No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural utterance19 of bereavement20, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither did he profane21 his wife's memory or do dishonour22 to his own higher nature by even the most passing reference to the object which had so fatally engrossed23 him. The strong hand of death had curbed24 that passion for the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with remorse7 and regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in his life could not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or long duration.
He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs. Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-drawn blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not distinguish Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy black veil. She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his hand, which he extended to her in silence, the result of agitation26. She bowed to him formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice was low and her words were hurried, though she tried hard to be calm.
"I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr. Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed condolences, but to fulfil a trust."
Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected27 him disagreeably. There had never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs. Prendergast; he was not a man likely to interfere28 or quarrel with his wife's friends; and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she had entertained towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden malice29 on her part. Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have welcomed; he was ready also for blame and reproaches, in which he would have joined heartily30, against himself; but the calm, cold, rooted anger in this woman's voice he was not prepared for. If such a thing had been possible--the thought flashed lightning-like across his mind before she had concluded her sentence--he might have had in her an enemy, biding31 her time, and now at length finding it.
He did not speak, and she continued:
"I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not been averted32?--"
"Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my trust is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame."
"I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast."
"That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that her life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be kept in ignorance of the fact."
"Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot.
"I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr. Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to me on the night she died. Here it is."
Chudleigh Wilmot took the letter from her hand silently. Astonishment34 and distress35 overwhelmed him.
"She bade me tell you that she laid her life down gladly; that she had nothing to leave, nothing to regret; that she was glad she had succeeded in keeping you in ignorance of her danger--for she knew, for the sake of your reputation, you would have left even Miss Kilsyth to be here at her death. But she preferred your absence; she distinctly bade me tell you so. She left no dying charge to you but this, that you should allow me to see her coffin36 closed on the second day after her death, and that you should wear her wedding-ring. I sent it to you last night, Dr. Wilmot. I hope you got it safely."
"I did; it is here on my finger," answered Wilmot; "but, for God's sake, Mrs. Prendergast, tell me what all this means. Why did my wife charge you with such a message for me; how have I deserved it? Why did she, how should she, so young, and to all appearance not unhappy, wish to die, and to die in my absence? Did she persevere37 in that wish, or was it only a whim38 of her illness, which, had there been any one to remonstrate39 with her, would have yielded later?"
"It was no whim, Dr. Wilmot. A wretched truth, I grant you, but a truth, and persisted in. So long as consciousness remained, she never changed in that."
A dark and angry look came into Wilmot's face, and he raised his voice as he asked the next question:
"Do you mean to explain this extraordinary circumstance, Mrs. Prendergast? Are you going to give me the clue to this mystery? My wife and I always lived on good terms; we parted on the same. No man or woman living can say with truth that I ever was unkind to her, or that she had cause given her by me to wish her life at an end, to welcome death. I believe the communication you have just made to me is utterly without example. I never heard, I don't believe anyone ever heard of such a thing. I ask you to explain it, if you can."
"You speak as though you asked, or desired me to account for it too," said Henrietta, in a cold and cutting tone, which rebuked40 the vehemence41 of his manner, and revealed the intense, unsleeping egotism of her disposition42. "I could do so, I daresay; but I cannot see the profitableness of such a discussion between you and me. It is too late now; nothing can undo18 the wrong, no matter what it was, or how far it extended. It is all over, and I have nothing more to do than to carry out the last wishes of my dear friend. Have I your permission to do so?" she asked, in the most formal possible tone, as she rose and stood opposite him.
Wilmot put his hands up to his face, and walked hurriedly about the room. Then he came suddenly towards Henrietta, and said with intense feeling:
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to speak roughly: but I am bewildered by all this. I am sure you must feel for me; you must understand how utterly I am unable to comprehend what has occurred. To come home and receive such a shock as the news of my wife's death, was surely enough in itself to try me severely43. And now to hear what you tell me, and tell me too so calmly, as if you did not understand what it means, and what it must be to me to hear it! You were with her, her chosen friend. I think you knew her better than anyone in the world."
"And if I did," said Henrietta,--all her assumed calm gone, and her manner now as vehement44 as his own,--"if I did, is not that an answer to all you ask me? If I am to explain her motives45, to lay bare her thoughts, to tell her sorrows, to you, her husband, is that not your answer? Surely you have it in that fact! They are not true husband and true wife who have closer friends. You never loved her, and you never knew or cared what her life was; and so, when she was leaving it, she kept you aloof47 from her."
Wilmot made no sound in reply. He stood quite still, and looked at her. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and she had raised her veil. He could see her face now. Her pale cheeks, paler than usual in her grief and passion, her deep angry sorrowful eyes, and her trembling lips, made her look almost terrible, as she stood there and told him out the truth.
"No," she went on, "you did not know her, and you were satisfied not to know her; you went complacently48 on your way, and never thought whether hers was lonely and wearisome. You never were unkind to her, you say; no, I daresay you never were. She had all the advantages to which your wife was entitled, and she did you and them due honour. Why, even I, who did, as you say, know her best, had suspected only recently, and learned fully6 only since her illness began, all she suffered; no, not all--that one heart can never pour into another--but I have only read the story of her life lately, and you have never read it at all. You were a physician, and you did not see that your own wife, a dweller50 under your own roof, whose life was lived in your sight, had a mortal disease."
"What do you mean?" he said; "she had no such thing."
"She had!" Henrietta repeated impetuously; "she had a broken heart. You never ill-treated her--true; you never neglected her--true,--until she was dying, that is to say;--but did you ever love her, Dr. Wilmot? Did you ever consider her as other or more than an appendage51 of your position, an ornament52 in your house, a condition of your social success and respectability? What were her thoughts, her hopes, her disappointments to you? Did you ever make her your real companion, the true sharer of your life? Did you ever return the love, the worship which she gave you? Did you ever pity her jealous nature; did you ever interpret it by any love or sensitiveness of your own, and abstain53 from wounding it? Did you know, did you care, whether she suffered when you shut yourself up in your devotion to a pursuit in which she had no share? All women have to bear that, no doubt, and are fools if they quarrel with the bread-winner's devotion to his work. Yes; but all women have not her silent, brooding, jealous, sullen54 nature; all women are not so little frivolous55 as she was; all women, Dr. Wilmot, do not love their husbands as Mabel loved you."
"All this is new and terrible to me; as new as it is terrible. Mrs. Prendergast, do me the justice to believe that."
"It is not for me to do you justice or injustice58," she made answer; "your punishment must come from your own heart, or you must go unpunished."
"But"--he almost pleaded with her--"Mabel never blamed me, never tried to keep me more with her; rarely indeed expressed a wish of any kind. I declare, before God, I never dreamed, it never occurred to me to suspect that she was unhappy."
"No," she said; "and Mabel knew that. She interested you so little, you cared so little for her, that you never looked below the surface of her life; and her pride kept that surface fair and smooth. She would have died before she would have complained,--she has died, in fact, and made no sign."
"Yes," said Wilmot suddenly and bitterly; "but she has left me this legacy59, brought me by your hands, of miserable60 regret and vain repentance61. She has insured the destruction of my peace of mind; she has taken care that mine shall be no ordinary grief, sent by God and to be dispelled62 by time; she has added bitterness to the bitter, and put me utterly in the wrong by her unwarrantable concealment63 and reticence65."
"How truly manlike your feelings are, Dr. Wilmot! She has hurt your pride, and you can't forgive her even in death! She has put you in the wrong,--and all her own wrongs, so silently borne, sink into nothing in comparison!"
"I deny it!" Wilmot said vehemently66; "she had no wrongs,--no woman of her acquaintance had a better husband. What did I ever deny her?"
"Only your love, only a wife's true place in your life, only all she longed for, only all she died for lack of."
"All this is absurd," he said. "If she really had these romantic notions, why did she conceal64 them? Have I nothing to complain of in this? Was she just to me, or candid67 with me?"
"What encouragement did you give her? Do you think a proud, shy, silent woman like Mabel was likely to lay her heart open to so cold and careless a glance as yours? No; she loved you as few women can love; but if she had much love, so she had much pride and jealousy68; and all three had power with her."
"Jealousy!" said Wilmot in an angry tone; "in God's name, of whom did she contrive69 to be jealous."
"Her jealousy was not of a mean kind," said Henrietta. "Ever since your marriage it had nourished itself, so far as I understood the matter, upon your devotion to your profession, upon the complacent49 ease with which you set her claims aside for those which so thoroughly70 engrossed you, that you had no heart, no eyes, no attention for her. Of late--" she paused.
"Well?" said Wilmot;--"of late?"
"Of late," repeated Henrietta, speaking now with some more reserve of manner, "she believed you devoted--to a degree which conquered your devotion to your profession and to the interests of your own advancement--to the patient who detained you at Kilsyth."
"What madness! what utter folly71!" said Wilmot; but his face turned deeply red, and he felt in his heart that the arrow had struck home.
"Perhaps so," said Henrietta, and her voice resumed the cutting tone from which all through this painful interview Wilmot had shrunk. "But Mabel was not more reasonable or less so than other jealous women. You had never neglected your business for her, remember, or been turned aside by any sentimental72 attraction from your course of professional duty. Friendship, gratitude73, and interest alike required you to attend to Mr. Foljambe's summons. You did not come, and people talked. Mr. Foljambe himself spoke of the attractions of Kilsyth, and joked, after his inconsiderate manner."
"In her presence?" said Wilmot incautiously.
"Yes, in her presence," said Henrietta, who perfectly74 appreciated the slip he had made. "She knew some people who knew the Kilsyths, and she heard the remarks that were made. I daresay she imagined more than she heard. No matter. Nothing matters any more. She was not sorry to die when her time came; she would not have you troubled,--that is all. And now I will leave you. I am going to her."
The last sentence had a dreadful effect on Wilmot. In the agitation, the surprise, the pain of this interview, he had almost forgotten time; the present reality had nearly escaped him. He had been rapt away into a world of feeling, of passion; he had been absorbed in the sense of a discovery, and of something which seemed like an impossible injustice. With Henrietta's words it all vanished, and he remembered, with a start, that his wife lay dead upstairs. They were not talking of a life long extinguished, which in former years might have been made happier by him, but of one which had ended only a few hours ago; a life whose forsaken75 tenement76 was still untouched by "decay's effacing77 fingers." With all this new knowledge fresh upon him, with all this bewildering conviction of irreparable wrong, he might look upon the calm young face again. Not as he had looked upon it yesterday; not with the deep sorrow and the irresistible78 though unjustified compassion79 with which death in youth is always regarded, but with an exceeding and heart-rending bitterness, in comparison with which even that repentant80 grief was mild and merciful. The fixedness81, the blank, the silence, would be far more dreadful, far more reproachful now, when he knew that he had never understood, never appreciated her--had unwittingly tortured her; now when he knew that, in all her youth and beauty, she had been glad to die. Glad to die! The words had a tremendous, an unbearable82 meaning for him. If even the last month could have been unlived! If only he had not had that to reproach himself with, to justify83 her! In vain, in vain. In that one moment of unspeakable suffering Wilmot felt that his punishment, however grave his offence, was greater than he could bear.
He turned away from Henrietta with the air of a man to whom another word would be intolerable, and sat down wearily. She stood still, looking at him, as if awaiting an answer or a dismissal.
At length she said, "Have you forgotten, Dr. Wilmot, that I asked your permission to carry out Mabel's wish?"
"No," he said drearily84, "I remember. Of course do as you like; I should say, as she directed. I suppose the object of her request was, that I should see her no more, in death either. Well, well--it is fortunate that did not succeed too." He spoke in a patient, broken tone, which touched Henrietta's heart. But her perverted85 notion of truth and loyalty86 to the dead held her back from showing any sign of softening87. Just as she was leaving the room he said:
"Such a course is very unusual, is it not?"
"I believe so," she replied; "but the servants know it was her desire."
Then Henrietta Prendergast went away; and presently he heard a slight sound in that awful room overhead, and he knew she had taken her place beside the dead. He felt, as he sat for hours of that day quite alone, like a banished88 man. His wife was doubly dead to him now. All his married life had grown on a sudden unreal; and when he thought of the still white face which he was to see once, and only once more, for ever, it was with a strange sense of dread13 and avoidance, and not with the tender sorrow which, even amid the shock and self-reproach of yesterday, had come to his relief.
Somehow, he could not have told how, with the inevitable interruptions, the wretched necessary business of such a time, the hours of that day passed over Chudleigh Wilmot's head, and the night came. He had looked his last upon his wife, had taken his solemn leave of the death-chamber. She lay now in her coffin, sealed, hidden from sight for evermore, and there was nothing now but the long dreary89 waiting. In its turn that too passed, and in due time the funeral day; and Chudleigh Wilmot was quite alone in his silent house, and had only to look back into the past. Forward into the future he did not dare, he had not heart to look. A kind of blank, the reaction from intense excitement, had set in with him, and for the first time in his life his physical strength flagged. The claims of his business began to press upon him; people sent for him, respectfully and hesitatingly, but with some confidence that he would come, nevertheless. And Wilmot went; and was received with condoling90 looks, which he affected not to see, and compassionating91 tones, of which he took no notice.
He had no more to do with the past--he had buried it; his sole desire was that others should aid him in this apparent oblivion; how far from real it was, he alone could have told. He had written to Kilsyth a few indispensable lines, and had had a formal report of Madeleine's health, which he had conscientiously92 tried to range with other professional documents, and lay by with them. It was certainly a dark and dreary time, endless in length, and so hopeless, so final, that it seemed to have no outlet93; a time than which Chudleigh Wilmot believed life could never bring him a darker. But trouble was new to him. He learned more about it later on in his day.
When a fortnight had elapsed after Wilmot's return to London, and the tumult94 of his mind had subsided95, though the bitterness of his feelings was not yet allayed96, he chanced one morning to require a paper, which he knew was to be found in a certain cabinet which filled a niche97 in the wall of his consulting-room. The cabinet in question was one he rarely opened; and the moment he attempted to turn the key, he felt confident that the lock had been tampered98 with. The conviction was singularly unpleasant; for the cabinet was a repository of private papers, deeds, letters, and professional notes. It also contained several poisons, which Wilmot kept there in what he supposed to be inviolable security. Closer inspection99 confirmed his suspicions. The lock had been opened by the simple process of breaking it; and the doors, merely laid together, had caught on a jagged piece of metal, and thus presented the slight obstacle they had offered. With a mere100 shake they unclosed.
This circumstance puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. He made a careful examination of the contents of the cabinet. All was precisely101 as he had left it; not a paper missing or disturbed.
"Who can have been at the cabinet?" he thought, "and with what motive46?--Nothing has been taken; nothing, so far as I can discover, has been touched. Mere curiosity would hardly tempt25 anyone to run such a risk; and no one knew that there was anything of value here. Stay," he reflected; "one person knew it. She knew it; she knew that I kept private papers here. No doubt it was she who opened the cabinet. But with what motive? What can she possibly have wanted which she could have hoped to find here?"
No answer to this query102 presented itself to Wilmot's mind. He thought and thought over it, painfully recurring103 to all Mrs. Prendergast had told him, and trying to help himself to a solution of this mystery by the aid of those which had preceded it. For some time he thought in vain; at length the idea struck him that the jealous woman, restless and miserable in her unhappy curiosity--he could understand now what she had felt, he could pity her now--had opened the cabinet to seek for letters from some fancied rival in his affections. Nothing but his belief in the perversion104 of mind which comes of the indulgence of such a passion as jealousy could have led Wilmot to suspect his wife of such an act for a moment. But he was a wise man, now that it was too late, in that lore105 which he had never studied while he might have read the book, and he recognised the transforming power of jealousy. Yes, that was it doubtless; she had sought here for the material wherewith to feed the flame that had tortured her.
Chudleigh Wilmot took the paper he wanted from the place where it had lain, and was about to close the doors of the cabinet once more--restoring them, until he could have the lock repaired, to their deceptive106 appearance of security--when his attention was caught by a dark-coloured spot, about the size of a shilling, upon the topmost sheet of a packet of papers which lay beside a small mahogany case containing the before-mentioned poisons. He took the packet out and examined it. The spot was there, and extended to every paper in the packet. A sudden flush and expression of vague alarm crossed Wilmot's face. He took up the case and examined the exterior107. A dark mark, the stain of some glutinous108 fluid, ran down the side of the box next which the papers had lain. For a moment he held the case in his hands, and literally109 dared not open it. Then in sickening fear he did so, and found its contents apparently110 undisturbed. The box was divided into ten little compartments111, in each of which stood a tiny bottle, glass-stoppered and covered with a leaden capsule. To the neck of each was appended a little leaden seal, the mark of the French chemist from whom Wilmot had purchased the deadly drugs. He took the bottles out one by one, examined their seals, and held them up to the light. All safe for nine out of the number; but as he touched the tenth, the capsule with the leaden seal attached to it fell off, and Wilmot discovered, with ineffable112 horror, that the bottle, which had contained one of the deadliest poisons known to science, was half empty.
He set down the case, and reeled against the corner of the mantelshelf near him, like a drunken man. He could not face the idea that had taken possession of him; he could not collect his thoughts. He gasped113 as though water were surging round him. Once more he took up the bottle and looked at it. It was only too true; one half the contents was missing. He closed the case, and pushed it back into its place. It struck against something on the shelf of the cabinet. He felt for the object, and drew out his wife's seal-ring!
And now Chudleigh Wilmot knew what was the terror that had seized him. It was no longer vague; it stood before him clear, defined, unconquerable; and he groaned114:
"My God! she destroyed herself!".
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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utterly
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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asunder
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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engrossed
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curbed
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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agitation
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affected
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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heartily
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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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averted
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briefly
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astonishment
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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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coffin
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persevere
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whim
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remonstrate
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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45
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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47
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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50
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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51
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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52
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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53
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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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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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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57
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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58
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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62
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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80
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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81
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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82
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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83
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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84
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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85
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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86
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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87
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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88
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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compassionating
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| v.同情（compassionate的现在分词形式） | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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99
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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100
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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101
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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102
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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103
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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104
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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105
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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106
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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107
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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108
glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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109
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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110
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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111
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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112
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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113
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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114
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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