I will leave you, uncle," said Clare, making a strong effort to speak as cheerfully as possible, "to your task of telling the big wigs81 that there is nothing more to be done or known down here. You might make them laugh, if such solemn, grand people ever laugh, by telling them how the rural mind believes two vaguenesses to make a certainty, and make them grateful that Evans came to you, and not to them, with his mare's nest of corroborative82 evidence."
Clare's fair face was sharpened with anxiety as she spoke, despite the brightness of her tone, and she had narrowly watched the effect of her words. Her uncle felt that they conveyed precisely the hint he required, and was proportionally relieved.
"Of course, of course," he answered, in his grandest manner; and Clare moved towards the door, when, remembering the letters, she said:
"There are some letters for Mrs. Carruthers, uncle. I fancy she is too ill to see them. Two are from America; will you take them?"
"Only because, being foreign letters, I thought they might require attention--that's all," said Clare, feeling herself rebuked84 for a vulgarity. "They come from New York."
"Probably from Mr. Felton," said Mr. Carruthers, pointing the gold eye-glasses at the letters in Clare's hand with dignified coldness, but making no attempt to look at them nearer. "You had better lay them aside, or give them to Brookes or Dixon. I never meddle85 with Mrs. Carruthers's family correspondence."
Clare made her escape with the letters, feeling as if her ears had, morally speaking, been boxed; and diverted, for a little, by the sensation from the devouring86 anxiety she had felt that Mr. Carruthers should communicate in the tone which she had tried to insinuate87 with the dignitaries of the Home Office.
The door of Mrs. Carruthers's room was open, and the curtain partly withdrawn88, when Clare reached it. She called softly to Dixon, but received no reply. Then she went in, and found the housekeeper89 again in attendance upon the patient. To her inquiries she received from Mrs. Brookes very discouraging replies, and the old woman stated her conviction strongly that it was going to be a very bad business, and that Clare had much better go to the Sycamores.
"You can't do any good here, Miss Carruthers," said the old woman; and Clare thought she had never heard her speak so sternly and harshly. "I don't know that any one can do any good; but you can't anyhow, and the fever may be catching90."
Clare's eyes filled with tears, not only because she loved Mrs. Carruthers, not only because another trouble was added to the crushing misery that had fallen upon her, but also because it hurt her gentle nature keenly to feel herself of no account.
"No," she said, in a low voice, "I know I am of no use, Mrs. Brookes. I am not her child. If I were, I should not be expected to leave her. And," she added bitterly, for the first time treading on the forbidden ground, "more than that, if it were not for me, her son might be with her now, perhaps."
"Hush91, hush, pray," whispered Mrs. Brookes, with a frightened glance at the bed; "don't say that word! She may hear and understand more than we think."
Clare looked at her in bewilderment, but obeyed her, and asked no questions.
"These came just now," she said, "my uncle desired me to give them to you."
She put the letters into the old woman's hand, and crossed the room, leaving it by the opposite door, which communicated with Mrs. Carruthers's dressing-room. As she passed through the inner apartment, which opened on the corridor, she observed that the portrait of George Dallas, which had hung upon the wall as long as she remembered the room, was no longer there.
The hidden anguish92 in her own heart, the secret which was crushing her own young spirit, made the girl quick to see and interpret any sign of similar sorrow and mystery.
"Mrs. Brookes has taken away her son's picture," Clare thought, us she slowly descended80 the stairs, "and she dreads93 his name being mentioned in her presence. Dr. Munns asked if she had had a shock, and seemed to impute94 her illness to something of the kind. There is something wrong with George Dallas, and the two know it."
When Miss Carruthers left her, Mrs. Brookes broke the seal of one of the letters without a moment's hesitation95, and read its contents, standing shielded from any possible observation by the invalid by the curtains of the bed. The letter contained only a few lines:
"I am going away, out of England, for a little while, my dearest mother," George Dallas wrote. "It is necessary for the transaction of my business; but I did not know it would be so when I last communicated with you. Write to me at the subjoined address: your letter mil be forwarded." The address given was Routh's, at South Molton-street.
The old woman sighed heavily as she read the letter, and then resumed her attendance on her patient.
The day waned96, the London physician came and went. The household at Poynings learned little of their mistress's state. There was little to be learned. That night a letter was written to George Dallas, by Mrs. Brookes, which was a harder task to the poor old woman than she had ever been called upon to fulfil. With infinite labour, she wrote as follows:
"My Dear Master George,--Your letter has come, so I know you are not in England, and I am not sure but that some one else may see this. Your mother is very ill, in consequence of what she has seen in the papers. I do not believe it is as bad as it seems, though how bad that is, thank God, no one but your mother and I know, or can ever know, I hope and trust. Think of all the strongest and most imploring97 things I could say to you, my own dear boy, if it was safe to say anything, and if you can put us out of suspense98, by writing, not to her, not on any account to her, but to me, do so. But if you can't, George--and think what I feel in saying that if--keep away, don't let her hear of you, don't let her think of you in danger. Anyhow, God save, and help, and forgive you.
"Your affectionate old Nurse,
"ELLEN."
The days went on, as time travels in sickness and in health, and there was little change in Mrs. Carruthers, and little hope at Poynings. The fever had been pronounced not infectious, and Clare had not been banished100 to the Sycamores. No fresh alarm had arisen to agitate101 her, no news of the suspected man had been obtained. The matter had apparently102 been consigned103 to oblivion. With the subsidence of her first terror and agitation104, a deeper horror and dread had grown upon Clare. Supposing, as it seemed, that he was safe now, Paul Ward was still a guilty wretch105, a creature to be shunned106 by the pure, even in thought. And the more she felt this, and thought of it, the more frankly107 Clare confessed to her own heart that she had loved him, that she had set him up, with so little knowledge of him after their chance meeting, as an idol108 in the shrine109 of her girlish fancy--an idol defaced and overthrown110 now, a shrine for ever denied and desecrated111. She was glad to think she had warned him; she wondered how much that warning had contributed to his security. She strove hard to banish99 the remembrance of him in all but its true aspect of abhorrence112, but she did not always succeed; and, in the innocent girl's dreams, the smile, the voice, the frank kindly113 words would often come again, and make her waking to the jarring gladness of the morning terrible. A shadow fell upon her beauty, the gleeful tone died out of her voice; the change of an indelible sorrow passed upon the girl, but passed unnoticed by herself or any other.
The days went on, as time travels in sorrow and in joy; and at length a change came in Mrs. Carruthers, and there was hope at Poynings. Not hope, indeed, that she could ever be again as she had been, beautiful and stately in her serene114 and honoured matronhood, in her bright intelligence and dignity. That was not to be. She recovered; that is, she did not die, but she died to much of the past. She was an old woman from thenceforth, and all her beauty, save the immortal115 beauty of form, had left her very quiet, very patient and gentle, but of feeble nerves, and with little memory for the past, and little attention or interest in the present; she was the merest wreck116 of what she had been. Her faithful old servant was not so much distressed117 by the change as were her husband and Clare. She had her own reasons for thinking it better that it should be so. For many days after convalescence118 had been declared, she had watched and waited, sick with apprehension119 for some sign of recollection on the part of the patient, but none came, and the old woman, while she grieved with exceeding bitterness over the wreck of all she so dearly loved, thanked God in her heart that even thus relief had come. None had come otherwise. George Dallas had made no sign.
So the time went on, and summer was in its full pomp and pride when preparations were being made on a scale suitable to the travelling arrangements of magnates of the importance of Mr. Carruthers of Poynings for a continental tour, recommended by the physicians in attendance as a means for the complete restoration of Mrs. Carruthers. The time named for the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers had nearly arrived, and it had just been arranged that Clare should remain at the Sycamores during their absence, when Mr. Carruthers startled Mrs. Brookes considerably120 by asking her if she could inform him where a communication might be expected to find Mr. George Dallas? It would have been impossible for human ingenuity121 to have devised a question more unexpected by its recipient122, and Mrs. Brookes was genuinely incapable123 of answering it for a moment, and showed her fear and surprise so plainly, that Mr. Carruthers, much softened124 by recent events, condescended to explain why he had asked it.
"I do not consider it proper that the young man should be left in ignorance of his mother's state of health and her absence from. England," he said, with less stateliness than usual; "and though I do not inquire into the manner and frequency of his communications with Mrs. Carruthers, I believe I am correct in supposing he has not written to her lately."
"Not lately, sir," replied Mrs. Brookes.
The result of this colloquy125 was that Mrs. Brookes gave Mr. Carruthers Routh's address at South Molton-street, and that Mr. Carruthers addressed a short epistle to George Dallas, in which he curtly126 informed his stepson that his mother, having just recovered from a dangerous illness which had enfeebled her mind considerably, was about to travel on the Continent for an indefinite period, during which, if he (Mr. Carruthers) should see any cause for so doing, he would communicate further with Mr. George Dallas. This letter was posted on the day which witnessed the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers "and suite127" (as the County Chronicle was careful to notice) from Poynings; and Mr. Carruthers felt much conscious self-approval for having written it, and especially for having timed the writing of it so well. "Sooner, he might have made an excuse of it for coming here," thought the astute128 gentleman; "and it would have been heartless not to have written at all."
For once in his life Mr. Carruthers of Poynings had written a letter of importance.
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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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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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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vaguely
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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30
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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34
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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35
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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36
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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37
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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38
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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39
pompousness
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| 豪华；傲慢 | |
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40
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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41
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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42
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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43
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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46
eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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47
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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48
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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49
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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50
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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51
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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52
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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54
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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56
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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57
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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58
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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59
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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62
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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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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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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73
tallies
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| n.账( tally的名词复数 )；符合；（计数的）签；标签v.计算，清点( tally的第三人称单数 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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75
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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77
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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78
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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80
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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81
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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82
corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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83
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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84
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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86
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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87
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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88
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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89
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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90
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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91
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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92
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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93
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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95
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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96
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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97
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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98
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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99
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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100
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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104
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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105
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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106
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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108
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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109
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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110
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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111
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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113
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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114
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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115
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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116
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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117
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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118
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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119
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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120
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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121
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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122
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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123
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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124
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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125
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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126
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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127
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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128
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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