On a gray afternoon of October, Julia Cavendish sat alone in her drawing-room at Bruton Street.
She was often alone now. That curious "London" which an eclectic woman of means can gather about herself by the time she reaches sixty had begun to desert. Brunton had done nothing; but already scandal, "the scandal of Julia Cavendish's son and Hector Brunton's wife," was spreading: and although people were "very sorry for Mrs. Cavendish," still, "one had to be careful where one went," "one couldn't exactly countenance1 that sort of thing." So the clergymen and the politicians, the schoolmasters with their wives and the young soldiers with their fiancées came but sparingly, the embassy folk not at all. Only the "Ritz crowd," who thought the whole affair rather amusing; real Society, which could afford to ignore what it did not actually know; and, of course, the literary folk still visited.
Julia Cavendish treated the disaffections of her circle--scanty as yet, for the holidays scattered2 the scandalmongers--with contempt. In the months since her visit to Chilworth, much of her outlook on life had altered. The Victorian and the traditionalist in her were dead, the formally religious woman convert to a kindlier creed3. Even literature slumbered4. Literature, the sort of literature she had hitherto written, the stereotyped5 social romances of her earlier books, seemed so puny6 in comparison with the great tragedy of her son!
Seated there in the old familiar drawing-room, her embroidery-frame at her elbow, a clean fire at her feet, the light from the standard-lamp glowing on her worn features, Julia tried, as she was always trying now, to find some happy ending to the tragedy--peace for her son, reward for Aliette's courage.
For Aliette had been courageous8--divinely courageous as it appeared to Julia--that afternoon at Chilworth Cove9 when Ronnie broke his bad news. Her own heart had failed a little; but not Aliette's. Aliette said--Julia could still remember the look in her eyes when she spoke10: "You're not to worry for my sake, either of you. I shall be perfectly11 happy so long as you and Ronnie don't fret12. If only Ronnie's career doesn't suffer----"
She, Ronnie's mother, had wanted to fight; had wanted the lovers to return to Bruton Street with her, to defy Brunton openly. After that one little failure of courage, her whole temperament13 cried out for combat. Fighting, she felt, was now the only course. But Aliette had counseled delay. Aliette had persuaded her to leave them at Chilworth, to go back alone to Bruton Street. And at Bruton Street she had stayed all summer.
It had been foolish to stay all summer at Bruton Street; she perceived that now. She ought to have taken her usual holiday. She ought to have listened to the advice of her "medicine-man," who, still maintaining the need for rest, was vague, unsatisfactory, disturbing.
The parlormaid, entering to make up the fire, startled her mistress.
"I'm sorry, madam. Shall I bring your tea?"
"No, not yet."
Julia resumed her reverie. Was there no way by which the man whose obstinacy16 stood between her son and his happiness might be brought to bay? Apparently17 none. Sir Peter Wilberforce could only suggest that "the lady might pledge her husband's credit to such an extent that he had to take action"--and that Aliette refused to do.
Dot Fancourt, whom she had also consulted, finding him incredibly stupid, incredibly weak, was all for "letting sleeping dogs lie." He seemed to have no spirit; and she would have been grateful to him for spirit. She felt old; terribly old and weak; prescient, every now and then, of death.
This occasional prescience frightened her. The formal religion to which she had so long clung provided only a personal and a selfish consolation18 for death. She wanted an impersonal19, an unselfish consolation; realizing that she would never be happy to leave this world unless she could leave Ronnie happy in it. Materially, of course, she had already provided for him: all her fortune would be his. But that did not suffice. Before death claimed her she must find some sword to sever20 his Gordian knot.
So Julia, alone in her quiet house; Julia, the literature all gone out of her, her mind busied with the actual happenings of life; while Brunton, lost in the holiday mists of the long vacation, gave never a sign; and rumor21, spider-like, wove its intangible filaments22 to close and closer mesh23.
2
That very afternoon--October 11 it was, the day before the autumn session of the law courts began--Aliette and her lover walked in Kensington Gardens. Even as Julia's, much of their attitude toward life had altered in the past months. The first grandly onrushing wave of the grand passion, the wave which swept them both from safe moorings into outlawry25, had spent itself. They were still lovers; but now, with love, comradeship mingled26. A comradeship of mutual27 suffering--knit closer as the days went by.
For, in love's despite, since training and inherited traditions alike unfitted them for the r?le they played, both suffered.
To Aliette, lonely no longer, Ronnie's comradeship compensated28 for so much that, as yet, the social disadvantages of their position hardly mattered. Only every now and then, in lonely-waking night-hours when full perception of the thing she had done shimmered29 black for a moment through the rosy30 veils of affection, did her heart grow faint at the thought of perpetual ostracism31 from her kind. At other times, her sufferings, her self-torturings were all for Ronnie.
Ronnie, she knew, chafed32 at his defeat. Ronnie had grown to hate Brunton. Ronnie--for her sake--wanted social position, success. Ronnie loathed33 the illegal fact that they had had to register as "Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and maid" at the quiet Kensington hotel, whither Moses Moffatt's shibboleth34 of "bachelor chambers35" drove them on their return from Chilworth.
But Ronnie had other frets--money-frets--on that October afternoon when they strolled under the browning trees.
They strolled lover-like, arm in arm; and Ponto the Dane, incongruous appanage of their elopement, followed leisurely36. Aliette was all in furs, soft furs that cloaked her from the cream of her chin to the slimness of her ankles. Above the furs her face showed happy, glowing with a new youth, a new softness.
"Man," she said suddenly, "do you realize that we are two thoroughly37 unpractical people?"
"Are we?" He pressed her arm. "Does it matter very much?"
"Of course it matters." She paused, and went on shyly: "Don't you understand that I've been living with you for three months, and that so far I haven't contributed a single penny to the--to the establishment?"
"How absurd you are!" He tried to brush the matter aside; but that she refused to allow.
"I ought to contribute something, you know. I'm not quite penniless."
"You're not going to pay my hotel bill," he parried: a little stubbornly, she thought.
"Why not? What's mine is yours."
They walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Ronnie said:
"I'm afraid I can't quite see things that way, Alie. I suppose I'm a bit old-fashioned in my ideas. But it does seem to me that the man's responsible----" He bit off the sentence.
"I hate you to talk like that." There was a little of the old temper in Aliette's voice. "We must be sensible about money."
"But we must bother. Ronnie, be frank with me. What are we living on?"
"Oh, all sorts of things. The Jermyn Street rent; my earnings39, such as they are; a bit of money I'd got saved up."
"And," she added, "the allowance your mother makes you. I wonder if we ought to take that."
"I don't see why we shouldn't. She always has made me an allowance. But of course I shouldn't like to ask her for more."
"Naturally." Aliette's brow creased40. "Let's think. I've got about three hundred and fifty a year of my own. Your allowance is four. That makes seven hundred and fifty. How much is that a week?"
"Fifteen pounds," laughed Ronnie, remembering a phrase of his mother's, "No woman's financial mind covers more than seven days."
"And our hotel bill last week was twenty."
At that, the man began to feel thoroughly uncomfortable. His mind shied away from the topic. But the woman pursued it resolutely41.
"We'll have to find a cheaper hotel."
"It seems rotten luck on you; the present one is uncomfortable enough. Besides," he brightened visibly, "there ought to be briefs coming in now."
"Man, you're a great optimist42." There was an undercurrent of criticism in Aliette's voice, of a criticism which Ronnie felt he could not fairly resent; because already he had begun to divine the professional consequences of Brunton's enmity. Only the day before, James Wilberforce had dropped a hint--the barest hint, but sufficient to indicate which way the financial wind might blow.
"I suppose I am rather an optimist," he admitted; and for the moment they dropped the subject, reverting43, as they nearly always did in their walks together, to the main problem.
"H. B. ought to be back any day now," said Ronnie, "and when he does come back, he'll simply have to file his petition."
But to-day she would have none of the problem.
"Don't let us discuss that. After all, nothing that H. does or doesn't do can really hurt us." She looked up into his eyes. "We've got each other."
"I don't mind for myself, Alie. It's you I'm thinking of. Of course we won't talk about him if you don't want to."
By now they were through Kensington Gardens, and passing the herbaceous border at Victoria Gate. They stopped to inspect the flowers. Two gardeners were at work, clearing away the wreckage44 of summer. The climbing roses and the clematis had withered45, but dahlias still flaunted46 scarlet47 and crimson48 against the high dark of the shrubbery.
They walked on, silent, the dog pottering at heel; and inclined half-right across Hyde Park.
"Do you remember----" began Aliette.
"What, dear?" he prompted.
"Oh, nothing. Only I was just thinking. Mollie and I came this way, that morning we met at church parade. It seems such a long time ago."
"Am I as dull as all that?" he chaffed her. "Are you getting bored with me?"
"Bored with you!" Her voice thrilled. "Oh, man, man, you don't understand a bit. You're everything in the world to me. The only thing that ever makes me really frightened is the thought of forfeiting49 your love. That's because I'm happy--happy. You don't know, no man ever does know, what happiness means to a woman; how utterly50 miserable51 she can be. I was miserable with H.--miserable. Luxuries don't help--when one's unhappy. When I look back on my life before I met you, I wonder I didn't"--she hesitated--"I didn't do something desperate. I suppose I didn't know how miserable I really was. I don't suppose any woman in my position ever does know, till some man teaches her----"
"And now?" he broke in.
"Now, I'm absolutely happy. Honestly, I don't care a bit about the legal position--as you call it. What does it matter whether we're legally married or not? What does it matter whether people want to know us or whether they don't? I don't care," she ended almost defiantly52; "I don't care a bit so long as I've got you; so long as we're right with our own consciences."
And really, when Aliette looks back on those unsettled days, it astonishes her how little she did care for the rest of the world. Even her parents' attitude seemed of no importance.
3
For outwardly the Fullerfords had taken up a very determined53 attitude.
At Clyst Fullerford Aliette's name was scarcely mentioned. The people who had known Aliette since cradle-days, the pleasant Devonshire people busied with their pleasant trivial country round, still called neighborly as of yore; but they no longer inquired of Andrew Fullerford, nor of Andrew's wife, after the health of Mrs. Brunton. Somehow rumor, unconfirmed yet accurate in the main, had penetrated54 to every corner of the county; and though the pleasant people pretended to ignore rumor, at least until such time as rumor's story should be substantiated55 by the London papers, still they thought it "safer" not to mention Aliette when they visited the long, low house of the mullioned windows.
Ever since the death of the Fullerford boys in France, the house with the mullioned windows had been sad. But now it seemed more than sad--a home of utter tragedy, despite its tended gardens and its deft56 servants. The stags' heads and the foxes' masks on its walls only enhanced its gloom. Its empty stables typified empty hearts; hearts of a man and a woman whose sons might not inherit.
Mollie, in that long August and longer September, found the place unbearable57. Yet she was afraid to leave it; afraid to leave Andrew and Marie alone. Her father aged7 hourly; his gray-lashed mouth used to quiver with pain whenever he looked across the dinner-table at his wife. To the girl, who did not understand that Aliette's abandonment of her husband had evoked58 between these two the old specter of religious differences, both parents appeared incredibly unforgiving, incredibly out of their century.
Yet, had it not been for that specter, it is more than possible that the puisne judge would have relented toward his "erring59 daughter." Under certain circumstances he might even have helped her to secure her freedom. For although Aliette had outraged60 both his legal sense and his sense of propriety61; although she had admittedly broken the oath sworn at a Protestant altar; yet the lapse62 of the years had so softened63 Andrew's Protestantism, left it so broadly tolerant, so much more of an ideal than a religion, that he considered, as many latter-day Protestants do consider, almost every tenet of his church open to the argument of the individual case.
The judge, moreover, was instinctively64 aware that Aliette's relations to Hector might furnish exactly that individual case necessary for her justification65. But in view of his wife's obvious misery66, Andrew felt himself incapable67 of forgiveness.
To Marie Fullerford--and this her husband realized--from that very first moment when she opened Aliette's letter of confession68, it had seemed as though the Roman Catholic Church, the church from whose rigid69 discipline she had revolted to marry Andrew, were taking its revenge for the long-ago apostasy70.
After one heartbroken conversation with her husband, she withdrew into contemplation. Hour after hour she used to sit in her own little room, remembering and regretting the faith of her childhood. Marie could no more go back to that faith! The Church, the surely-disciplined authoritative71 Church of Rome, would have none of her. And she would have given so much in her present distress72 for the comfort of Rome!
The spiritual uncertainty73 of Protestantism frightened her with its easy-going tolerance74. She saw the doctrine75 of the English Church as a broad-pathed quagmire76, through which one trod with individual and uncertain steps toward an individual and uncertain heaven; while Roman Catholicism, knowing neither tolerance nor uncertainty, indicated the only road, the safe and the narrow road to constitutional bliss77.
Constantly Marie Fullerford tried to recall her old courage, the individual fortitude78 which had broken her loose from Roman Catholicism. But the old fortitude would not return. She yearned79 in her weakness for the guidance of the priest, for the infallible laws, for the infallible dogmas of an infallible hierarchy80.
Her spiritual knees ached, and the hard hassock of Protestantism could not rest them. Stumbling, she desired to cast the heavy pack of her doubts at the feet of a father-confessor--of a father-confessor who would give one orders, definite commands: "Let your daughter sin no more. Let her return to her husband, expiate81 her offenses82." No doubting there! No leaving of the individual case to individual judgment83!
And yet--and yet Aliette's mother could not bring herself to answer Aliette's confession in the spirit of Rome. She herself had been so long free, so long undisciplined, that she wanted, desperately84, to find the solution of this problem by the aid of that very love in which she had given herself to Andrew.
Eva, without the slightest hesitation86, forbade any answer at all. The colonel's lady, always adverse87 to her juniors, sided from the first definitely with Hector. Aliette, opined Eva, had brought disgrace upon the entire family. No fact that Mollie, no argument that her husband could adduce in the culprit's favor, availed to bend Mrs. Harold Martin's domestic rigidity88; a rigidity socketed89 home on the two unshifting rocks of personal dislike and personal rectitude.
4
Meanwhile Moor24 Park, though spiritually less troubled than Clyst Fullerford, failed egregiously90 in presenting a united front to its domestic troubles. Hector, returning thither91 from a lonely holiday in Scotland, found Rear-Admiral Billy in quarter-deck mood, and the Rev15. Adrian--invited for obvious reasons to dine without his Margery--uncomfortably silent through an interminable meal.
Purposely the admiral had staved off discussion of the matter at heart until the mastodontic dining-table should be cleared of its food. Now--the port decanter being in its third circulation--he drew back his chair from the board, screwed a cigar firmly between his bearded lips, and began:
"Well, Hector, you've had a couple of months to make up your mind. What are you going to do about Alie?"
The K.C. looked straight into his father's unjovial eyes and retorted:
"As I told you before I left, sir"--"sir" between the admiral and his sons always betokened92 trouble,--"I'm not going to do anything."
"You can take it that way if you like, sir."
"Pretty rough on your wife, ain't it? Adrian thinks----"
"Adrian is not his brother's keeper."
There intervened a considerable silence, during which the parson scrutinized94 the lawyer. "Hector's nature," pondered the Rev. Adrian, "has not altered much since he was a boy. He's a reticent95 fellow, is Hector. Sullen96, too. Resents any one interfering97 in his affairs--even if it's for his own good."
But the parson could see that, in outward appearance, Hector had altered. He looked less corpulent, less certain of himself, more inclined to bluster98. His sandy hair had thinned nearly to baldness.
"I haven't the slightest wish to interfere99"--Adrian, except in his episcopalian wife's presence, was a very human being,--"but really it does seem to me that your duty is either to use every means in your power to get your wife back, or else to set her free. You can't play the matrimonial Micawber."
"I tell you," the K.C. fidgeted in his chair, "I don't want your advice. This is my own affair and nobody else's."
"That be sugared for a tale." The admiral unscrewed his cigar from his mouth, and waved it fiercely before his eldest son's eyes. "That be sugared for a tale, Hector. A man's marriage concerns his whole family. I was talking to Simeon only the other day, and he said it was perfectly impossible for any one in your position----"
"I've heard that argument before," said Aliette's legal owner, "and I can't say that it appeals to me. I fail to see why Uncle Simeon or his wife should presume to pass judgment on what I choose or don't choose to do." He made a movement to break off the discussion, refrained, and continued. "Since you have reopened the subject, sir, I think it would be as well if I explained my views once and for all. My views are that I fail to see any reason why I should take my wife back, or any obligation to set her free to marry her lover. What he and she did, they did with their eyes open. Let them abide100 by the consequences."
"But, blast it all!" broke in the admiral, "a fellow must behave like a gentleman."
"I refuse to admit that a man must behave like a gentleman to a wife who forgets to behave herself like a lady." The lawyer reached for the cigar-box, and kindled101 a weed.
"Come, come, Hector." The parson, who had seen life, put his professional prejudices on one side. "It really isn't as bad as that. Mind you, I'm not making any excuses for Aliette. But, even admitting that she's behaved badly to you, does that furnish you with any justification for behaving badly to her?"
"And mind you, my boy," the father elaborated his younger son's argument, "people aren't like they used to be about this sort of thing. There's deuced little prejudice against divorce these days. We must go with the times. We must go with the times. God knows I'm an intolerant old devil; but, thank God, I can still take a broad-minded view where the sex is concerned."
"It's easy enough for you to be broad-minded, sir," interpolated the K.C.; "she's not your wife."
"Fond of her still, eh?" rambled102 the old man shrewdly. Hector Brunton kept silence, but his eyes showed that the shot had gone home.
"You've asked her to return to you, I suppose?" said the Rev. Adrian, pouncing103 on this new hare like a religious beagle.
"Certainly not." The coincidence of the two ideas exasperated104 Hector. For two months he had been hardening himself to meet this very ordeal105; and already, curse it! he felt himself growing soft. Dimly the voice of conscience told him that his father and brother were in the right. Socially he recognized that he was taking up an impossible position. Nevertheless, as an individual, he intended sticking to that position. All the obstinacy, all the weakness in him combined to reject the obvious solution. Why the devil should he divorce Aliette? He still wanted Aliette--wanted her physically--craved for her with a desire so overpowering that, at times, it drove him almost mad.
"Quite apart from your wife's reputation, you know," the admiral returned to his oratorial106 quarter-deck, "you've got to consider your own. People don't look too kindly107 on a man who allows his missus to live openly with some one else. And then, both you and he being in the same profession! Take it from me, my boy, it won't do you any good."
"It won't do him any good," said Hector viciously. "If I've any influence with the benchers, I'll get the fellow disbarred before the year's out; and if I can't get him disbarred at least I'll take"--he snarled--"other steps."
"I've been trying to talk to you like a brother, Hector," he rapped out, "not like a parson. If you came to me as a parson, I should be bound to tell you that your attitude isn't Christian109 at all. It's--damn it!--it's Hebraic. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth."
The elder brother turned on his junior.
The junior fidgeted with his white collar.
"We'll leave my Christianity out of the discussion, if you please."
The admiral, also a little hot under the shirt, intervened again.
"Christianity or no Christianity, I maintain that you're putting yourself in the wrong. Alie's a decent enough little woman. She's always played the game with you. Even when she ran away with this fellow, she told you about it before she went. She did tell you, didn't she?"
"Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I told her she could go if she wanted to."
"You didn't try to restrain her?"
"No. I didn't."
"Why not? If you felt so strongly about her going off as you pretend to now, why didn't you lock her up in her bedroom? Why didn't you go and see this man Cavendish--knock his head off?"
Infuriated, Hector rose to his feet.
"I have no wish to be disrespectful, sir," he said to his father, "but my decision is final. I refuse to discuss this matter a minute longer." And to his brother, "As for you, Adrian, I'll thank you not to interfere." Then he moved from the table, swung open the door, and clumped111 heavily upstairs to his bedroom.
Left alone, the rear-admiral turned to his younger son.
"How's the new baby, Adrian?"
"Getting on splendidly, father."
"Good." The bearded lips chewed at their cigar for a full minute. "A pity Hector's wife didn't have any kids."
"A great pity, father."
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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fret
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temperament
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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obstinacy
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apparently
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consolation
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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sever
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rumor
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filaments
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mesh
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moor
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outlawry
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mingled
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mutual
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compensated
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shimmered
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rosy
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ostracism
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chafed
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loathed
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shibboleth
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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36
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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38
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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39
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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40
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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41
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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43
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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44
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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45
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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46
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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47
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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49
forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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57
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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58
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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60
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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63
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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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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66
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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76
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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78
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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81
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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82
offenses
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| n.进攻( offense的名词复数 )；（球队的）前锋；进攻方法；攻势 | |
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83
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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84
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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85
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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88
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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89
socketed
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| v.把…装入托座（或插座），给…装上托座（或插座）( socket的过去分词 )；[高尔夫球]用棒头承口部位击（球） | |
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egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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91
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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92
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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96
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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97
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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98
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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99
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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100
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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101
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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102
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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103
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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104
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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105
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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106
oratorial
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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107
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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108
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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109
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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110
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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