In those few last earthly hours the "what might have been" had passed through her mind, and passed away again, leaving behind it no trace of anguish31 or remorse. Not only to Wilmot had the time since their first acquaintance at Kilsyth passed in review in phantasmagoric semblance32; Madeleine had often gone through such scenes in the short drama, recollecting33 every detail, remembering much which had been overlooked even in his rapid summary. "What might have been!" Even suppose the dearest, the only real aspiration10 of her heart had been accomplished34, and sire had become Chudleigh Wilmot's wife, would not the inevitable35 end have had additional distress36 and misery37 to both of them? The inevitable end! for she must have died--she knew that; not for one instant did she imagine that any combination of circumstances different from what had actually occurred could have averted38 or postponed39 the fulfilment of the dread decree. Her married life had not been specially40 happy; then should she not have less regret in leaving it? Would not the pangs41 of parting be robbed of half their bitterness by the knowledge that her husband left behind would not sink under the blow? What might have been? Ah, Wilmot would feel her loss acutely, she knew that; the one outburst of grief, of passionate42 tenderness and heartfelt agony which had escaped him had told her that; but he would feel it less than if what might have been had been, and she had been taken away from him in the early days of their love and happiness.
A notion that such thoughts as these might have filled the mind of her for whom they mourned occurred to each of those by whom the dead girl was really loved, not indeed at once nor simultaneously43, but at divers44 times, as they pondered over the blank which her loss had left in their lives. Among this number Mr. Ramsay Caird was not to be reckoned. The solemn announcement which, at his own request, Dr. Wilmot had made to him as to the impossibility of his wife's recovery and the probable short duration of her illness had had very little effect on the young man. What were the motives45 which prompted him were known to himself alone; but the insouciance46, to use the mildest term for it, which had prompted him during the whole of his short married life seemed in no way diminished even by the dread news which had been communicated to him. He acknowledged that he had seen Dr. Wilmot, and had asked him his opinion; that that opinion had been very serious, and to some persons would have been alarming, but that he was not easily alarmed, and that he was utterly47 and entirely48 incredulous in the present instance. Madeleine had a bad cough, and was naturally delicate on her chest, and that sort of thing; she did not wrap up enough when she went out, and sat in draughts49: but as to the way in which they all went on about her--well, they would find that he was right, and then they would be sorry they had listened to any such nonsense. He said this to Lady Muriel; for both Kilsyth and Ronald shrunk from any communication with him. Bitterest among all the bitter feelings which oppressed these two men, so different in mind and spirit, but with their love centred on the same object, was the thought that they had given up the guardianship50 of their treasure to one who was utterly unworthy of it, and, as one of them at least confessed to himself with keen remorse, had blighted51 two lives by unreasoning and short-sighted pride.
So, while his young wife had been gradually declining, Ramsay Caird had made very little alteration52 in the mode of life which he had thought fit to pursue since the earliest days of his marriage. Relying principally on the fact, which he was constantly urging, that he was of "no use," he absented himself more and more from his home; and when "doing duty" there, as he phrased it, strove in no way to hide the dislike with which he regarded the irksome task. Companionship was necessary to Ramsay Caird, and was not to be obtained, he found, among the class with whom since his arrival in London and his domestication53 in Brook54-street he had been accustomed to associate. The men who had been pleasantly familiar with him in those days stood aloof55, and seemed by no means anxious to continue the acquaintance. They had come, soon after his marriage, and dined in the little red-flocked tank in Squab-street, but that was principally for Madeleine's sake; and when rumours56 as to the newly-founded ménage grew rife57, and more especially after Tommy Toshington's delightful58 story of seeing Caird at Madame Favorita's door had got wind, the men generally agreed that he was a bad lot, and fought as shy of him as was compatible with common politeness. For it is to be noted59 that the loose-living Benedick, the married man who glories in his own escapades and talks with unctuous60 smack61 of his dissipations, is generally shunned62 by those men of his own set, who are by no means strait-laced, and forced to seek his company in a lower grade.
Ramsay Caird began to be bored and oppressed by his wife's illness, and by the constant presence of her father and brother at his house. It is true that he never saw these unwelcome visitors--on both sides any meeting was studiously avoided--but he could not help knowing of their being constantly with the invalid63; and his own conscience, as much of it as he had ever possessed, did not fail to tell him what must be their indubitable opinion of him and his conduct. The companions too with whom he had taken up--for Ramsay Caird was essentially64 gregarious65, and especially during the last few months had found the impossibility of living without excitement--the new companions with whom he consorted66, and who were principally half-sporting, half-military, whole raffish67 adventurers, always well dressed, and retaining a certain hold on society, where they once had been well received,--these men encouraged Caird in his dislike to his home, and assisted him in the invention of plausible68 excuses to get away from it. The fact that he had "gone on to the turf," which he had at first taken every precaution to prevent his connections in Brook-street from becoming acquainted with, and which, when some kind common friend had told them of it, struck Kilsyth with silent horror, and aroused much burning and outspoken69 indignation in Ronald, was now put forward on every occasion, just as though it had been a legitimate70 business on which he was employed. "Meetings" were constantly taking place all over the country at which his attendance was indispensable, and he was soon well known as one of the regular frequenters of the betting-ring. On his return the servants in Squab-street could generally tell what had been the result of his betting speculations71; but only to them and to one other person did he ever show his temper. And that one other person was Lady Muriel--the proud Lady Muriel--who in all matters between her husband and this man, who by her instrumentality had become the husband of her husband's daughter, had to be the go-between; to her it was left to soften19 his irregularities and gloss72 them over as best she might, and she alone possessed his confidence. To be the confidante of a gambler and the apologist for a debauchee was scarcely what Lady Muriel had expected when she gave her pledge to dying Stewart Caird, and when she intrigued73 and manoeuvred so successfully in gaining her stepdaughter's hand for Ramsay.
Three days before Madeleine's death Ramsay Caird announced to Lady Muriel, whom he stopped as she was about to ascend74 the stairs to the invalid's room, that he wanted to speak to her, and, on joining him in the red-flocked tank, told her that he was about to start that night for Paris. There were races at Chantilly in which he was very much interested, having a large sum at stake, and it was absolutely necessary that he should be on the spot to watch and avail himself of the fluctuations75 in the betting-ring. Then, for the first time during their acquaintance, Lady Muriel spoke2 out to her quondam protégé. The long-repressed emotions under which she was suffering seemed to have given her eloquence76; she drew a vivid picture of "what might have been" if Ramsay's conduct had been different, and lashed77 his present life and pursuits, the company he kept, and the general degradation78 into which he had fallen, with an unsparing tongue. She implored79 him to give up his intended journey, assuring him that he either would not or could not understand the extreme danger of his wife's position, pointing out to him what scandal must necessarily arise from his absenting himself at such a time, and telling him that his past conduct during his married life, already sufficiently80 commented upon by the world, might to a certain extent be condoned81 by his doing his duty and devoting himself to his home for the future. Ramsay listened impatiently, as men of his stamp always listen to such advice, and then he in his turn spoke out. He said that he would be his own master, that he would brook no interference with his plans, that already he was a mere82 cipher83 in his own house, which was invaded and occupied by other people at their own pleasure, and that he would stand it no longer; then, after this outburst, he moderated his tone, apologised to Lady Muriel for his violence, and told her that, though the importance of his business arrangements and the largeness of his venture made it absolutely necessary for him to go to Paris on this occasion, yet it should be the last; he would do as her ladyship wished him, as he felt he ought to do, and his enemies should find that he was not so black as by some persons he had been painted.
So Ramsay Caird and a select circle of British turfites took their departure by that night's mail, and enjoyed themselves very much, smoking, drinking, and playing cards whenever it was practicable on the journey. Most of them were men whose acquaintance Caird had made some time previously84; but amongst them there was a Frenchman, a M. Leroux, whom Ramsay had never previously seen, although the little gentleman said he had frequently been in England, and seemed perfectly85 conversant86 with the English language, manners, and customs. He was a lively, vivacious87, gasconading little fellow; and any temporary depression of spirits which Ramsay Caird may have felt after his interview with Lady Muriel quite vanished under the influence of M. Leroux's conversation. He and M. Leroux seemed to have taken a mutual88 liking89 to each other; they went together to the races, where Caird won a large sum of money, Leroux not being quite so fortunate; and on their return to Paris, Ramsay declined to join his English friends, and dined with Leroux and some very agreeable Frenchmen to whom Leroux had introduced him at the races. The dinner was excellent; and after they had done full justice to it, and to the wines which accompanied it, they all adjourned90 so some neighbouring rooms belonging to one of their number, where cards and dice91 were speedily introduced. Again Ramsay Caird's luck stood by him. Malheureux en amour, he was destined to be heureux en jeu on this occasion at least. Nothing could alter or diminish his flow of success; no matter what he played, lansquenet, baccarat, hazard, he won largely at them all; and when at a very late hour he left the rooms in company with Leroux and two of his friends, his pockets were filled with notes and gold. They were quite empty when they were examined about noon the next day by the attendants at the Morgue, whither Ramsay Caird's dead body, found in the Seine with a deep gash92 in its breast, had been conveyed.
M. Leroux and his friends did not come so well out of this little affair as they had expected. They knew that Ramsay was a stranger in Paris, known only to the English sporting-men in whose company he had arrived there, and who had probably returned to England. But they did not make allowance for the fact that of all cities Paris has a charm for the "English division," who, if they have won any money, linger for a few days amongst its pleasures, one of which undoubtedly93 is a frequent visit to the Morgue. By one of these late lingerers, no less a person than Captain Severn, the body of Ramsay Caird was seen and recognised; inquiries94 were at once set on foot; the waiter at the restaurant, the concierge95 at the house where the play had taken place, were examined, and gave their evidence. M. Leroux and his two friends were apprehended96; one of the friends turned traitor97 (his share of the spoil had been too small), and Leroux and the other, being found guilty of murder under extenuating98 circumstances, were sentenced to the galleys99 for life.
The news of this catastrophe100 was conveyed to the Kilsyth family in a letter addressed by Captain Severn to Ronald, which letter lay unopened in Brook-street for several days. Ronald Kilsyth was far too much crushed and broken by the blow, which, for all their long expectation of its advent, had yet fallen suddenly upon them at the last, to attend to anything unconnected, as he imagined, with the dead. He had indeed carelessly glanced at the cover of this letter, with several others; but the handwriting was unfamiliar101 to him, and he put it aside, to be opened at a later opportunity. It was not until two or three days afterwards, when Ramsay Caird had been sought in vain, and when Lady Muriel had confessed that he had confided102 to her his intention of going to Paris, that Ronald recollected103 the letter in the strange handwriting with the Paris postmark. He sent for the letter, and read it through without the smallest sign of emotion. He was a hard man, Ronald Kilsyth, and the softening104 effect of his sister's illness only included her and those who were fond of her. Ronald knew well enough that Ramsay Caird did not come within this category, and he felt no pity for his fate.
He communicated the news to his father more as a matter of form than anything else; for the shock of his beloved child's death had almost deprived Kilsyth of his reason. Like Rachel, he refused to be comforted, and would sit hour after hour in one position on his chair, his eyes fixed105 on vacancy106, his chin resting on his breast, his hands idly clasped before him. Nothing seemed to rouse him,--not even the news which had been conveyed to Ronald in Captain Severn's letter. He comprehended it, for he said "Poor Ramsay!" once, and once only; then heaved a deep sigh, and never alluded107 to his dead son-in-law again. His thoughts were filled with reminiscences of his lost darling, and he had none to bestow108 on anyone else. "My poor Maddy!" "My bonnie lass!" "My own childie!"--he would sit and repeat these phrases over and over again; then steal away down to the house where all that was left of her still lay, and remain on his knees by the coffin109, until Ronald would come and half forcibly lead him away. He left London immediately after the funeral, and never could be persuaded to return to it. After a while, the fresh mountain air, to which he had been so accustomed, and away from which he was never well, had some of its old restorative effect, and Kilsyth recovered most of his physical strength and some of his old pleasure in field sports; but his zest110 for life was gone, and the gullies mourned the alteration in the chief whom they loved so much.
The death of Ramsay Caird under such horrible circumstances was a crushing blow to Lady Muriel. This, then, was the end of all her schemes and plots; this the result of so much mental agony and remorse endured by herself--of so much grief and cruel injustice111 inflicted112 by her on others. She had kept the promise she had made to Stewart Caird on his deathbed, two lives had been sacrificed, two loves had been blighted--but she had kept her promise. For the first time in her life "my lady's" courage failed her; and her conscience showed her how recklessly she had availed herself of the means to gain her ends. For the first time in her life she dreaded113 meeting the glances of the world. More than all men she dreaded Ronald Kilsyth, knowing as she did full well how she had used him for her own purposes, and with what lamentable114 results. She had been seriously affected115 by Madeleine's death--like many worldly people, never knowing how much she had loved the girl until she lost her; and now the fact of Ramsay's murder under such discreditable circumstances--a story which had been made public in the newspapers, where the world could glean116 the undeniable truth that the murdered man had left what was actually his wife's deathbed to attend some races--seemed to overwhelm her The young men who visited at the house had been in the habit of expressing to each other great admiration117 of Lady Muriel's "pluck"--that quality did not desert her even at her worst. She made head against her troubles, and never gave in; but those intimate enemies who saw her before she left London with her husband declared Lady Muriel to be "quite broken" and a "thorough wreck118."
And Chudleigh Wilmot? He lived, of course; lived, and ate and drank, and pursued very much his usual course of life. Well, no; not quite his usual course of life. The effect of the death of the one woman whom in his lifetime he had loved was to him much as are the gunshot wounds of which we sometimes hear officers and army surgeons tell; wounds where the hit man feels a slight concussion119 at the moment, and does not know until a short time afterwards that he is stunned120, paralysed for ever. While Wilmot had been watching the insidious121 progress of Madeleine's disease, his mental misery at times was most acute; every variation in her was apparent to his practised eye; and day by day he saw the destroyer creeping stealthily onward122 in his attack, without the smallest power to resist him. When the bitter tidings of her death were brought by Ronald's servant, the words fell upon Chudleigh Wilmot's ear and smote123 him as if a sharp cut from a whip had fallen upon him. She whom he had loved so devotedly124, so hopelessly, so selflessly, was dead--he realised that. He knew that he should never see the light in her blue eyes, never hear the sweet soft tones of her voice again. He was thankful that, under the impulse of his grief, he had spoken to her out of his overcharged heart and told her how he loved her. He dared not have done it before, he dared not under any other circumstances have confessed the passion for her that had so long been the motive-power of his life; but then--"Happy, quand même!" Her last words--she never had spoken after that--her last words were addressed to him, and told him of her happiness.
It was not until after the funeral that Wilmot experienced the full effect of the blow, experienced it in the dead dull blankness which seemed for the second time to have fallen upon his life. He had had something of the kind before, but nothing equal in intensity125 to what he now suffered. He felt as though the light had died out, and that henceforward he was to walk in darkness, without care, without hope, without interest in any mortal thing. Previously he had found some relief in hard study; now he found it impossible to fix his attention on his hooks. The awful sense of something impending126 was perpetually upon him; the more awful sense of something wanting in his life never left him. The only time that a ray of comfort broke in upon him was when Ronald Kilsyth would come and sit with him, and they would talk of the dead girl for hours together, as Madeleine had predicted they would do. They are very much together now, these two men; Ronald has risen in the service, and he and Wilmot are engaged in ameliorating the condition of the common soldiers and their families, It was a work in which Madeleine at one time took much interest; and this was sufficient to recommend it to Wilmot, who at once took it up.
He is a middle-aged127 man now, with a grizzled head and a worn grave face. He has wealth and fame, and might have any position; but the world can offer him nothing that arouses in him the slightest interest, unless it be associated with the memory of his lost love.
END OF VOL. II.
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1
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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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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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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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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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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41
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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42
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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49
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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50
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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51
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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52
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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53
domestication
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| n.驯养，驯化 | |
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54
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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55
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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56
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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57
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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58
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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59
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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60
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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61
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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62
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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64
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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65
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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67
raffish
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| adj.名誉不好的，无赖的，卑鄙的，艳俗的 | |
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68
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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69
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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70
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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71
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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72
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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73
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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75
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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76
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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77
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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78
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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79
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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81
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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84
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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86
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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87
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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88
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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89
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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90
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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95
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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97
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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98
extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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99
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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100
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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101
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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102
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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103
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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105
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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106
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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107
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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109
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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110
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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111
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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112
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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115
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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116
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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117
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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118
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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119
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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120
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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121
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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122
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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123
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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124
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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125
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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126
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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127
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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