The lights and shadows come and go too fast,
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate3
For peace on earth."
I
believe the established and time-honored precedent4 in writing stories is to bring the chief characters safely through sundry5 "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," annihilate6 the vicious, make virtue7 triumphant8, marry the heroine, and[Pg 185] then, with a grand final flourish of trumpets9, the tale ends.
Now, I hope none of my readers will be disappointed if in this "o'er true tale" I depart from this established rule. My heroine is married, but the history of her life cannot end here. Perhaps it would be as well if it could, but truth compels me to go on and depict10 the dark as well as the bright side of a fiery11 yet generous nature—a nature common enough in this world, subject to error and weakness as we all are, and not in the least like one of those impossible angels oftener read of than seen.
Jane Eyre says a new chapter is like a new scene in a play. When the curtain rises this time, it discloses an elegantly furnished parlor12, with pictures and lounges, and easy-chairs, and mirrors, and damask hangings, and all the other paraphernalia13 of a well-furnished room—time, ten o'clock in the morning. A cheerful fire burns in the polished grate, for it is a clear, cold December day, and diffuses14 a genial15 warmth through the cozy16 apartment.
In the middle of the floor stands a little round table, with a delicate breakfast-service of Sevres china and silver, whereon steams most fragrant17 Mocha, appetizing, nice waffles, and sundry other tempting18 edibles19. Presiding here is a lady, young and "beautiful exceedingly," robed in a rich white cashmere morning wrapper, confined at the slender waist by a scarlet20 cord and tassels21, and at the ivory throat by a flashing diamond breastpin. Her shining jet-black hair is brushed in smooth bands off her broad, queenly brow, and the damp braid just touches the rounded, flushed cheek. Very handsome and stately indeed she looks, yet with a sort of listless languor22 pervading23 her every movement, whether she lounges back in her chair, or slowly[Pg 186] stirs her coffee with her small, dark hand, fairly blazing with jewels.
Opposite her sits a young gentleman of commanding presence and graceful24 bearing, who alternately talks to the lady, sips25 his coffee, and reads the morning paper.
"Do put away that tiresome26 paper, Richmond," said the lady, at last, half impatiently. "I don't see what you can possibly find to interest you in those farming details, and receipts for curing spasms27 in horses, and making hens lay. Of all stupid things those country papers are the stupidest."
"Except those who read them," said the gentleman, laughing. "Well, I bow to your superior wisdom, and obey, like a well-trained husband. And now, what are your ladyship's commands?"
"Talk," said the lady, yawning behind the tips of her fingers.
"Willingly, my dear. On what subject? I am ready to talk to order at a moment's notice."
"Well, I want to know if you have given up that Washington project? Are we to spend the winter in Burnfield?"
"I think so—yes," said Richmond, slowly. "It will be better, all things considered, that we should do so, and early in the spring we will start on our continental28 tour. Are you disappointed at this arrangement, Georgia?"
"Disappointed? Oh, no, no," said Georgia, with sparkling eyes. "I am so glad, Richmond. It seems so pleasant, and so much like home to be here, with no strange faces around us, and all those dreadful restraints and formalities at an end. I was so tired of them all in New York."[Pg 187]
"And yet you used to long so ardently30 for life in those large cities some time ago, Georgia. New York was a Paradise in your eyes—do you remember?"
"Oh, yes," said Georgia, laughing; "but that was because I knew nothing about it. I was dreadfully tired of Burnfield, and longed so for a change. 'Tis distance lends enchantment31 to the view,' you know, and the anticipation32 was somewhat different from the reality."
"You did not like the reality?"
"And yet I did everything to make you happy—you never expressed a wish that I did not gratify."
Tears sprang to Georgia's eyes at the implied reproach.
"Dear Richmond, I know it. It seems very ungrateful in me to talk so; but you know what I mean. I do not like strangers, and I met so many there; there were so many restraints, and formalities, and wearying ceremonies to be gone through, that I used to grow almost wild sometimes, and feel as if I wanted to rush out and fly, fly back to dear old Burnfield again, and never leave it. And then, those ladies were all so elegant and grand, and could keep on saying graceful nothings for hours, while I sat mute, tongue-tied, unable to utter a word of 'small talk,' and feeling awkward lest I should disgrace you by some dreadful gaucherie. Oh, Richmond, I was so proud, and fearless, and independent before I was married."
"Too much so, Georgia," he interrupted, gravely.
"And now," she went on, unheeding his words, save by the deeper flush of her cheek. "I am almost timid, for your sake. When I was among all those people in New[Pg 188] York I did not care for myself, but I was so afraid of mortifying35 you. I knew they used to watch Richmond Wildair's country bride to catch her in some outlandish act; and, oh, Richmond, when I would think of it, and find so many curious eyes watching me, as if I were some strange wild animal, I used to grow positively36 nervous—I, that never knew what nerves were before, and I used to wish—don't be angry, Richmond—that I had never married you at all. You used to call me an eaglet, Richmond, and I felt then like one chained and fettered37, and I think I should have died if you had made me stay there all winter."
There was a passionate earnestness in her voice that did not escape him, but he answered lightly:
"Died! Pooh! don't be silly, Georgia. I did see that you were painfully anxious at times, so much so that you even made me nervous as well as yourself. You must overcome this; you must learn to be at ease. Remember, those are the people with whom you are to mingle38 for the rest of your life—not the common folks of Burnfield."
"They are a stiff, artificial set. I don't like them!" said Georgia, impetuously.
Richmond's brow darkened.
"Georgia!" he said, coldly.
"Perhaps it is because I have not become accustomed to my new position. Any one suddenly raised from one sphere of life to another diametrically opposite, must feel strange and out of place. Why, Richmond," she said, smiling, "I am not even accustomed to that grand little housekeeper39 of yours yet. Her cold, stately magnificence overwhelms me. When she comes to me for orders, I fairly blush, and have to look at my diamonds and silks, and recollect40 I am Mrs. Wildair, of Richmond House, to[Pg 189] keep my dignity. It is rather uncomfortable, all this; but time, that works wonders, will, I have no doubt, make me as stiff, and solemn, and sublimely41 grand, as even—Mrs. Hamm."
His face wore no answering smile; he was very grave.
"You are not angry, Richmond?" she said, deprecatingly.
"Not angry, Georgia, but annoyed. I do not like this state of things. My wife must be self-possessed and lady-like as well as handsome. You must lose this country girl awkwardness, and learn to move easily and gracefully42 in your new sphere. You must learn to sit at the head of my table, and do the honors of my house as becomes one whom I have seen fit to raise to the position of my wife."
"In a worldly point of view, I mean. Physically44, mentally, and morally, you are my equal; but in the eyes of the world, I have made a mesalliance; and that world whose authority I have spurned45 is malicious46 enough to witness with delight your rustic47 shyness, to call it by no more mortifying name. Georgia, I knew from the moment I first presented you to my mother that this explanation must come; but, knowing your high spirit, I had too much affection for you to speak of it sooner, and if I wound your feelings now, believe me, it is to make you happier afterward48. You are too impulsive49, and have not dissimulation50 enough, Georgia; your open and unconcealed dislike for some of those you met in town made you many enemies—did you know it?"
"Yes, I knew it; and this enmity was more acceptable to me than their friendship!" flashed Georgia.[Pg 190]
"But not to me. It is better to have a dog fawn52 on you than bark at you, Georgia. I do not say to you to like them, but you might have concealed51 your dislike. A smile and courteous53 word costs little, and it might have saved you many a bitter sneer54."
"I cannot dissimulate55; I never dissimulated56; I never did anything so mean!" said Georgia, passionately57.
"There is no meanness about it, Mrs. Wildair, and you might have spared the insinuation that I could urge you to do anything mean. Common politeness requires that you should be courteous to all, and I hope you will not mortify34 me again by any public display of your likes and dislikes."
Georgia arose impetuously from the table, and, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, walked to the window. What words can tell of the storm raging within her wild, proud heart, as she listened to his authoritative58 tone and words?
"It is necessary, too, that you should by degrees grow accustomed to what you call your strange position," he calmly went on, "before you enter the fashionable world at Washington, where you will make what you may call your debut59. For that reason, while in New York, I invited a party of friends here to spend Christmas and New Year's, and you may expect them here now in less than a week."
She faced round as if her feet were furnished with steel springs, every feeling of rebellion roused into life at last.
"You did? And without consulting me?"
"Certainly, my dear. Have I not a right to ask my friends to my house?"
She laid her hand on her breast, as if to keep the storm within from breaking forth; but he saw it in the workings of her face.[Pg 191]
"Come, Georgia, be reasonable," he said quietly. "I am sorry this annoys you, but it is absolutely necessary. Why, one would think, by your looks and actions, I was some monstrous60 tyrant61, instead of a husband who loves you so well that he is willing to sacrifice his own fondness for solitude62 and quiet, that you may acquire the habits of good society."
She did not speak. His words had wounded her pride too deeply to be healed by his gentle tone.
"Well, Georgia?" he said, after a pause.
She turned her face to the window, and asked, huskily:
"Who are coming?"
"My mother and cousin, the Arlinfords, Mrs. Harper and her two daughters, Colonel and Mrs. Gleason, and their two sons, Miss Reid, and Mr. Lester."
"All I dislike most."
"All you dislike most, Mrs. Wildair?" he said, coolly. "What am I to understand by that?"
"What I say. I have not yet learned to dissimulate," she said, bitterly.
"Really, Mrs. Wildair, this is pleasant. I presume you forget my mother."
Georgia was silent.
"Am I to understand, Mrs. Wildair, that my mother is included in the catalogue of those you dislike?"
Georgia did not speak.
"Mrs. Wildair," he said, calmly, "will it please you to reply? I am accustomed to be answered when I speak."
"Oh, Richmond, don't ask me. How can I help it? I tried to like your mother, but—"
Her voice choked, and she stopped.[Pg 192]
He went over, and lifted the face she had covered with her hands, and looked into it with a smile.
"But you failed. You did not understand each other. Well, never mind, Georgia; you will like each other better by and by. You will have to do so, as she is going to live with us altogether."
"What!"
"My dear, be calm. How intensely excitable you are! Certainly, she will live here: she is all alone now, you know—she and my cousin; and is it not natural that this should be their home?"
"Your cousin, too?"
"Of course. Why, Georgia, you might have known it. They are my only relatives, for he who was once my brother is dead to us all. Georgia, is it possible you hate my mother and cousin?"
He spoke63 in a tone so surprised and grieved that Georgia was touched. Forcing a smile, she looked up in his grave face, and said:
"Oh, Richmond, I did not mean to hurt your feelings; forgive me if I have done so. I will try to like all your friends, because they are yours. I will try to tutor this undisciplined heart, and be all you could wish. It startled me at first, that is all. It was so pleasant here, with no one but ourselves, and I was so happy since our return, that I forgot it could not always last. Yes, indeed, Richmond, I will like your mother and cousin, and try to be as urbane64 and courteous to all our guests as even you are. Am I forgiven now, Richmond?"
Half an hour later, Georgia was alone in her own room, lying prostrate65 on a couch, with her face buried in the cushions, perfectly66 still, but for the sort of shiver that ran[Pg 193] at intervals67 through her slight frame. It was their first quarrel, or anything approaching a quarrel, and Georgia had been crushed, wounded, and humiliated68, as she had never been before in her life. It may seem a slight thing; but in her pride she was so acutely sensitive, that now she lay in a sort of anguish69, with her hands clasped over her heart, as if to still its tumultuous throbbings, looking forward with a dread29 that was almost horror to the coming of all those strangers, but more than all, to the coming of her husband's mother and cousin.
All that day she was changed, and was as haughty and self-possessed as any of those fine ladies, her husband's friends. The calm, dignified70 politeness of Mrs. Hamm looked like impudence71 to her in her present mood, and when that frigid72 little lady came to ask about dinner, there were two burning spots on Georgia's cheeks, and a high, ringing tone of command in her voice that made Mrs. Hamm open her languid eyes in faint amaze, which was as far as she could ever go in the way of astonishment73.
Late that evening, as she sat in the drawing-room, practicing her music lesson,—for she was learning music now,—Emily Murray was announced, and the next moment, bright, breezy, smiling, and sunshiny, she came dancing in, like an embodied74 sunbeam.
"Mother's been over spending the afternoon with Miss Jerusha," said Emily, "and I felt so lonesome at home that I overcame my awe75 of Richmond House and its grand inmates76, and thought I would run up and see you. Hope, like Paul Pry77, I do not intrude78?"
Georgia's reply was a kiss. She had been feeling so sad all day that her heart gave a glad bound at sight of Emily.
"Why, what's the matter, Georgie? You look pale and[Pg 194] troubled. What has happened?" said Emily, her affectionate eyes discovering the change in her friend's tell-tale face.
"Nothing; at least, not much. I am a little out of spirits to-day; everyone is at times," said Georgia, with a faint smile. "My moods were always changeable, you know."
"Well, I hope you will not acquire that anxious, worried look most housekeepers79 wear," said Emily, gayly. "You have it exactly now, and it quite spoils your beauty. Come, smile and look pleasant, and tell me all about your journey to New York. Did you have a good time?"
"Yes," said Georgia, coloring slightly; "I enjoyed myself pretty well. We went to the theater and opera almost every night, and I went to a great many parties of one kind and another. But Burnfield's home after all, and there was no Emily in New York city."
"Flatterer!" said Emily, laughing; "and did you see Mr. Wildair's relatives there, too?"
"Yes," said Georgia, in a changed tone. "He has no relatives but his mother and a certain Miss Richmond, a cousin of his, and an orphan80."
"You forget his brother—our old friend Charley?"
"He is not at home now—I have not even heard his name mentioned for many a day."
"Indeed?" said Emily, surprised. "How is that? I feel an interest in him, you know," she added, laughing; "he was so handsome, and droll81, and winning—twice as nice, with reverence82 be it said, as your grave, stately liege lord."
"Well, it appears he did something. I never heard what, but Richmond says he disgraced the family, and they[Pg 195] have disowned him. What his fault is I do not know, but one of the effects of it is, that he has lost the inheritance Squire83 Richmond left him. You see the way it was, my husband inherited all the landed property and half the bank stock, and Charley the remaining half. Not a very fair division, you will say; but as Richmond bore the family name, and was more after his uncle's heart than his wilder brother, the old gentleman saw fit to leave him most. As the bank stock was large, however, Charley's fortune was no trifle; but to it certain conditions were annexed84, namely: that he should marry this young lady cousin, Miss Richmond, and take the family name before he went abroad. Charley only laughed at it, and declared his perfect willingness to marry 'Freddy'—her name is Fredrica—who would be handy to have about the house, he said, to pull off his boots, sew on buttons, and sing him to sleep of an afternoon. Miss Richmond, on her part, made no objection, and that matter seemed settled; but whatever he has done, it has completely broken up the whole affair, and his share comes to Richmond along with his own. So, my dear little snow-flake, that is all I know of your handsome Charley," concluded Georgia, with her own bright smile.
"It is all very strange," said Emily, musingly85; "and I cannot realize that the gay, careless, but ever kind youth that we knew, and whom everybody loved, has become fallen and degraded, as all this would seem to imply. What sort of a person is this Miss Richmond he was to marry?"
Georgia's beautiful lip curled with a scorn too intense for words.
"She is a—But, as I cannot tell my impressions of her without speaking ill of the absent, I will be silent. In a[Pg 196] few days you will have a chance to see her for yourself, as she is coming here to live."
"Indeed!" said Emily, slowly, fixing her eyes anxiously on Georgia's face—"indeed! Would you not be happier without her?"
"That is not the question," said Georgia, in a tone of reserve, for she was too proud to let even Emily know how much she disliked this visit; "it will not do for Richmond and me to make hermits86 of ourselves altogether, you know, so a large party from the city are coming here to spend Christmas. And, Emily, I want you to come too; they are all more or less strangers to me, and it will be such a comfort to look on your dear, familiar face when I grow tired of playing the hostess to all those grand folks. Say, little darling, will you come?"
The dark eyes were raised with such a look of earnest entreaty87 to her face that Emily stooped down and kissed the pleading lips before she answered.
"Dear Georgia, I cannot; I would not be happy among so many strangers—I should feel like a fish out of water, you know. We can meet often when no strange eyes are looking on; they would not understand us, nor we them, Georgia. And now, good-by; Uncle Edward is coming to tea, so I must hurry home."
She was gone. The airy little form and bright face flashed out of the door, and Georgia felt as if all the sunshine in that grand, cold room had gone with her. Impatiently she rose from the piano, and with a rebellious88 rising in her heart, walked to the window and looked out with a darkening brow.
"She shrinks from meeting this crowd—so do I. She need not meet them, but I have to—I must. Oh! hateful[Pg 197] word. If there was a single bond of sympathy between me and one of them—but there is not. They come here to criticise89 and sneer at Richmond Wildair's country bride—to have a good subject to laugh over when they go back to the city. Richmond says I am morbid90 on this subject, but I am not. And that cousin, too—that smooth silvery-voiced, oily little cheat. Oh! why, why did he invite her here? I hate her—I loathe91 her. I shrank from her the moment I first saw her, with her snake-like movements and fawning92 smile. And she is to live here; to spy upon me night and day; to drive me wild with her cringing93 servility, hiding her mockery and covert94 sneers95. I think I could get along with his mother, with all her open scorn and supercilious96 contempt; galling97 as it is, it is at least open, and not mean, prying98 and treacherous99; but this horrid100, despicable cousin that I loathe even more than I hate—oh! I dread her coming; I shrink from it; it makes my flesh creep to think of it. Oh, Richmond! if you knew how I detest101 this earthworm of a cousin, would you ever have invited her here? Yes, I know he would. I feel he would. He would be shocked, horrified102, indignant, if he knew how I feel on the subject; so he shall never know. He would think it my duty to overcome this sinful feeling, and insist upon my being doubly kind to her to atone103 for it. He likes her—so does his mother—so does every one else; they believe in her silky smile, her soft, treacherous voice, and cat-like step, and mean, underhand fawning; but I—I see through her, and she knows it. She dislikes me. I saw that through all her cringing, officious attentions and professions of affection, and only loathed104 her the more.
"Oh!" cried Georgia, pacing up and down the room, "this is, indeed, awakening105 from my delusive106 dream.[Pg 198] Perhaps I am too sensitive—Richmond says I am; but I cannot help feeling so. I was so perfectly happy since our return, but now it is at an end. Our delicious solitude is to be invaded by those cold, unsympathizing worldlings, who come here to gratify their curiosity and see how the awkward country girl will do the honors of stately Richmond country-house. Oh! why am I not sufficient? Why need he invite all these people here? But I forget they are his friends; they are to him what Emily Murray is to me. Dear, loving, happy little Emily! with her calm, seraphic eyes, and pure, serene107 brow. What is the secret of her inward happiness? How different she is from me; even in childhood none of those storms of passion agitated108 her, that distracted my tempestuous109 youth. Can it be that Christianity, in which she so implicity believes, has anything to do with this perfect peace? Is there a heaven?" she said, going back to the window and looking gloomily out. "Sometimes I have doubted it; and yet there ought to be. Our best happiness in this world is so short, so feverish110, so fleeting111, and the earthly strife112 is so long, and wearisome, and sorrowful, that we need perfect rest and peace somewhere. Two short months ago I was so happy—oh, so happy!—and now, at this first slight trial, my heart lies like lead in my bosom113. How false the dazzling glitter of this world is!"
And, as if involuntarily, she murmured the beautiful words of Moore:
"This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,
There's nothing true but Heaven."
[Pg 199]
There was an unusual shadow on little Emily Murray's face too, that day, as she went home. She was thinking of Georgia. The eyes of affection are not easily blinded, and she saw that under all her proud, reserved exterior115, her friend was unhappy.
"I know she dreads116 the coming of all those people from the city, Uncle Edward," she said that evening to Father Murray, as she sat busily sewing at the table.
"Poor child!" said the kind old clergyman. "I feared from the first this marriage would not contribute much to her happiness. Not that it is Mr. Wildair's fault; he means well, and really does all for the best; but your friend, Emily, is peculiar117. She is morbidly118 proud and intensely sensitive, and has a dread amounting to horror of being ridiculed119. People of her nature are rarely, if ever, perfectly happy in this world; they are self-torturers, and their happiness comes in flashes, to be succeeded by deeper gloom than before. Georgia always was in extremes; she was either wildly, madly, unreasonably120 joyful121, or else wrapped in a dark, sullen122 gloom that nothing could alleviate123."
The next three days Emily was not up at the Hall, but on the fourth afternoon she started to see Georgia. The train from the city had just reached Burnfield station, and two large sleighs, filled with ladies and gentlemen, were dashing up amid the jingling124 of bells and peals125 of silvery laughter toward Richmond House.
Emily paused and watched them until they disappeared up the avenue, and then, as she was about to turn away, she saw Mrs. Hamm, cloaked and hooded126, advance toward her.
"Good-afternoon, Miss Murray," said the stately little[Pg 200] dame127, in a tone of lofty courtesy that would have become a duchess.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hamm," said Emily, pleasantly; "I see you have visitors up at the house."
"Yes, friends of Mr. Wildair's, from New York—his mother, and cousins, and others—quite a large party. Excuse me, this is my way. Good-day, Miss Emily."
What inward feeling was it that made Emily turn and send such a look of pity up at the window of Georgia's room?
"Poor Georgia!" she said, as she turned away, feeling, she hardly knew why, a most uncomfortable sinking of her heart at the thought of her sensitive young friend amid all those unsympathizing strangers. "Poor Georgia! Poor Georgia!"
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1 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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2 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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3 passionate | |
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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4 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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5 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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6 annihilate | |
v.使无效;毁灭;取消 | |
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7 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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8 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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9 trumpets | |
喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 ); 小号; 喇叭形物; (尤指)绽开的水仙花 | |
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10 depict | |
vt.描画,描绘;描写,描述 | |
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11 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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12 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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13 paraphernalia | |
n.装备;随身用品 | |
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14 diffuses | |
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15 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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16 cozy | |
adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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17 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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18 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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19 edibles | |
可以吃的,可食用的( edible的名词复数 ); 食物 | |
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20 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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21 tassels | |
n.穗( tassel的名词复数 );流苏状物;(植物的)穗;玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗, (玉米)长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 );使抽穗, (为了使作物茁壮生长)摘去穗状雄花;用流苏装饰 | |
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22 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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23 pervading | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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24 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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25 sips | |
n.小口喝,一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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27 spasms | |
n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 );抽搐;(能量、行为等的)突发;发作 | |
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28 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
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29 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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30 ardently | |
adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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31 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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32 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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33 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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34 mortify | |
v.克制,禁欲,使受辱 | |
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35 mortifying | |
adj.抑制的,苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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36 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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37 fettered | |
v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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39 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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40 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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41 sublimely | |
高尚地,卓越地 | |
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42 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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43 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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44 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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45 spurned | |
v.一脚踢开,拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46 malicious | |
adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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47 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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48 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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49 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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50 dissimulation | |
n.掩饰,虚伪,装糊涂 | |
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51 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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52 fawn | |
n.未满周岁的小鹿;v.巴结,奉承 | |
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53 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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54 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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55 dissimulate | |
v.掩饰,隐藏 | |
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56 dissimulated | |
v.掩饰(感情),假装(镇静)( dissimulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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58 authoritative | |
adj.有权威的,可相信的;命令式的;官方的 | |
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59 debut | |
n.首次演出,初次露面 | |
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60 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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61 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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62 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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63 spoke | |
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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64 urbane | |
adj.温文尔雅的,懂礼的 | |
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65 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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66 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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67 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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68 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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69 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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70 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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71 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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72 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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73 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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74 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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75 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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76 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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77 pry | |
vi.窥(刺)探,打听;vt.撬动(开,起) | |
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78 intrude | |
vi.闯入;侵入;打扰,侵扰 | |
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79 housekeepers | |
n.(女)管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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80 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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81 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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82 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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83 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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84 annexed | |
[法] 附加的,附属的 | |
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85 musingly | |
adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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86 hermits | |
(尤指早期基督教的)隐居修道士,隐士,遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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87 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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88 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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89 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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90 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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91 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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92 fawning | |
adj.乞怜的,奉承的v.(尤指狗等)跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 );巴结;讨好 | |
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93 cringing | |
adj.谄媚,奉承 | |
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94 covert | |
adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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95 sneers | |
讥笑的表情(言语)( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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96 supercilious | |
adj.目中无人的,高傲的;adv.高傲地;n.高傲 | |
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97 galling | |
adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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98 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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99 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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100 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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101 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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102 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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103 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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104 loathed | |
v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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105 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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106 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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107 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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108 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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109 tempestuous | |
adj.狂暴的 | |
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110 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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111 fleeting | |
adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
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112 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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113 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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114 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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115 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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116 dreads | |
n.恐惧,畏惧( dread的名词复数 );令人恐惧的事物v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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118 morbidly | |
adv.病态地 | |
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119 ridiculed | |
v.嘲笑,嘲弄,奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120 unreasonably | |
adv. 不合理地 | |
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121 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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122 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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123 alleviate | |
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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124 jingling | |
叮当声 | |
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125 peals | |
n.(声音大而持续或重复的)洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 );隆隆声;洪亮的钟声;钟乐v.(使)(钟等)鸣响,(雷等)发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126 hooded | |
adj.戴头巾的;有罩盖的;颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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127 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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