Nor be by glittering ills betrayed.”
To open our hearts to those we know will commiserate2 our sorrows is the sweetest consolation3 those sorrows can receive; to you, then, madam, I divulge4 mine, sure at least of pity. At the time I first had the happiness of seeing you, the little credit my father had was exhausted5, and his inability to pay being well known, he was arrested one evening as he sat by the bedside of my almost expiring mother! I will not pain your gentle nature by dwelling6 on the horrors of that moment, on the agonies of a parent, and a husband torn from a family so situated7 as was my father’s. Feeble, emaciated8, without even sufficient clothing to guard him from the inclemency9 of the weather, he leaned upon the arm of one of the bailiffs, as he turned his eyes from that wife he never more expected to behold10. She fainted at the moment he left the room, and it was many minutes ere I had power to approach her. The long continuance of her fit at length recalled my distracted thoughts; but I had no restoratives to apply, no assistance to recover her, for my eldest11 brother had followed my father, and the rest of the children, terrified by the scene they had witnessed, wept together[Pg 481] in a corner of the room. I at last recollected12 a lady who lived nearly opposite to us, and from whom I hoped to procure13 some relief for her. Nothing but the present emergency could have made me apply to her, for the attention she had paid us on first coming to Mr. Heathfield’s was entirely14 withdrawn15 after his death. Pride, however, was forgotten at the present moment, and I flew to her house. The servant showed me into a parlor17, where she, her daughters, and a young clergyman I had never before seen, were sitting at tea. I could not bring myself to mention my distress18 before a stranger, and accordingly begged to speak to her in another room; but she told me in a blunt manner I might speak there. In a low and faltering19 voice, which sighs and tears often impeded20, I acquainted her of what had happened, the situation of my mother, and requested a cordial for her. How great was my confusion when she declared aloud all I had told her, and turning to her daughter, bid her give me part of a bottle of wine. ‘Ay, ay,’ cried she, ‘I always thought things would turn out so. It was really very foolish of Mr. Heathfield to bring you to his house, and lead you all into such expenses!’ I listened to no more, but taking the wine with a silent pang21, retired22.
“I had not been many minutes returned, and was kneeling by the bedside of my mother, who began to show some symptoms of returning life, when a gentle knock came to the hall-door. I supposed it my brother, and bade one of the children fly to open it. What was my surprise when in a few minutes she returned, followed by the young clergyman I had just seen. I started from my kneeling posture23, and my looks expressed my wonder. He approached, and in the soft accent of benevolence24, apologized for his intrusion; but said he came with a hope and a wish that he might be serviceable. Oh! how soothing25 was his voice! Oh! how painfully pleasing the voice of tenderness to the wretched! The tears which pride and indignation had suspended but a few moments before again began flowing.
“But I will not dwell upon my feelings; suffice it to say, that every attention which could mitigate27 my wretchedness he paid, and that his efforts, aided by mine, soon restored my mother. His looks, his manner, his profession, all conspired28 to calm her spirits, and she blessed the power which so unexpectedly had given us a friend. My brother returned from my father merely to inquire how we were, and to go back to him directly. The stranger requested permission to accompany him; a request most pleasing to us, as we trusted his soothing[Pg 482] attention would have the same effect upon his sorrowing heart as it had upon ours. Scarcely were they gone ere a man arrived from a neighboring hotel with a basket loaded with wine and provisions. But to enumerate30 every instance of this young man’s goodness would be encroaching upon your patience. In short, by his care, my mother in a few days was able to be carried to my father’s prison. Mrs. Connel, who, on the first intimation of our distress, had come to us, took me into the house at a stated salary, which was to be given to my parents, and the rest of the children were to continue with them. My mother desired me one evening to take a walk with the children to Kensington, as she thought them injured by constant confinement31. Our friend attended us, and in our way thither32, informed me that he must soon leave town, as he was but a country curate, and his leave of absence from his rector was expired. It was above a month since we had known him, during which time his attentions were unremitting, and he was a source of comfort to us all. A sudden chill came over my heart as he spoke33, and every sorrow at that moment seemed aggravated34. On entering Kensington gardens, I seated myself on a little rising mount, for I felt trembling and fatigued36, and he sat beside me. Never had I before felt so oppressed, and my tears gushed37 forth38 in spite of my efforts to restrain them. Something I said of their being occasioned by the recollection of the period when my parents enjoyed the charming scene I now contemplated39 along with him. ‘Would to Heaven,’ cried he, ‘I could restore them again to the enjoyment40 of it.’
“‘Ah,’ said I, ‘they already lie under unreturnable obligations to you. In losing you,’ added I, involuntarily, ‘they would lose their only comfort.’ ‘Since then,’ cried he, ‘you flatter me by saying it is in my power to give them comfort, oh! let them have a constant claim upon me for it! Oh! Emily!’ he continued, taking my hand, ‘let them be my parents as well as yours; then will their too scrupulous41 delicacy42 be conquered, and they will receive as a right what they now consider as a favor.’ I felt my cheeks glow with blushes, but still did not perfectly43 conceive his meaning. ‘My destiny is humble44,’ he continued; ‘was it otherwise, I should long since have entreated45 you to share it with me. Could you be prevailed on to do so, you would give it pleasures it never yet experienced.’ He paused for a reply, but I was unable to give one.
“Ah! madam, how little necessity either was there for one; my looks, my confusion, betrayed my feelings. He urged me[Pg 483] to speak, and at last I acknowledged I should not hesitate to share his destiny, but for my parents, who, by such a measure, would lose my assistance. ‘Oh! do not think,’ cried he, ‘I would ever wish to tempt46 you into any situation which should make you neglect them.’ He then proceeded to say that, though unable at present to liberate47 them, yet he trusted that if they consented to our union, he should by economy be enabled to contribute more essentially48 to their support than I could do, and also be able in a short time to discharge their debts. His proposals were made known to them, and met their warmest approbation49. The pleasure they derived50 from them was more on my account than their own, as the idea of having me so settled removed a weight of anxiety from their minds; some of my brothers and sisters should live with us, he said, and promised my time should be chiefly spent in doing fine works, which should be sent to Mrs. Connel to dispose of for my parents; and also that, from time to time, I should visit them till I had the power of bringing them to my cottage, for such he described his residence.
“He was compelled to go to the country, but it was settled he should return in a short time, and have everything finally settled. In about a week after his departure, as I was returning one morning from a lady’s, where I had been on a message from Mrs. Connel, a gentleman joined me in the street, and with a rude familiarity endeavored to enter into conversation with me. I endeavored to shake him off, but could not succeed, and hastened home with the utmost expedition, whither I saw he followed me. I thought no more of the incident till about two days after I saw him enter the shop, and heard him inquire of Mrs. Connel about her lodgings51, which to my great mortification52 he immediately took, for I could not help suspecting he had some improper53 motive54 for taking them. I resolved, however, if such a motive really existed, to disappoint it by keeping out of his way; but all my vigilance was unavailing; he was continually on the watch for me, and I could not go up or down stairs without being insulted by him. I at length informed Mrs. Connel of his conduct, and entreated her to fulfil the sacred trust her friends reposed55 in her, when they gave me to her care, by terminating the insults of Mr. Sipthorpe. Alas56! could I have possibly foreseen the consequences that would have followed my application to her, I should have borne these insults in silence. She has already informed you of them. Oh! madam! when the letter came which dissolved a promise so cheerfully, so fondly given, every[Pg 484] prospect57 of felicity was in a moment overshadowed! For a long time I resisted every effort that was made to prevail on me to marry Sipthorpe; but when at last my mother said she was sorry to find my feelings less than his, who had so generously resigned me, that my father might be extricated58 from his difficulties, I shrunk with agony at the rebuke59. I wondered, I was shocked, how I could have so long hesitated to open the prison gates of my father, and determined60 from that moment to sacrifice myself for him; for oh! Miss Donald, it is a sacrifice of the most dreadful nature I am about making. Sipthorpe is a man I never could have liked, had my heart even been disengaged.”
Amanda felt the truest pity for her young friend, who ended her narrative61 in tears; but she did not, by yielding entirely to that pity (as too many girls with tender hearts, but weak heads, might have done), heighten the sorrow of Miss Rushbrook. She proved her friendship and sympathy more sincerely than she could have done by mere29 expressions of condolement, which feed the grief they commiserate, in trying to reconcile her to a destiny that seemed irrevocable. She pointed62 out the claims a parent had upon a child, and dwelt upon the delight a child experienced when conscious of fulfilling those claims. She spoke of the rapture63 attending the triumph of reason and humanity over self and passion, and mentioned the silent plaudits of the heart as superior to all gratification or external advantages. She spoke from the real feelings of her soul. She recollected the period at which, to a father’s admonition, she had resigned a lover, and had that father been in Captain Rushbrook’s situation, and the same sacrifice been demanded from her as from Emily, she felt, without hesitation64, she would have made it. She was indeed a monitress that had practised, and would practise (was there a necessity for so doing) the lessons she gave, not as poor Ophelia says—
The sweet consciousness of this gave energy, gave more than usual eloquence68 to her language; but whilst she wished to inspirit her young friend, she felt from the tenderness of her nature, and the sad situation of her own heart, what that friend must feel from disappointed affection and a reluctant union. Scarcely could she refrain from weeping over a fate so wretched, and which she was tempted69 to think as dreadful as[Pg 485] her own; but a little reflection soon convinced her she had the sad pre-eminence of misery70; for in her fate there were none of those alleviations as in Emily’s, which she was convinced must, in some degree, reconcile her to it. Her sufferings, unlike Emily’s, would not be rewarded by knowing that they contributed to the comfort of those dearest to her heart.
“Your words, my dear madam,” said Emily, “have calmed my spirits; henceforth I will be more resolute71 in trying to banish72 regrets from my mind. But I have been inconsiderate to a degree in keeping you so long from rest, after your fatiguing73 journey.” Amanda indeed appeared at this moment nearly exhausted, and gladly hastened to bed. Her slumbers74 were short and unrefreshing; the cares which clung to her heart when waking were equally oppressive while sleeping. Lord Mortimer mingled75 in the meditations76 of the morning, in the visions of the night, and when she awoke she found her pillow wet with the tears she had shed on his account. Emily was already up, but on Amanda’s drawing back the curtain she laid down the book she was reading, and came to her. She saw she looked extremely ill, and, imputing77 this to fatigue35, requested she would breakfast in bed; but Amanda, who knew her illness proceeded from a cause which neither rest nor assiduous care could cure, refused complying with this request, and immediately dressed herself.
As she stood at the toilet, Emily suddenly exclaimed, “If you have a mind to see Sipthorpe, I will show him to you now, for he is just going out.” Amanda went to the window, which Emily gently opened; but, oh! what was the shock of that moment, when in Sipthorpe she recognized the insidious78 Belgrave! A shivering horror ran through her veins79, and recoiling80 a few paces she sunk half fainting on a chair. Emily, terrified by her appearance, was flying to the bell to ring for assistance, when, by a faint motion of her hand, Amanda prevented her. “I shall soon be better,” said she, speaking with difficulty; “but I will lie down on the bed for a few minutes, and I beg you may go to your breakfast.” Emily refused to go, and entreated, that instead of leaving her, she might have breakfast brought up for them both. Amanda assured her she could take nothing at present, and wished for quiet. Emily therefore reluctantly left her. Amanda now endeavored to compose her distracted thoughts, and quiet the throbbings of her agonizing82 heart, that she might be able to arrange some plan for extricating83 herself from her present situation, which appeared replete84 with every danger to her imagination; for,[Pg 486] from the libertine85 principles of Belgrave, she could not hope that a new object of pursuit would detach him from her, when he found her so unexpectedly thrown in his way. Unprotected as she was, she could not think of openly avowing86 her knowledge of Belgrave. To discover his baseness, required therefore caution and deliberation, lest in saving Emily from the snare87 spread for her destruction, she should entangle88 herself in it. To declare at once his real character, must betray her to him; and though she might banish him from the house, yet, unsupported as she was by her friends or kindred—unable to procure the protection of Rushbrook, in his present situation, however willing he might be to extend it—she trembled to think of the dangers to which, by thus discovering, she might expose herself—dangers which the deep treachery and daring effrontery89 of Belgrave would, in all probability, prevent her escaping. As the safest measure, she resolved on quitting the house in the course of the day; but without giving any intimation that she meant not to return to it. She recollected a place where there was a probability of her getting lodgings which would be at once secret and secure; and by an anonymous90 letter to Captain Rushbrook, she intended to acquaint him of his daughter’s danger, and refer him to Sir Charles Bingley, at whose agent’s he could receive intelligence of him for the truth of what she said. Her plan concerted, she grew more composed, and was able, when Emily entered the room with her breakfast, to ask, in a seemingly careless manner, when Mr. Sipthorpe was expected back.
“It is very uncertain, indeed,” answered she.
“I must go out in the course of the day,” said Amanda, “about particular business; I may therefore as well prepare myself at once for it.” She accordingly put on her habit, and requested materials for writing from Emily, which were immediately brought, and Emily then retired till she had written her letter. Amanda, left to herself, hastily unlocked her little trunk, and taking from it two changes of linen91, and the will and narrative of Lady Dunreath, she deposited the two former in her pocket, and the two latter in her bosom92, then sat down and wrote the following letter to Captain Rushbrook:—
A person who esteems93 the character of Captain Rushbrook, and the amiable94 simplicity95 of his daughter, cautions him to guard that simplicity against the danger which now threatens it, from a wretch26 who, under the sacred semblance96 of virtue97, designs to fix a sharper sting in the bosom of affliction than adversity ever yet implanted. The worth of Sipthorpe is not more fictitious98 than his name. His real one is Belgrave. His hand is already another’s, and his character for many years past marked with in[Pg 487]stances of deceit, if not equal, at least little inferior to the present. For the truth of these assertions, the writer of the letter refers Captain Rushbrook to Sir Charles Bingley, of —— regiment99, from whose agent a direction may be procured100 to him, certain, from his honor and sensibility, he will eagerly step forward to save worth and innocence101 from woe102 and destruction.
Amanda’s anxiety about Emily being equal to what she felt for herself, she resolved to leave this letter at Rushbrook’s prison, lest any accident should happen if it went by any other hands. She was anxious to be gone, but thought it better to wait till towards evening, when there would be the least chance of meeting Belgrave, who at that time would probably be fixed103 in some place for the remainder of the day. Emily returned in about an hour, and finding Amanda disengaged, requested permission to sit with her. Amanda, in her present agitation104, would have preferred solitude105, but could not decline the company of the affectionate girl, who, in conversing106 with her, sought to forget the heavy cares which the dreadful idea of a union with Sipthorpe had drawn16 upon her. Amanda listened with a beating heart to every sound, but no intimation of Belgrave’s return reached her ear. At length they were summoned to dinner; but Amanda could not think of going to it, lest she should be seen by him. To avoid this risk, and also the particularity of a refusal, she determined immediately to go out, and, having told Emily her intention, they both descended107 the stairs together. Emily pressed her exceedingly to stay for dinner, but she positively108 refused, and left the house with a beating heart, without having answered Emily’s question, who desired to know if she would not soon return. Thus perpetually threatened with danger, like a frighted bird again was she to seek a shelter for her innocent head. She walked with quickness to Oxford109 Street, where she directly procured a carriage, but was so weak and agitated110 the coachman was almost obliged to lift her into it. She directed it to the prison, and on reaching it sent for one of the turnkeys, to whom she gave her letter for Rushbrook, with a particular charge to deliver it immediately to him. She then ordered the carriage to Pall111 Mall, Where it may be remembered she had once lodged112 with Lady Greystock. This was the only lodging-house in London she knew, and in it she expected no satisfaction but what would be derived from thinking herself safe, as its mistress was a woman of a most unpleasant temper. She had once been in affluent113 circumstances, and the remembrance of those circumstances soured her temper, and rendered her, if not[Pg 488] incapable114 of enjoying, at least unwilling115 to acknowledge, the blessings116 she yet possessed117. On any one in her power she vented81 her spleen. Her chief pursuit was the gratification of a most insatiate curiosity, and her first delight relating the affairs, good or bad, which that curiosity dived into. Amanda, finding she was within, dismissed the coach, and was shown by the maid into the back parlor, where she sat. “Oh dear!” cried she, with a supercilious118 smile, the moment Amanda entered, without rising from her chair to return her salute119, “When did you return to London?—and pray, may I ask what brought you back to it?”
Amanda was convinced from Mrs. Hansard’s altered manner, who had once been servile to a degree to her, that she was perfectly acquainted with her destitute120 condition, and a heavy sigh burst from her heart at the idea of associating with a woman who had the meanness to treat her ill because of that condition. A chillness crept through her frame when she reflected her sad situation might long compel her to this. Sick, weak, exhausted, she sunk upon a chair, which she had neither been offered nor desired to take. “Well, miss, and pray what is your business in town?” again asked Mrs. Hansard, with an increased degree of pertness.
“My business, madam,” replied Amanda, “can be of no consequence to a person not connected with me. My business with you is to know whether you can accommodate me with lodgings?” “Really. Well, you might have paid me the compliment of saying you would have called at any rate to know how I did. You may guess how greatly flattered an humble being like me would be by the notice of so amiable a young lady.”
These words were pronounced with a kind of sneer121 that, by rousing the pride of Amanda, a little revived her spirits. “I should be glad, madam,” said she, with a composed voice, while a faint glow stole over her cheek, “to know whether you can, or choose, to accommodate me with lodgings?” “Lord, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hansard, “do not be in such a wondrous122 hurry—take a cup of tea with me, and then we will settle about that business.” These words implied that she would comply with the wish of Amanda; and, however disagreeable the asylum123, yet to have secured one cheered her sinking heart. Tea was soon made, which to Amanda, who had touched nothing since breakfast—and but little then—would have been a pleasant refreshment124, had she not been tormented125 and fatigued by the questions of Mrs. Hansard, who laid a thousand baits to betray her into a full confession126 of what had brought her to[Pg 489] London. Amanda, though a stranger in herself to every species of art, from fatal experience was aware of it in others, and therefore guarded her secret. Mrs. Hansard, who loved what she called a gossipping cup of tea, sat a tedious time over the tea-table. Amanda, at last mortified127 and alarmed by some expressions which dropped from her, again ventured to ask if she could be lodged under her roof.
“Are you really serious in that question?” said Mrs. Hansard. There was a certain expression of contempt in her features as she spoke, which shocked Amanda so much that she had not power to reply; “because if you are, my dear,” continued Mrs. Hansard, “you have more assurance than I thought you were possessed of, though I always gave you credit for a pretty large share. Do you think I would ruin my house, which lodges128 people of the first rank and character, by admitting you into it? you, who, it is well known, obtained Lady Greystock’s protection from charity, and lost it through misconduct. Poor lady—I had the whole story from her own mouth. She suffered well from having anything to say to you. I always guessed how it would be. Notwithstanding your demure129 look, I saw well enough how you would turn out. I assure you, to use your own words, if I could accommodate you in my house, it would not answer you at all, for there are no convenient closets in it in which a lady of your disposition130 might now and then want to hide a smart young fellow. I advise you, if you have had a tiff131 with any of your friends, to make up the difference; though, indeed, if you do not, in such a place as London, you can never be at a loss for such friends. Perhaps you are now beginning to repent132 of your evil courses, and, if I took you into my house, I should suffer as much in my pocket, I suppose, as in my character.”
The terrified and distressed133 look with which Amanda listened to this speech, would have stopped Mrs. Hansard in the middle of it, had she possessed a spark of humanity, even if she believed her (which was not the case) guilty. But lost to the noble, the gentle feelings of humanity, she exulted134 in the triumph of malice135, and rejoiced to have an opportunity of piercing the panting heart of helpless innocence with the sharp darts136 of insult and unmerited reproach. Amidst the various shocks Amanda had experienced in the short but eventful course of her life, one greater than the present she had never felt. Petrified137 by Mrs. Hansard’s words, it was some time ere she had power to speak. “Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed she, at last, looking up to that Heaven she addressed, and[Pg 490] which she now considered her only refuge from evil, “to what trials am I continually exposed! Persecuted138, insulted, shocked! Oh! what happiness to lay my feeble frame, my woe-struck heart, within that low asylum where malice could no more annoy, deceit no more betray me! I am happy,” she continued, starting up, and looking at Mrs. Hansard, “that the accommodation I desired in this house you refused me, for I am now well convinced, from the knowledge of your disposition, that the security my situation requires I should not have found within it.” She hastily quitted the room; but on entering the hall her spirits entirely forsook139 her, at the dreadful idea of having no home to go to. Overcome with horror, she sunk in a flood of tears upon one of the hall chairs. A maid, who had probably been listening to her mistress’s conversation, now came from a front parlor, and as Mrs. Hansard had shut the door after Amanda, addressed her without fear of being overheard. “Bless me, miss,” said she, “are you crying? Why, Lord! surely you would not mind what old Blouzy in the parlor says? I promise you, if we minded her, we should have red eyes here every day in the week. Do, pray, miss, tell me if I can be of any service to you?”
Amanda, in a voice scarcely articulate, thanked her, and said in a few minutes she should be better able to speak. To seek lodgings at this late hour was not to be thought of, except she wished to run into the very dangers she had wanted to avoid, and Mrs. Connel’s house returned to her recollection, as the impossibility of procuring140 a refuge in any other was confirmed in her mind. She began to think it could not be so dangerous as her fears in the morning had represented it to be. Ere this she thought Belgrave (for since the delivery of the letter there had been time enough for such a proceeding) might be banished141 from it; if not, she had a chance of concealing142 herself, and, even if discovered, she believed Mrs. Connel would protect her from his open insults, whilst she trusted her own precautions would, under Heaven, defeat his secret schemes, should he again contrive143 any. She therefore resolved, or rather necessity compelled her—for could she have avoided it she would not have done so—to return to Mrs. Connel’s ; she accordingly requested the maid to procure her a carriage, and rewarded her for her trouble. As she was returning to Mrs. Connel’s, she endeavored to calm her spirits, and quell144 her apprehensions145. When the carriage stopped, and the maid appeared, she could scarcely prevent herself ere she alighted from inquiring whether any one but the family was within;[Pg 491] conscious, however, that such a question might create suspicions, and that suspicions would naturally excite inquiries146, she checked herself, and re-entered, though with trembling limbs, that house from whence in the morning she had fled with such terror.
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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commiserate
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| v.怜悯，同情 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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behold
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eldest
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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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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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entirely
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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distress
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faltering
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impeded
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pang
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retired
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posture
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benevolence
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soothing
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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mitigate
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conspired
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mere
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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31
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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33
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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34
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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35
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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36
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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37
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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40
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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41
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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42
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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43
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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44
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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45
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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47
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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48
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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49
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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50
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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51
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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52
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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53
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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54
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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55
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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57
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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58
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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60
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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61
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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62
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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63
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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64
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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65
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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66
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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67
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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68
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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69
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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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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72
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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73
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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74
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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75
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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76
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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77
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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78
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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79
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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80
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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81
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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83
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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84
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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85
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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86
avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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87
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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88
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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89
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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90
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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91
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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94
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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95
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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96
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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97
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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98
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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99
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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100
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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101
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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102
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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103
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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104
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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105
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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106
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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107
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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108
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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109
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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110
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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111
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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112
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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113
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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114
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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115
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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116
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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117
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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118
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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119
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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120
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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121
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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122
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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123
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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124
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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125
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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126
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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127
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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128
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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129
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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130
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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131
tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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132
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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133
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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134
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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136
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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137
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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138
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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139
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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140
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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141
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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143
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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144
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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145
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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146
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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