Pleasure, what is it? rightly to define,
Or rather alternately renewed
Gives to our lives a sweet vicissitude3.”—Brown.
The emotions Amanda experienced from reading this narrative4 deeply affected5 but gradually subsided6 from her mind, leaving it only occupied by pity for the penitent7 Lady Dunreath, and pleasure at the prospect8 of Oscar’s independence[Pg 442]—a pleasure so pure, so fervent9, that it had power to steal her from her sorrows; and when the recollection of them again returned, she endeavored to banish10 it by thinking of the necessity there was for immediately adopting some plan for the disclosure of the will Lady Dunreath had advised her to put into the hands of a friend of integrity and abilities.
“But where,” cried the desolate11 Amanda, “can I find such a friend?” The few, the very few whom she had reason to think regarded her, had neither power nor ability to assist her in what would probably be an arduous12 demand for restitution13. After sitting a considerable time in deep meditation14, the idea of Rushbrook suddenly occurred, and she started, as if in joyful15 surprise at the remembrance. She considered that, though almost a stranger to him, an application of such a nature must rather be regarded as a compliment than a liberty, from the great opinion it would prove she had of his honor by intrusting him with such a secret. From his looks and manner, she was well convinced he would not only deeply feel for the injured, but ably advise how those injuries should be redressed16. From his years and situation there could be no impropriety in addressing him, and she already in imagination beheld17 him her friend, advocate and adviser18. He also, she trusted, would be able to put her in a way of making inquiries19 after Oscar. Oh! how delightful20 the prospect of discovering that brother—of discovering, but to put him in possession of even a splendid independence! Ah! how sweet the idea of being again folded to a heart interested in her welfare, after being so long a solitary21 mourner treading the rugged22 path of life, and bending as she went beneath its adverse23 storm! Ah! how sweet again to meet an eye which should beam with tenderness on hers, an ear which should listen with attentive24 rapture25 to her accents, and a voice that would soothe26 with softest sympathy her sorrows! It is only those who, like her, have known the social ties of life in all their sweetness; who, like her, have mourned their loss with all the bitterness of anguish27, that can possibly conceive her feelings as these ideas occurred to her mind. “Oh, Oscar! oh, my brother!” she exclaimed, while tears wet her pale cheeks, “how rapturous the moment which restores you to me! How delightful to think your youth will no more experience the chill of poverty—your benevolence28 no longer suffer restraints! Now will your virtues29 shine forth30 with full lustre31, dignifying32 the house from which you have descended33, doing service to your country, and spreading diffusive34 happiness around.”
[Pg 443]
The morning surprised Amanda in the midst of her meditations35. She opened the shutters36, and hailed its first glories in the eastern hemisphere; the sunbeams, exhaling37 the mists of the valley, displayed its smiling verdure, forming a fine contrast to the deep shadows that yet partially38 enveloped39 the surrounding mountains. The morning breeze gently agitated40 the old trees, from whose bending heads unnumbered birds arose, and in their matin notes seemed to consecrate41 the first return of day to the Great Author of life and light!
Spontaneous praise burst from the lips of Amanda, and she felt all that calm and sweet delight which ever pervades42 a mind of religion and sensibility on viewing the rural beauties of nature. She left the charming scene to try and get a little rest, but she thought not of undressing; she soon sunk into a gentle sleep, and awoke with renovated43 spirits near the breakfast hour.
Mrs. Bruce expressed the utmost regret at the necessity there was for parting with her guests; but added, that “she believed, as well as hoped, their absence from her would be but short, as she was sure the marquis’s family would leave Scotland almost immediately after Lady Euphrasia’s nuptials44.” In vain did Amanda struggle for fortitude45 to support the mention of those nuptials; her frame trembled, her heart sickened, whenever they were talked of; the spirits she had endeavored to collect from the idea, that they would all be requisite46 in the important affair she must undertake, fleeted away at Mrs. Bruce’s words, and a heavy languor47 took possession of her.
They did not leave the Abbey till after tea in the evening, and the idea that she might soon behold48 her brother the acknowledged heir of that Abbey, cast again a gleam of pleasure on the sad heart of Amanda; a gleam, I say, for it faded before the almost instantaneous recollection, that ere that period Lord Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia would be united. Sunk in a profound melancholy49, she forgot her situation, heeded50 not the progress of the carriage, or remarked any object. A sudden jolt51 roused her from her reverie, and she blushed as she thought of the suspicions it might give rise to in the mind of Mrs. Duncan, whose intelligent eye on the preceding night had more than half confessed her knowledge of Amanda’s feelings. She now, though with some embarrassment52, attempted to enter into conversation, and Mrs. Duncan, who with deep attention had marked her pensive54 companion, with much cheerfulness rendered the attempt a successful one. The chaise was now turning from the valley, and Amanda leaned from her window[Pg 444] to take another view of Dunreath Abbey. The sun was already sunk below the horizon, but a track of glory still remained that marked the spot in which its daily course was finished; a dubious55 lustre yet played around the spires56 of the Abbey, and while it displayed its vast magnificence by contrast added to its gloom—a gloom heightened by the dreary57 solitude58 of its situation, for the valley was entirely59 overshaded by the dark projection60 of the mountains, on whose summits a few bright and lingering beams yet remained, that showed the wild shrubs61 waving in the evening breeze. A pensive spirit seemed now to have taken possession of Mrs. Duncan, a spirit congenial to the scene; and the rest of the little journey was passed almost in silence. Their lodgings62 were at the entrance of the town, and Mrs. Bruce had taken care they should find every requisite refreshment63 within them. The woman of the house had already prepared a comfortable supper for them, which was served up soon after their arrival. When over, Mrs. Duncan, assisted by Amanda, put the children to bed, as she knew, till accustomed to her, they would not like the attendance of the maid of the house. Neither she nor Amanda felt sleepy; it was a fine moonlight night, and they were tempted53 to walk out upon a terrace, to which a glass door from the room opened. The terrace overhung a deep valley which stretched to the sea, and the rocky promontory64 that terminated it was crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle; the moonbeams seemed to sleep upon its broken battlements, and the waves that stole murmuring to the shore cast a silvery spray around it. A pensive pleasure pervaded65 the hearts of Mrs. Duncan and Amanda, and conversing66 on the charms of the scene they walked up and down, when suddenly upon the floating air they distinguished67 the sound of a distant drum beating the tattoo68. Both stopped, and leaned upon a fragment of a parapet wall, which had once stretched along the terrace; and Mrs. Duncan, who knew the situation of the country, said that the sounds they heard proceeded from a fort near the town. They ceased in a short time, but were almost immediately succeeded by martial69 music; and Amanda soon distinguished an admired march of her father’s. Ah! how affectingly did it remind her of him! She recalled the moments in which she had played it for him, whilst he hung over her chair with delight and tenderness; she wept at the tender remembrance it excited—wept at listening to the sounds which had so often given to his pale cheek the flush of ardor70. They did not return to the house till convinced by a long interval of silence that the music had ceased for the night.
[Pg 445]
Amanda having formed a plan relative to the will, determined71 not to delay executing it. She had often mentioned to Mrs. Duncan her uneasiness concerning her brother, as an excuse for the melancholy that lady, in a half-serious, half-jesting manner, so often rallied her about; and she now intended to assign her journey to London (which she was resolved should immediately take place) to her anxious wish of discovering, or at least inquiring about him. The next morning she accordingly mentioned her intention. Mrs. Duncan was not only surprised, but concerned, and endeavored to dissuade72 her from it by representing, in the most forcible manner, the dangers she might experience in so long a journey without a protector.
Amanda assured her she was already aware of these, but the apprehensions73 they excited were less painful than the anxiety she suffered on her brother’s account, and ended by declaring her resolution unalterable.
Mrs. Duncan, who, in her heart, could not blame Amanda for such a resolution, now expressed her hopes that she would not make a longer stay in London than was absolutely necessary, declaring that her society would be a loss she could scarcely support.
Amanda thanked her for her tenderness, and said, “she hoped they should yet enjoy many happy days together.” She proposed travelling in a chaise to the borders of England, and then pursuing the remainder of the journey in a stage-coach. The woman of the house was sent for, and requested to engage a carriage for her against the morning, which she promised to do; and the intervening time was almost entirely passed by Mrs. Duncan in lamenting74 the approaching loss of Amanda’s society, and in entreaties75 for her to return as soon as possible. Till this period she did not know, nor did Amanda conceive, the strength of her friendship. She presented her purse to our heroine, and in the impassioned language of sincerity76, entreated77 her to consider it as the purse of a sister, and take from it whatever was necessary for her long journey and uncertain stay.
Amanda, who never wished to lie under obligations, when she could possibly avoid them, declined the offer; but with the warmest expressions of gratitude78 and sensibility, declaring (what she thought indeed would be the case), that she had more than sufficient for all her purposes; all, therefore, she would accept was what Mrs. Duncan owed her.
Mrs. Duncan begged her to take a letter from her to a family, near whose house her first day’s journey would terminate. They were relations of Mr. Duncan’s, she said, and had been[Pg 446] extremely kind to him and her. She had kept up a correspondence with them till her removal to Dunreath Abbey, when she dropped it, lest her residence there should be discovered; but such an opportunity of writing to them, by a person who would answer all their inquiries concerning her, she could not neglect; besides, she continued, they were the most agreeable and hospitable79 people she had ever known, and she was convinced would not suffer Amanda to sleep at an inn, but would probably keep her a few days at their house, and then escort her part of the way.
Averse80 to the society of strangers, in her present frame of mind, Amanda said she would certainly take the letter, but could not possibly present it herself. She thanked Mrs. Duncan for her solicitous81 care about her; but added, whether she lodged82 at an inn or private house for one night was of little consequence; and as to her journey being retarded83, it was what she never could allow.
Mrs. Duncan declared she was too fond of solitude, but did not argue the point with her. She wrote the letter, however.
They took leave of each other at night, as the chaise was ordered at an early hour. As Mrs. Duncan folded Amanda to her heart, she again besought84 her to hasten back, declaring that neither she nor her little girls would be themselves till she returned.
At an early hour Amanda entered the chaise; and, as she stepped into it, could not forbear casting a sad and lingering look upon a distant prospect, where, the foregoing evening, a dusky grove85 of firs had been pointed86 out to her, as encompassing87 the Marquis of Roslin’s Castle. Ah! how did her heart sicken at the idea of the event which either had or was soon to take place in that Castle! Ah! how did she tremble at the idea of her long and lonesome journey, and the difficulties she might encounter on its termination! How sad, how solitary, did she feel herself! Her mournful eyes filled with tears as she saw the rustic89 families hastening to their daily labors90; for her mind involuntarily drew a comparison between their situation and her own. And, ah! how sweet would their labor91 be to her, she thought, if she, like them, was encompassed92 with the social ties of life. Fears, before unthought of, rose in her mind, from which her timid nature shrunk appalled93. Should Rushbrook be absent from London, or should he not answer her expectations; but, “I deserve disappointment,” cried she, “if I thus anticipate it. Oh! let me not be over-exquisite
‘To cast the fashion of uncertain evils,’
[Pg 447] oppressed as I already am with real ones.” She endeavored to exert her spirits. She tried to amuse them by attending to the objects she passed, and gradually they lost somewhat of their heaviness. On arriving in London, she designed going to the haberdasher’s, where, it may be remembered, she had once met Miss Rushbrook; here she hoped to procure94 lodgings, also a direction to Rushbrook. It was about five when she stopped for the night, as the shortened days of autumn would not permit a longer journey, had the tired horses, which was not the case, been able to proceed. They stopped at the inn, which Mrs. Duncan had taken care to know would be the last stage of the first day’s journey; a small, but neat and comfortable house, romantically situated95 at the foot of a steep hill, planted with ancient firs, and crowned with the straggling remains96 of what appeared to have been a religious house, from a small cross which yet stood over a broken gateway97. A stream trickled98 from the hill, though its murmurs99 through the thick underwood alone denoted its rising there, and winding100 round the inn, flowed in meanders101 through a spacious102 vale, of which the inn was not the lone88 inhabitant, for cottages appeared on either side, and one large mansion103 stood in the centre, whose superior size and neat plantations104 proclaimed it master of the whole. This was really the case, for immediately on entering the inn Amanda had inquired about the Macqueen family, to whom Mrs. Duncan’s letter was directed, and learned that they inhabited this house, and owned the grounds to a large extent surrounding it. Amanda gave Mrs. Duncan’s letter to the landlady105, and begged she would send it directly to Mrs. Macqueen. The inn was without company; and its quiet retirement106, together with the appearance of the owners, an elderly pair, soothed107 the agitated spirits of Amanda. Her little dinner was soon served up; but when over, and she was left to herself, all the painful ideas she had sedulously108, and with some degree of success, attempted to banish from her mind in the morning, by attending to the objects she passed, now returned with full, or rather aggravated109, force. Books, those pleasing, and, in affliction, alleviating110 resources, she had forgotten to bring along with her, and all that the inn contained she had been shown on a shelf in the apartment she occupied, but without finding one that could possibly fix her attention or change her melancholy ideas; a ramble111, though the evening was uninviting, she preferred to the passive indulgence of her sorrow; and having ordered tea against her return, and invited the landlady to it, she was conducted to the garden of the inn, from whence she ascended112 the hill by a wind[Pg 448]ing path. She made her way with difficulty through a path, which, seldom trodden, was half-choked with weeds and brambles; the wind blew cold and sharp around her, and the gloom of closing day was heightened by thick and lowering clouds that involved the distant mountains in one dark shade. Near those mountains she knew the domain113 of Roslin lay; and from the bleak114 summit of the hill she surveyed them as a lone mourner would survey the sad spot in which the pleasure of his heart was buried. Forgetting the purpose for which she had walked out, she leaned in melancholy reverie against a fragment of the ruined building, nor heard approaching footsteps till the voice of her host suddenly broke upon her ear. She started, and perceived him accompanied by two ladies, who he directly informed her were Mrs. and Miss Macqueen. They both went up to Amanda, and after the usual compliments of introduction were over, Mrs. Macqueen took her hand, and with a smile of cordial good-nature, invited her to her house for the night, declaring that the pleasure she received from Mrs. Duncan’s letter was heightened by being introduced through its means to a person that lady mentioned as her particular friend. Miss Macqueen seconded her mother’s invitation, and said, “the moment they had read the letter they had come out for the purpose of bringing her back with them.” “Ay, ay,” said the host, good-humoredly (who was himself descended from one of the inferior branches of the Macqueens), “this is the way, ladies, you always rob me of my guests. In good faith, I think I must soon change my dwelling115, and go higher up the valley.”
Conscious from her utter dejection that she would be unable, as she wished, to participate in the pleasures of conversation, Amanda declined the invitation, alleging116, as an excuse for doing so, her intention of proceeding117 on her journey the next morning by dawn of day.
Mrs. Macqueen declared that she should act as she pleased in that respect, and both she and her daughter renewed their entreaties for her company with such earnestness, that Amanda could no longer refuse them; and they returned to the inn, where Amanda begged they would excuse her absence a few minutes; and retired118 to pay her entertainers, and repeat her charges to the postilion to be at the house as soon as he should think any of the family stirring. She then returned to the ladies, and attended them to their mansion, which might well be termed the seat of hospitality. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Macqueen, four sons, and six daughters, now all past childhood, and united to one another by the strictest ties of[Pg 449] duty and affection. After residing a few years at Edinburgh, for the improvement of the young people, Mr. and Mrs. Macqueen returned to their mansion in the valley, where a large fortune was spent in the enjoyment119 of agreeable society, and acts of benevolence. Mrs. Macqueen informed Amanda, during the walk, that all her family were now assembled together, as her sons, who were already engaged in different professions and businesses in various parts of the kingdom, made it a constant rule to pay a visit every autumn to their friends. It was quite dark before the ladies reached the house, and the wind was sharp and cold, so that Amanda found the light and warmth of the drawing-room, to which she was conducted, extremely agreeable. The thick window curtains and carpeting, and the enlivening fire, bid defiance120 to the sharpness of the mountain blast which howled without, and rendered the comforts within more delectable121 by the effect of contrast. In the drawing-room were assembled Mr. Macqueen, two of his daughters, and half a dozen ladies and gentlemen, to whom Amanda was presented, and they in return to her. In the countenance122 of Mr. Macqueen, Amanda perceived a benevolence equal to that which irradiated his wife’s. Both were past the prime of life; but in him only was its decline visible. He was lately grown so infirm as to be unable to remove without assistance. Yet was his relish123 for society undiminished; and in his arm-chair, his legs muffled124 in flannel125, and supported by pillows, he promoted as much as ever the mirth of his family, and saw with delight the dance go on in which he had once mixed with his children. Mrs. Macqueen appeared but as the eldest126 sister of her daughters; and between them all Amanda perceived a strong family likeness127. They were tall, well, but not delicately made; handsome, yet more indebted to the animation128 of their countenances129 than to regularity130 of features for beauty, which was rendered luxuriant by a quantity of rich auburn hair, that, unrestrained by superfluous131 ornaments132, fell in long ringlets on their shoulders, and curled with a sweet simplicity133 on their white polished foreheads.
“So the boys and girls are not yet returned,” said Mrs. Macqueen, addressing one of her daughters. “I am afraid they have taken their friends too far.” She had scarcely spoken, when a party was heard under the windows laughing and talking, who ascended the stairs immediately in a kind of gay tumult134. The drawing-room door opened, and a lady entered (of a most prepossessing appearance, though advanced in life), and was followed by a number of young people.
[Pg 450]
But, oh! what were the powerful emotions of Amanda’s soul, when amongst them she beheld Lady Araminta Dormer and Lord Mortimer! Shocked, confused, confounded, she strained an eye of agony upon them, as if with the hope of detecting an illusion, then dropped her head, anxious to conceal135 herself, though she was fatally convinced she could be but a few minutes unobserved by them. Never, amidst the many trying moments of her life, had she experienced one more dreadful. To behold Lord Mortimer, when she knew his esteem136 for her was lost, at a period, too, when he was hastening to be united to another woman, oh! it was agony, torture in the extreme! Vainly did she reflect she deserved not to lose his esteem. This consciousness could not at present inspire her with fortitude. Her heart throbbed137 as if it would burst; her bosom138, her frame trembled, and she alternately experienced the glow of confusion and the chill of dismay—dismay at the idea of meeting the silent but expressive139 reproach of Lord Mortimer’s eye for her imaginary errors—dismay at the idea of meeting the contempt of his aunt (who was the lady that first entered the room) and sister.
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1
ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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2
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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3
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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4
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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6
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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7
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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8
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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9
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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10
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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11
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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12
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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13
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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14
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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15
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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redressed
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| v.改正( redress的过去式和过去分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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17
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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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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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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27
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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29
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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30
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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32
dignifying
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| 使显得威严( dignify的现在分词 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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34
diffusive
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| adj.散布性的，扩及的，普及的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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38
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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39
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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41
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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42
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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45
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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46
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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47
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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48
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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49
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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50
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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52
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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53
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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54
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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55
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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56
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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57
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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58
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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59
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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60
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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61
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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62
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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63
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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64
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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65
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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67
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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68
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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69
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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70
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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71
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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72
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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73
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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74
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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75
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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76
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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77
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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79
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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80
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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81
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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82
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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83
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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84
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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85
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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86
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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87
encompassing
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| v.围绕( encompass的现在分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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88
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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89
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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90
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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91
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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92
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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93
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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94
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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95
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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96
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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97
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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98
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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99
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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100
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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101
meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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102
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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103
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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104
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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105
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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106
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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107
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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108
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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109
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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110
alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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111
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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112
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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114
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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115
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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116
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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117
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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118
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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119
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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120
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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121
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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122
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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123
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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124
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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125
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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126
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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127
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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128
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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129
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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130
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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131
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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132
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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134
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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135
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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136
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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137
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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138
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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139
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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