"My nephew has never seen his cousin, Mrs. Bembridge, and I have no likeness22 of him with me. I know you are a collector of photographs; perhaps you have one of Arthur?"
"I had one, Mr. Felton," replied Mrs. Bembridge, graciously, "and would have shown it to Mr. Dallas with pleasure yesterday, but, unfortunately, I have lost it in some unaccountable way."
"Indeed," said Mr. Felton; "that is very unfortunate. Was it not in your book, then?"
"I wore it in a locket," said the lady, with a very slight accession to the rich colour in her cheek--"a valuable gold locket, too. I am going to have it cried."
"Allow me to have that done for you," said Mr. Felton. "If you will describe the locket, and can say where you were yesterday, and at what time, I will take the necessary steps at once; these may not succeed, you know; we can but try."
So Mrs. Bembridge described the lost trinket accurately23, and the visit came to a conclusion. As the two gentlemen were leaving the house, they met Mr. Carruthers, who accosted24 Mr. Felton with stately kindliness25, and, entering at once into conversation with him, prevented the interchange of any comment upon the interview which had just taken place between the uncle and nephew. George left the elder gentlemen together, and turned his steps towards Harriet's lodgings26. In a few minutes he met her and joined her in her walk, as Routh had seen from the window.
He stood there, long after George and Harriet had passed out of sight, thinking, with sullen27 desperate rage, of all she had said. He felt like an animal in a trap. All his care and cunning, all his caution and success, had come to this. It was strange, perhaps--if the probability or the strangeness of anything in such a condition of mind as his can be defined--that he seldom thought of the dead man. No curiosity about him had troubled the triumph of Routh's schemes. He had met so many men in the course of his life who were mere11 waifs and strays in the world of pleasure and swindling; who had no ties and no history; about whom nobody cared; for whom, on their disappearance28 from the haunts in which their presence had been familiar, nobody inquired; that one more such instance, however emphasized by his own sinister29 connection with him, made little impression on Stewart Routh. Looking back now in the light of this revelation, he could not discover that any intimation had ever been afforded to, or had ever been overlooked by him. The dead man had never dropped a hint by which his identity might have been discovered, nor had he, on the other hand, ever betrayed the slightest wish or purpose of concealment30, which probably would have aroused Routh's curiosity, and set his investigative faculties31 to work. He had never speculated, even at times when all his callousness32 and cynicism did not avail to make him entirely oblivious33 of the past, on the possibility of his learning anything of the history of Philip Deane; he had been content to accept it, as well as its termination, as among the number of the wonderful mysteries of this wonderful life, and had, so far as in him lay, dismissed the matter from his mind. Nothing that had ever happened in his life before had given him such a shock as the discovery he had made yesterday. The first effect on him has been seen; the second, ensuing on his conversation with his wife, was a blind and desperate rage, of a sort to which he had rarely yielded, and of whose danger he was dimly conscious even at its height. He was like a man walking on a rope at a giddy elevation34, to whom the first faint symptoms of vertigo35 were making themselves felt, who was invaded by the death-bringing temptation to look down and around him. The solemn and emphatic36 warning of his wife had had its effect upon his intellect, though he had hardened his heart against it. It was wholly impossible that her invariable judgment37, perception, and reasonableness--the qualities to which he had owed so much in all their former life--could become immediately valueless to a man of Routh's keenness; he had not yet been turned into a fool by his sudden passion for the beautiful American; he still retained sufficient sense to wonder and scoff38 at himself for having been made its victim so readily; and he raged and rebelled against the conviction that Harriet was right, but raged and rebelled in vain.
In the whirl of his thoughts there was fierce torture, which he strove unavailingly to subdue39: the impossibility of evading40 the discovery which must soon be made; the additional crime by which alone he could hope to escape suspicion; a sudden unborn fear that Harriet would fail him in this need--a fear which simply signified despair--a horrid41, baffled, furious helplessness; and a tormenting42, overmastering passion for a woman who treated him with all the calculated cruelty of coquetry--these were the conflicting elements which strove in the man's dark, bad heart, and rent it between them, as he stood idly by the window where his wife had been accustomed to sit and undergo her own form of torture.
By degrees one fear got the mastery over the others, and Routh faced it boldly. It was the fear of Harriet. Suppose the worst, came to the worst, he thought, and there was no other way of escape, would she suffer him to sacrifice George? He could do it; the desperate resource which he had never hinted to her was within his reach. They had talked over all possibilities in the beginning, and had agreed upon a plan and direction of flight in certain contingencies43, but he had always entertained the idea of denouncing George, and now, by the aid of Jim Swain, he saw his way to doing so easily and successfully. Harriet had always been a difficulty, and now the obstacle assumed portentous44 proportions. He had no longer his old power over her. He knew that; she made him feel this in many ways; and now he had aroused her jealousy45. He felt instinctively47 that such an awakening was full of terrible danger; of blind, undiscoverable peril48. He did not indeed know by experience what Harriet's jealousy might be, but he knew what her love was, and the ungrateful villain49 trembled in his inmost soul as he remembered its strength, its fearlessness, its devotion, its passion, and its unscrupulousness, and thought of the possibility of all these being arrayed against him. Not one touch of pity for her, not one thought of the agony of such love betrayed and slighted, of her utter loneliness, of her complete abandonment of all her life to him, intruded50 upon the tumult51 of his angry mind. He could have cursed the love which had so served him, now that it threatened opposition52 to his schemes of passion and of crime. He did curse it, and her, deeply, bitterly, as one shade after another of fierce evil expression crossed his face.
There was truth in what she had said, apart from the maudlin53 sentiment from which not even the strongest-minded woman, he supposed, could wholly free herself--there was truth, a stern, hard truth. He could indeed escape now, taking with him just enough money to enable them to live in decent comfort, or to make a fresh start in a distant land, where only the hard and honest industries throve and came to good. How he loathed54 the thought! How his soul sickened at the tame, miserable55 prospect56! He would have loathed it always, even when Harriet and he were friends and lovers; and now, when he feared her, when he was tired of her, when he hated her, to contemplate57 such a life now, was worse--well, not worse than death, that is always the worst of all things to a bad man, but something too bad to be thought of. There was truth in what she had said, and the knowledge of what was in his own thoughts, the knowledge she did not share, made it all the more true. Supposing he determined58 to denounce George, and supposing Harriet refused to aid him, what then? Then he must only set her at defiance59. If such a wild impossibility as her betraying him could become real, it would be useless. She was his wife; she could not bear witness against him; in that lay his strength and security, even should the very worst, the most inconceivably unlikely of human events, come to pass. And he would set her at defiance! He kept up no reticence60 with himself now. Within a few days a change had come upon him, which would have been terrible even to him, had he studied it. He hated her. He hated her, not only because he had fallen madly in love with another woman and was day by day becoming more enslaved by this new passion; not chiefly even because of this, but because she was a living link between him and the past. That this should have happened now! That she should have right and reason, common sense, and all the force of probability on her side, in urging him to fly, now--now when he was prospering61, when the success of a new speculation62 in which he had just engaged would, with almost absolute certainty, bring him fortune,--this exasperated63 him almost to the point of frenzy64.
Then there arose before his tossed and tormented65 mind the vision of a blissful possibility. This other beautiful, fascinating woman, who had conquered him by a glance of her imperial eyes, who had beckoned66 him to her feet by a wave of her imperial hand--could he not make her love him well enough to sacrifice herself for him also? Might he not escape from the toils67 which were closing around him into a new, a glorious liberty, into a life of wealth, and pleasure, and love? She had yielded so immediately to the first influence he had tried to exert over her; she had admitted him so readily to an intimacy68 to whose impropriety, according to the strict rules of society, she had unhesitatingly avowed69 herself aware and indifferent; she had evinced such undisguised pleasure in his society, and had accepted his unscrupulous homage70 so unscrupulously, that he had as much reason as a coarse-minded man need have desired for building up a fabric71 of the most presumptuous72 hope.
As these thoughts swept over him, Routh turned from the window, and began again to stride up and down the room. His dark face cleared up, the hot blood spread itself over his sallow cheek, and his deep-set eyes sparkled with a sinister light. The desperate expedient73 to which he had resorted on the previous day had gained him time, and time was everything in the game he designed to play. The discovery would not be made for some time by George Dallas. When it should be made, his triumph might be secured, he might be beyond the reach of harm from such a cause, safe in an elysium, with no haunting danger to disturb. The others concerned might be left to their fate--left to get out of any difficulty that might arise, as best they could. The time was short, but that would but inspire him with more courage and confidence; the daring of desperation was a mood which suited Stewart Routh well.
Hours told in such cases. The fire and earnestness with which he had spoken to the beautiful widow had evidently surprised and, he thought, touched her. If the demonstration74 had not been made in his own favour, but in that of another, no one would have more readily understood than Stewart Routh how much beauty of form and feature counts for in the interpretation75 of emotion, how little real meaning there may be in the beam of a dark bright eye, how little genuine emotion in the flush of a rose-tinted cheek. But it was his own case, and precisely76 because it was, Stewart Routh interpreted every sign which his captor had made according to his wishes rather than by the light of his experience. Indeed, he had little experience of a kind to avail him in the present instance; his experience had been of stronger, even more dangerous, types of womanhood than that which Mrs. Bembridge represented, or of the infinitely77 meaner and lower. As he mused78 and brooded over the vision which had flashed upon him, not merely as a possibility to be entertained, as a hope to be cherished, but as something certain and definite to be done, his spirits, his courage, his audacity79 rose, and the dark cloud of dread80 and foreboding fell from him. He had so long known himself for a villain, that there was not even a momentary81 recoil82 in his mind from the exceeding baseness of the proceeding83 which he contemplated84.
"I can count upon a fortnight," he said to himself while completing a careful toilet, "and by that time I shall either be away from all this with her, or I shall be obliged to put George Dallas in jeopardy85. If I fail with her--but I won't think of failure; I cannot fail." He left a message with Harriet, to the effect that he should not dine at home that day (but without any explanation of his further movements), and went out.
"I do not see the force of your reasons for objecting to my introducing you to my mother," said George Dallas to Harriet. Mrs. Carruthers had passed them in an open carriage during their walk, and George had urged Harriet to make his mother's acquaintance.
"Don't you?" she replied, with a smile in which weariness and sadness mingled86. "I think you would, if you thought over them a little. They include the necessity for avoiding anything like an unpleasant or distressing87 impression on her mind, and you know, George," she said, anticipating and silencing deprecation by a gesture, "if she remembers your mention of me at all, she can remember it only to be distressed88 by it; and the almost equally important consideration of not incurring89 your stepfather's anger in any way."
"As for that, I assure you he is everything that is kind to me now," said George.
"I am happy to hear it; but do not, therefore, fall into an error which would come very easy to your sanguine90 and facile temperament91. Be sure he is not changed in his nature, however modified he may be in his manners. Be quite sure he would object to your former associates just as strongly as ever; and remember, he would be right in doing so. Will you take my advice once more, George? You have done it before--" she stopped, and something like a shudder92 passed over her; "let bygones be completely bygones. Never try to associate the life and the home that will be yours for the future with anything in the past--least, oh least of all, with us."
"What do you mean, Mrs. Routh?" George asked her eagerly. "Do you mean that you want to give me up? I know Routh does--he has not spoken to me a dozen times of his own accord since he has been here---but you, do you want to get rid of me?"
She paused for a moment before she answered him. Should she say Yes, and be done with it? Should she let things drift on to the inevitable93 end, yielding to the lassitude of mind and body which was stealing over her? Should she gain another argument to use in a renewed appeal to her husband for the flight in which she saw the sole prospect of safety, by providing herself with the power of telling him a rupture94 had taken place between herself and Dallas, and her power of guiding him was gone? The temptation was strong, but caution, habitual95 to her, instinctive46 in her, restrained her. Not yet, she thought; this may be my next move. George repeated his question:
"Do you mean that you want to get rid of me?"
"No," she answered, "I do not, George. I was only led into overstating what I do want, that you should conform to your stepfather's reasonable wishes. He has been generous to you, be you just towards him."
"I will," said George warmly. "I wonder how far he will carry his newly-found good will. I wonder--" he paused; the name of Clare Carruthers was on his lips; in another moment he would have spoken of her to Harriet. He would have told her of the self-reproach, mingled, however, with hope, which daily grew and throve in the congenial soil of his sanguine nature; he would have pierced Harriet's heart with a new sorrow, a fresh remorse96, by telling her of another life, young, innocent, and beautiful, involved in the storm about to burst, whose threatenings were already sounding in the air. But it was not to be--the name of Clare Carruthers was never to be spoken by George to Harriet. Apparently97 she had not heard his last words: her attention had strayed; she was very weary.
"I must go home," she said abruptly98. "We are close to your mother's house. You had better go to her now; she has returned from her drive."
"Let me see you home," said George; "pray don't dismiss me in this way."
"No, no," she said, hurriedly; "let me have my own way, please. You will come to me to-morrow, and let me know your plans."
She stood still, and put out her hand so decidedly in the attitude of farewell, that he had no choice but to take leave of her. They parted on the shaded road, close to the garden gate of Mr. Carruthers's house. As Harriet walked away with her usual rapid step, George looked after her very sadly.
"She is fearfully changed," he said; "I never saw anything like it. Since I went to Amsterdam she might have lived twenty years and been less altered. Can it be that my uncle is right, that Routh ill-treats her? I wonder if there's any truth in what those fellows said last night about him and Mrs. Ireton P.? If there is, it's an infernal shame--an infernal shame." And George Dallas opened the little gate in the wall, and walked up the garden with a moody99 countenance100, on which, however, a smile showed itself as he lifted his hat gaily101 to his mother, who nodded to him from the window above. His spirits rose unaccountably. The positive information which Mrs. Bembridge had afforded Mr. Felton relative to his son's expected arrival had immensely relieved George's mind. He was satisfied with the progress of his novel; day by day his mother's health was improving. His prospects102 were bright. The distressing recollection of Deane, and the unhappy consequences of the tragedy, were becoming light and easy to him; sometimes he forgot all about it. If he could but win his stepfather's confidence and regard sufficiently103 to induce him to pardon his clandestine104 acquaintance with Clare, he would be altogether happy. How serene105 and beautiful the weather was! He stood in the verandah, which extended into the garden, bare-headed, and inhaled106 the sweet air with keen pleasure. His impressionable nature readily threw off care and caught at enjoyment107.
"It's such a glorious afternoon, mother," he said, as he entered Mrs. Carruthers's sitting-room108; "I'm sure you must have enjoyed your drive."
"I did, very much," his mother replied. "The air seems rather closer, I think, since I came in. I fancy we shall have a storm."
"O, no," said George carelessly. Then he said: "Shall I read you my last chapter? I want to post it this evening. It's a funny chapter, mother. I bring in the queer old bookseller I told you about, who persisted in being his own banker."
"I remember, George. What are you looking at?" He had taken up a letter from the table beside her, and was scrutinizing109 the address closely. "Are you admiring the handwriting? That is a letter from Clare Carruthers."
"O," said George. And he laid down the letter, and went to fetch his manuscript. So it was she who had forwarded Mr. Felton's letters to him! Ellen must have asked her to do so--must, therefore, have talked of him--have mentioned him in some way. But had she done so in a manner to arouse any suspicion in Clare's mind of his identity? Did Clare remember him? Did she think of him? Would she forgive him when she should know all? These and scores of cognate110 questions did George Dallas put vainly to himself while he read to his mother a chapter of his novel, which certainly did not gain in effect by his abstraction. It pleased the listener, however, and she knew nothing of his preoccupation; and as he made the packet up for post he came to a resolution that on the following day he would tell Harriet "all about it," and act on her advice.
With nightfall the wind arose, and a storm blew and raged over the little town, over the dark range of the Taunus, over the lighted gardens deserted111 by their usual frequenters, and, all unheeded, over the brilliant rooms where the play, and the dancing, and the music, the harmless amusement and the harmful devilment, went on just as usual. It blew over the house where Harriet lived, and raged against the windows of the room in which she sat in silence and darkness, except for the frequent glimmer112 which was thrown into the apartment from the street light, which shuddered113 and flickered114 in the rain and wind. Hour after hour she had sat there throughout the quiet evening during the lull115, and when the darkness fell and the storm rose she laid her pale cheek against the window-pane and sat there still.
The shaded roads were deeply strewn with fallen leaves next day, and the sun-rays streamed far more freely through the branches, and glittered on pools of water in the hollows, and revealed much devastation116 among the flower-beds. Rain and wind had made a wide-spread excursion that night; had crossed the Channel, and rifled the gardens and the woods of Poynings, and swept away a heavy tribute from the grand avenue of beeches117 and the stately clump118 of sycamores which Clare Carruthers loved.
George had finished a drawing very carefully from the sketch119 which he had made of the avenue of beeches, and, thinking over his approaching communication to Harriet, he had taken the drawing from its place of concealment in his desk, and was looking at it, wondering whether the storm of the past night had done mischief120 at the Sycamores, when a servant knocked at the door of his room. He put the drawing out of sight, and bade the man come in. He handed George a note from Harriet, which he read with no small surprise.
It told him that Routh had been summoned to London, on important business, by a telegram--"from that mysterious Flinders, no doubt," thought George, as he looked ruefully at the note--and that they were on the point of starting from Homburg. "Seven o'clock" was written at the top of the sheet. They were gone then; had been gone for hours. It was very provoking. How dreary121 the place looked after the storm! How chilly122 the air had become! How much he wished Arthur would "turn up," and that they might all get away!
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1
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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inaccessibility
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| n. 难接近, 难达到, 难达成 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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awakening
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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expressive
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mansion
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likeness
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accurately
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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kindliness
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lodgings
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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disappearance
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sinister
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concealment
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faculties
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callousness
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oblivious
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elevation
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vertigo
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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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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scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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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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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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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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tormenting
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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instinctively
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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49
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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50
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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51
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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52
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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53
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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54
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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55
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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56
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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57
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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58
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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59
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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60
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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61
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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62
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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63
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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64
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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65
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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66
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
toils
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| 网 | |
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68
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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69
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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70
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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71
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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72
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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73
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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74
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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75
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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76
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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78
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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79
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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80
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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81
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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82
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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83
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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85
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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86
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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88
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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89
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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90
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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92
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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94
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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96
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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97
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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98
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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99
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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102
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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103
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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104
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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105
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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106
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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108
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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109
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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110
cognate
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| adj.同类的，同源的，同族的；n.同家族的人，同源词 | |
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111
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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112
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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113
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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114
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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116
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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117
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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118
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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119
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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120
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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121
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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122
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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