Harriet was very restless on the day that was to bring George Dallas to their new residence. She had duly received his message from Jim Swain, and though the keen eye of the boy, who was singularly observant of her in every particular that came under his notice, had detected that the intelligence imparted a shock to her, she had preserved her composure wonderfully, in conveying the unwelcome news to her husband. Routh had received it with far less calmness. He felt in a moment that the delay of Harriet's projected letter, a delay prescribed by himself, had induced the return of Dallas, and angry with himself for the blunder, he was angry with her that she had not foreseen the risk. He was often angry with Harriet now; a strange kind of dislike to her arose frequently in his base and ungrateful heart, and the old relations between them had undergone a change, unavowed by either, but felt keenly by both. The strength of character on which Routh knew he could rely to any extent, which he knew would never fail him or its owner, made him strangely afraid, in the midst of all the confidence it inspired, and he was constrained10 in his wife's presence, and haunted out of it.
Stewart Routh had never been a rough-spoken man; the early tradition of his education had preserved him from the external coarseness of a vagabond life, but the underlying12 influences of an evil temper asserted themselves at times. Thus when Harriet told him gently, and with her blue eyes bright with reassuring13 encouragement, that Dallas was in England, and would be with them on the morrow, he turned upon her with an angry oath. She shrank back from him for a moment, but the next, she said, gently:
"We must meet this, Stewart, like all the rest, and it can be done."
"How?" he said, rudely; "how is it to be met?"
"I will meet it, Stewart," she replied. "Trust me: you have often done so, and never had cause to regret the consequence. I am changed, I know. I have not so much quickness and readiness as I had, but I have no less courage. Remember what my influence over George Dallas was; it is still unchanged; let me use it to the utmost of my ability. If it fails, why then"--she spoke11 very slowly, and leaned her hand heavily on his shoulder with the words,--"then we have but to do what I at least have always contemplated14."
Their eyes met, and they looked steadily15 at each other for some moments; then withdrawing his gaze from her with difficulty, Routh said, sullenly16, "Very well, let it be so; you must see him first: but I suppose I shall have to see him; I can't escape that, can I?"
She looked at him with a queer glance for a moment, and the shadow of a smile just flickered17 over her lips. Could he escape? That was his thought, his question. Did she ever ask it for herself? But the impression, irresistible18 to the woman's keen perception, was only momentary19. She answered the base query20 instantly.
"No, you cannot; the thing is impossible. But I will see him first, and alone; then if I succeed with him, no risk can come of your seeing him; if I fail, the danger must be faced."
He turned sulkily away, and leaned upon the window-frame, looking idly into the street.
"You don't know when he will be here, I suppose?" he said, presently.
"I do not; but I fancy early in the day."
"It's too bad. I am sick of this. The thing is over now. Why is it always cropping up?"
He spoke to himself rather than to her; but she heard him, and the colour flew over her pale face at his words. He left the room soon after, and then Harriet sat down in the weary way that had become habitual21 to her, and murmured:
"It is done and over; and he wonders why it is always cropping up, and I--"
Stewart Routh did not return home until late that night. Such absences had become common now, and Harriet made no comment then or ever. How she passed the hours of solitude22 he did not inquire, and, indeed, she could hardly have told. On this particular evening she had employed herself on the close and attentive23 perusal24 of a number of letters. They were all written by George Dallas, and comprised the whole of his correspondence with her. She read them with attentive eye and knitted brow; and when she locked the packet up in her desk again, she looked, as Mrs. Brookes had seen her, like a woman who had a purpose, and who clearly saw her way to its fulfilment.
But the next day Harriet was restless. She could do the thing that lay before her, but she wanted the time for doing it to be come; she wanted to get it over. If this were weakness, then in this Harriet was weak.
Immediately after breakfast Stewart Routh went out. Only a few words had been exchanged between him and Harriet on the subject of George's expected visit, and Harriet had gone to the drawing-room when George came. She met him with the old frank welcome which he remembered so well, and, in answer to his inquiry25 for Routh, said she was momentarily expecting him.
"You know what brought me back to England," George said, when he was seated, and the first greeting was over; "you got my message?"
"That bad news had reached you. Yes," replied Harriet. "I was just about to write to you. You would have had my letter to-day. I learned from the newspapers that your mother was ill and--"
"And went to see about it for me. I know all your goodness, Mrs. Routh, and can never thank you for it half enough. It is only of a piece, though, with all your goodness to me. You have always been the best and truest of friends. My old nurse told me all about your visit. God bless you, Mrs. Routh." And George Dallas took her hand, and, for the second time in his life, kissed it.
There was a pause, a dangerous pause. Harriet felt it, for her heart was beating thickly, and her face was not under such command but that the interested eyes which were looking into it might read the traces of a deep and painful emotion.
"You have been comforted by your visit to Poynings," she said. "You have more hope and relief about your mother? Mrs. Brookes has told you all particulars."
"Yes, Mrs. Routh, I did hear all the particulars, and I also made an extraordinary and terrible discovery in connection with that illness."
"Indeed!" said Harriet, leaning towards him with the liveliest interest and concern in every feature of her face. "It is not that the illness is of a hopeless nature, I hope?"
"I trust not," he said, solemnly; "but, Mrs. Routh, my mother has been nearly killed by being obliged to suspect me of a dreadful crime."
"A dreadful crime! You, Mr. Dallas! What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Dallas, "that a murder has been committed, in which I would appear to have been implicated26. I know what I am about to tell you will agitate27 and distress28 you, Mrs. Routh, and one of the most mysterious points of a mysterious subject is, that it should be my lot to tell it to you." He hesitated, then went on: "I don't know whether I ought to tell you all that I have heard. I have to consult Routh on some important matters, so that it is the more unfortunate that he is out of the way, as no time must be lost in what I have to do."
The occasion had come now, and Harriet was equal to it. It was with a smile, serious but quite unembarrassed, that she said:
"Don't depose29 me from the position of your confidant, George." She called him by his Christian30 name for the first time. "You know Stewart has no secret from me. Whatever you would tell to him, tell to me. I have more time at your disposal than he has, though not more friendship. In this matter count us as one. Indeed," she added, with a skilful31 assumption of playfulness, which did not, however, alter the gravity of George's manner, "as I am your correspondent, I claim precedence by prescriptive right."
"I hardly know how to tell you, Mrs. Routh; all the circumstances are so shocking, and so very, very strange. You and Routh have been rather surprised, have you not, by the sudden disappearance32 of Deane? Routh always thought him an odd, eccentric, unaccountable sort of fellow, coming nobody knew whence, and likely to go nobody knew whither; but yet it has surprised you and Routh a little that, since the day we were to have dined together in the Strand33, Deane has never turned up, hasn't it?"
The strength and self-control which formed such striking features in Harriet's character were severely34 tried, almost beyond their limits, by the expectation of the revelation which George was about to make; but there was not a questioning tone in her voice, not a quiver on her lip, as the minutes passed by, while she won him more and more securely by her calm interest and friendliness35. His growing anxiety to see Routh confirmed her in the belief that he knew all that his mother and Mrs. Brookes had known. Remembering the agony she had suffered when she and George had last talked together, and feeling that the present crisis was scarcely less momentous36, she rallied all her powers--and they were considerable--and asked him boldly what it was he had to communicate to her. In a voice of the deepest solemnity, he said, taking her hand in his:
"The man who has been murdered, of whose murder my mother was led to suspect me, was Philip Deane!"
"Good God!" cried Harriet, and shrunk back in her chair, covering her face with her hands.
He had reason to say that the news he had to tell her would agitate and distress her. Her whole frame crept and trembled, and a chill moisture broke out on her smooth forehead and pale shivering cheeks. George was alarmed at her distress, and she knew by the intensity37 of her emotion, now that the words she had been expecting were spoken, how much her nervous system had suffered in the long struggle she had fought out with such success. He tried to calm her, and loved and admired her all the more for her keen womanly feeling.
"Horrible, most horrible!" she murmured, her eyes still hidden in her shaking hands. "But how do you know? Tell me all you know."
Then George told her without omission38 or reservation. She listened eagerly, greedily, and as the narrative39 proceeded she became quite calm. George dwelt on his astonishment40 that Routh had not made the discovery which had forced itself on him, but Harriet disposed of that part of the matter in a moment.
"You forget," she said, "he was not in London. When you came to me, on your return from Amherst, do you not remember I told you Stewart was away, hiding from his creditors41, poor fellow? He never heard of the murder, very likely; he never interests himself in such horrors. Indeed, he never mentioned anything about it to me, and of course he must have known at once that the man was Deane. The very name of the tavern42 in the Strand where he was to have dined himself would have suggested the idea."
"Precisely43 so," said George; "that was the thing which puzzled me so completely, and made me anxious to see him."
"The strangeness of the coincidence," said Harriet, "is as remarkable44 as the event is horrible. It only proves how mistaken are our notions of the laws of chance. What could be more wildly improbable than that, living in the midst of London, and within constant reach of the talk and speculation45 about it, Stewart and I should have known nothing of the matter?"
"Very extraordinary indeed," said George; "one of those facts which would be denounced as too unnatural46, if they were told in fiction. And how unfortunate! What a terrible mystery Routh might have cleared up!"
"And yet," Harriet replied, with a furtive47 glance at Dallas, full of keen and searching expression, "what could he have told, beyond the fact that he had known the man under the name of Deane? After all, it comes to that, and to no more, doesn't it?"
"To no more, my dear Mrs. Routh? To a great deal more. When we tell the police what we know, there will be not only an identification of the body, but an explanation of the motive48."
"I don't quite understand you," said Harriot; and as she spoke, there came a click in her throat, as there had come when she and George Dallas had last spoken together.
Would it ever be over? Should her purpose ever be gained?
"Don't you?" said George, surprised, "and you so quick, too. But no wonder you are upset by this; it is so dreadful when one has known the person, is it not? But you will see in a moment that our being able to depose to the large sum of money and the jewels in the poor fellow's possession will make the motive quite plain. They have got a notion now that he was a foreigner, and that the motive was political, whereas it was of course simply a robbery. He resisted, I suppose, and was killed in the scuffle."
"Does the report read like that?" asked Harriet, faintly.
"It simply says he was stabbed," said George; "but it is plain that all the newspapers took up the political-murder notion at once, and then, of course, their reports would be made to fit their theory. No doubt some ruffian did it who knew that he had a large sum about him that day. Very likely he had been traced from the City; he had been there to get some securities. I can swear to his having told me that, at all events. How very ill you look, Mrs. Routh! This ghastly story has been too much for you. I don't think you ever liked poor Deane, but no one could know of a man's coming to such an untimely end, if he was ever such a bad fellow, and not feel it, especially you. I wish I had not said anything. It would have been better for Routh to have told you this."
"No, no," said Harriet. "Indeed it is better that I should hear it from you, and you are mistaken in supposing I am so much overcome entirely49 on account of--on account of--"
"The murder? Yes?" asked George, looking anxiously at her.
"It is all dreadful; no one in the world can feel it to be more dreadful than I do," said Harriet, earnestly.
As she spoke she rose from her chair, pushed her hair off her forehead, and began to walk slowly up and down the room. George sat still, following her with his eyes, and noting, in all his excitement and perturbation of spirit, the change which a few weeks had made in her appearance.
"I am grieved and troubled for you, George. I see in this serious results for you, and I think more of them."
"For me, Mrs. Routh? What can happen for me in this matter that has not already happened? My mother has suffered all she can suffer. Time may or may not restore her. Surely the follies50 and sins of my life have been heavily punished. Nothing can undo51 all this misery52; but nothing can be added to it either. I have only to set the mystery at rest."
"Take care, George," said Harriet, earnestly; "I am not sure of that. Let us look at the case in all its bearings. Nothing that you have to tell can contradict the evidence given at the inquest, and which directs suspicion against you. You did dine with this wretched man; you did leave the tavern in his company; you did wear the coat to which the waiter swears."
"Ah, by the by," said George, "that was the coat I left at your house. Where is it, Mrs. Routh? It must be produced, of course."
He did not yet perceive that she was trying to shake his determination; but she answered his question with truly wonderful carelessness. "The coat; O yes, I remember. You wrote to me about it. It must be here, of course, unless it has been lost in the flitting from South Molton-street. He tells me a lot of his things have gone astray."
"Well," said George, "that's easily found out. Pray go on, Mrs. Routh. You were saying--"
"I was saying, George, that when you put together all the strange coincidences in this matter which have led, naturally, it must be said, to such a conclusion as that the man who wore the coat which you bought at Amherst is the criminal whom the police want to arrest--I think you would find it very difficult to prove that you are not the man!"
"Good God! You are not serious?" cried George.
"I am perfectly53 serious," Harriet answered. "How can you prove it? How do I, at this moment, know in a manner which I could demonstrate to legal satisfaction that you are not the man who did the deed?"
George looked at her in astonishment.
"Of course I do know it--that is, I believe it, which is quite a different thing; but supposing I did not believe it, supposing my mind were not made up about it, how would you propose to prove it to me? Tell me that, and then the strength of my argument, the value of my advice, will become evident to you, I think."
Still George looked at her, and his colour rose. He was unaccountably embarrassed by the question. The whole thing had appeared to him as simple for him as it was terrible for Deane, when Harriet began to speak. It bore a very different aspect now.
"I--I should prove that I parted with Deane, that night, at the door of the billiard-rooms where we had been playing."
"Outside the door or inside, before witnesses or alone?" interrupted Harriet.
"Why, it certainly was outside the door, and we were alone."
"Exactly. Then your having parted with him that night is just what you cannot prove; and as you cannot prove that, you can prove nothing. Let me repeat to you your own account of that night's proceedings54, and you will see that you can prove nothing to outweigh55 the presumptive evidence against you. You told me this wretched man had money about him which he boasted of; therefore you knew he was a rich prey56. You had no money--only a few shillings at least; you went to your lodgings that night, and left them without notice on the following morning, having paid your landlady57 with a ten-pound note that had been in this man's possession. How can you account for that? You went to Amherst, where you remained, alone, under a feigned58 name, for four days; you returned to London, where it can be proved the occurrence was, at the time, a topic of general discussion, late at night. You went abroad the following morning, and at Amsterdam you offered certain valuable diamonds for sale. The diamonds are your mother's, you say, and formed part of a bracelet59 given to you by her."
"No, no," said George; "I never would explain that under any circumstances."
Harriet smiled, but the steadfast60 earnestness of her manner was not lessened61 by the smile, which was just a little contemptuous.
"That is precisely what you would be forced to explain," she continued. "Certain diamond ornaments62 were among the articles in the possession of the murdered man, says the newspaper report," she pointed63 to the passage with a steady hand. He read it, and listened in silence, his face grave and anxious.
"You must account for the diamonds which you sold at Amsterdam; how are you to prove, otherwise, that they are not those the wretched man wore when he was seen in your company?"
"I remember his studs and his ring," said George, in a low agitated64 voice. "I wonder they have not been traced."
Harriet did not reply for a moment; and the click in her throat was painfully hard and audible, as she said at length: "They would have been broken up, of course; and remember, George, they were unset diamonds you sold at Amsterdam."
George Dallas leaned his elbows on the table, and his head on his hands. He looked at Harriet, and her face changed when his gaze was removed--changed to a look of sharp, terrible anxiety, to all the intentness of one pleading in a desperate cause.
"You must tell the story of your visit to Amherst; you must tell the truth about your mother and the jewels; moreover, you must prove it. Can your mother do that for you?"
"How? Did she see you on the Wednesday, when you arrived at Amherst t Did she see you at all until the Monday? Could she swear you were at Amherst in the interval66? And, supposing she could, what would it avail? Look here, George, this man's body was found on the Wednesday evening, the eighteenth of April, and the presumption67 is that it had been a night and a day in the river. Do you see what this means?" She put her hand on his shoulder, and grasped it securely. He shrunk from her light fingers; they hurt his flesh as though they had been steel bars. She struck the newspaper lying open on the table with the other hand, and said with a desperate effort, "It means this, George: The man was found on Wednesday; but the deed was done on Tuesday night--done, of course, after you left him; but who can prove that? He was seen alive in your company late on Tuesday night, and he was never seen alive again. The hours of that night must be accounted for, George, if you are to prove yourself guiltless. How can you account for them after the time the waiter saw you leave the tavern together?"
George did not answer. She caught her breath and went on, fixing on him a sideway look of intense anxiety.
"Can any of the people at the billiard-rooms prove at what hour you left them? Can any one at your former lodgings prove at what hour you reached home that night?"
"I don't think we left any one after us at the billiard-room but the marker," George replied. "By the way, how extraordinary he did not come forward at the inquest! He must have noticed Deane's odd appearance, and his diamond studs and things. I should think."
"One would think so," said Harriet; "but I dare say the foreign look is commonly enough seen in such places. Still the coat must have been very conspicuous68. I forget whether you said you were in the habit of going to those particular billiard-rooms."
"I did not say anything about it, Mrs. Routh. I never was there but that once. It is very odd, as you say, about Deane's coat, but the poor man hadn't it on. After we left the tavern, I said it was an odd, un-English kind of coat, and too warm, I should think, for the weather; but he said he had 'the shakes' that day--Yankee for ague, you know--and had never worn it before in this country. He carried it over his arm, I remember, the cloth side out, and threw it into a corner of the billiard-room. I dare say no one saw it."
"Had he put it on when you parted with him?" asked Harriet.
"No," said George; "he was still carrying it over his arm, and I remember now that I said to him, 'You had better button that trapper's wrap of yours over all that money you've been staggering under the weight of.' 'Lightened a little, old fellow, by you,' he said, though he had paid his losses in a note, not in gold."
Harriet's face was less anxious now.
"Poor fellow!" George went on, with a slight shudder69; "how dreadful it is--such light words, too, as we parted with. When he handed me the note, he asked for pen and ink, and wrote his name upon it, in full, over some initials--A. F., I think--and told me a queer story about an old lady who always indorsed her notes with her name, residence, and the date of her birth, and how he once traced a forgery70 by a bank-note, purporting71 to come from her, being devoid72 of those eccentric inscriptions73. He was telling me the story as we went out."
George's discursive74 fancy had wandered from his own position to the circumstances which invested Deane's fate with additional sadness to his mind. Harriet frowned angrily at this proof of his invincibly75 light nature, and went on sharply:
"All this adds strength to my argument. But I asked you another question. Did any one in the house you lodged76 at know at what hour you went home that night? Is any one in a position to prove it?"
"No," said George. "I let myself in with a latch-key, and made no noise. I never did when I could help it, there, the old woman was such a Tartar."
"Then there is not a flaw in my argument, George," she said, in a sweet, solemn tone, which, from the first time he had heard it, had had an irresistible charm for the young man; "there is nothing to be gained for any one, for any conceivable interest that you are bound to consider, for any interest, indeed, except the abstract one of the law, in telling what you know of this matter."
"The man's friends," remonstrated77 George, who, habitually78 submissive to her, did not recoil79 at the suggestion, as he would infallibly have recoiled80 had it come from any other person; "they may not know, they may be in suspense81, in misery."
"I hardly think so," said Harriet, and her blue eyes had their coldest colour, and her sweet voice its subtlest inflection of scorn. "Did you ever hear him mention relative or friend. Did you ever know a man so cold, so callous82, so base, so shamelessly devoid of any interest save in his own pleasure or his own gain? Did you ever know one so narrow-hearted, so mean-spirited, of so crafty83 and cruel a nature?" Her energy quite startled George. She was looking straight before her, and her hand was raised as though she were tracing a picture as her mind produced it. "The man was a reptile84, George--a cruel snake in his nature. I don't believe any one on earth ever loved him, except his mother in his babyhood. I hope she's dead; yes, I trust she's dead! And that you should peril85 your safety, drag your mother's name into the police-courts, rouse all the anger, stab all the pride, of your stepfather, ruin, or at least greatly injure, your own prospects86, by the revelations you will be forced to make, supposing (which, I confess, I think most difficult and improbable) you do prove your own innocence87, seems to me utterly88 monstrous89 and irrational90. Remember, you can give justice only negative assistance. If you prove that Deane was the victim, and you not the criminal, you can't tell them who the criminal is, or give them any information about Deane."
"No," said George, very quickly; "but then, you know, Routh can."
Harriet dropped her hand off his shoulder, and fell into a chair.
"You are overdone91, Mrs. Routh," George said, tenderly, as he took her hand in his, and resumed his old manner of deferential92 affection. "You have talked too long and too much about this murder, and it has been too much for you. I ought to have seen that before. We won't say another word about it, until I have consulted Routh. How shocked he will be! I will think of all you have said; but I will do nothing to-day. I can't even wait to see him now, for I must get down to the Mercury office by four. I must leave you now."
"You are sure you will do nothing until we have seen you again?" Harriet said, faintly. "George, let nothing induce you to mention the matter at the Mercury. Only think of the godsend a hint would be to them."
"I'll take care," said George. "I will not stir in the matter till I have talked it over thoroughly with you."
"You will stay here, George, of course," said Harriet, kindly93, holding out her hand, but without rising. "We have a room at your disposal now, you know."
"Thank you, Mrs. Routh, I will; but I don't think I shall be more than a day or two in London, unless I should be detained by this sad business."
"Are you going back to Amsterdam?" asked Harriet.
"No," said George; "I am going to my mother."
"I was right," Harriet said, when she was alone, as she lay back in her chair, pale and exhausted94. "I thought the one strong motive, the motive which, though late aroused, has been strong enough to save George Dallas from himself, could be powerful now. Twice his mother has helped, has saved, at his expense, his worst, his involuntary enemy. There was nothing else to work upon, but that has succeeded."
Harriet was right to a certain extent, but not quite right. Another motive had helped the end she desired to gain, and George named it to his own heart as he walked down to the Mercury office by the name of Clare Carruthers.
"You are a wonderful woman, Harry," said Routh, when Harriet had concluded the brief statement into which she condensed her report of the interview between herself and George. But, though he spoke in a tone of strong admiration95, and his face relaxed into a look of intense relief, he did not hold her in his arms and kiss her passionately96 now. "You are a wonderful woman, and this danger is escaped."
She smiled a little bitterly, very sadly, as she said:
"I don't know. At all events, it is once more tided over."
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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embellishing
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| v.美化( embellish的现在分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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lodgings
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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capabilities
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alacrity
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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thoroughly
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constrained
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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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underlying
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reassuring
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contemplated
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steadily
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sullenly
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flickered
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irresistible
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momentary
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query
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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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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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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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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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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invincibly
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| adv.难战胜地，无敌地 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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81
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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82
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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83
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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84
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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85
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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86
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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87
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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92
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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93
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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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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