A somewhat forced liveliness on Til's part, and a marked avoidance of the subject of Geoffrey, of whom, as he had just left them, it would have been natural that the mother and daughter should talk, bore witness to the embarrassment9 she felt, and increased Mrs. Ludlow's depression. She sat in her accustomed arm-chair, but her head drooped10 forward and her fingers tapped the arms in an absent manner, which showed her pre-occupation of mind. Til at length took her needle-work, and sat down opposite her mother, in a silence which was interrupted after a considerable interval11 by the arrival of Charley Potts, who had not altogether ceased to offer clumsy and violently-improbable explanations of his visits, though such were rapidly coming to be unnecessary.
On the present occasion Charley floundered through the preliminaries with more than his usual impulsive12 awkwardness, and there was that in his manner which caused Til (a quick observer, and especially so in his case) to divine that he had something particular to say to her. If she were right in her conjecture13, it was clear that the opportunity must be waited for,--until the nap, in which Mrs. Ludlow invariably indulged in the evening, should have set in. The sooner the conversation settled into sequence, the sooner this desirable event might be expected to take place; so Til talked vigorously, and Charley seconded her efforts. Mrs. Ludlow said little, until, just as Charley began to think the nap was certainly coming, she asked him abruptly14 if he had seen Geoffrey lately. Miss Til happened to be looking at Charley as the question was put to him, and saw in a moment that the matter he had come to speak to her about concerned her brother.
"No, ma'am," said Chancy; "none of us have seen Geoff lately. Bowker and I have planned a state visit to him; he's as hard to get at as a swell15 in the Government--with things to give away--what do you call it?--patronage; but we're not going to stand it. We can't do without Geoff. By the bye, how's the youngster, ma'am?"
"The child is very well, I believe," said Mrs. Ludlow, with a shake of the head, which Charley Potts had learned to recognise in connection with the "cross," but which he saw with regret on the present occasion. "I'm afraid theyve heard something," he thought. "But," continued the old lady querulously, "I see little of him, or of Geoffrey either. Things are changed; I suppose it's all right, but it's not easy for a mother to see it; and I don't think any mother would like to be a mere16 visitor at her own son's house,--not that I am even much of that now, Mr. Potts; for I am sure it's a month 'or more since ever I have darkened the doors of Elm Lodge17,--and I shouldn't so much mind it, I hope, if it was for Geoffrey's good; but I can't think it's that--" Here the old lady's voice gave way, and she left off with a kind of sob18, which went to Charley's soft heart and filled him with inexpressible confusion. Til was also much taken aback, though she saw at once that her mother had been glad of the opportunity of saying her little say, under the influence of the mortification19 she had felt at Geoffrey's silence on the subject of her future visits to Elm Lodge. He had, as we have seen, made himself as delightful20 as possible in every other respect; but he had been strictly21 reticent22 about Margaret, and he had not invited his mother and sister to his house. She had been longing23 to say all this to Til; and now she had got it out, in the presence of a third party, who would "see fair" between her justifiable24 annoyance25 and Til's unreasonable26 defence of her brother. Til covered Charley's embarrassment by saying promptly27, in a tone of extreme satisfaction,
"Geoffrey was here to-day; he paid us quite a long visit."
"Did he?" said Charley; "and is he all right?"
"O yes," said Til, "he is very well; and he told us all about his pictures; and, do you know, he's going to put baby and the nurse into a corner group, among the people on the Esplanade,--only he must wait till baby's back is stronger, and his neck leaves off waggling, so as to paint him properly, sitting up nice and straight in nurse's arms." And then Miss Til ran on with a great deal of desultory28 talk, concerning Geoffrey, and his description of the presents, and what he had said about Lord Caterham and Annie Maurice. Charley listened to her with more seriousness than he usually displayed; and Mrs. Ludlow sighed and shook her head at intervals29, until, as the conversation settled into a dialogue, she gradually dropped asleep. Then Til's manner changed, and she lowered her voice, and asked Charley anxiously if he had come to tell her any bad news.
"If you have," she said, "aid that it can be kept from mamma, tell it at once, and let me keep it from her."
With much true delicacy30 and deep sympathy, Charley then related to Til the scene which had taken place between himself, Bowker, and Stompff,--and told her that Bowker had talked the matter over with him and they had agreed that it was not acting31 fairly by Geoffrey to allow him to remain in ignorance of the floating rumours32, injurious to his wife's character, which were rife33 among their friends. How Stompff had heard of Margaret's having fainted in Lord Caterham's room, Charley could not tell; that he had heard it, and had heard a mysterious cause assigned to it, he knew. That he could have known any thing about an incident apparently34 so trivial proved that the talk had become tolerably general, and was tending to the injury of Geoffrey, not only in his self...respect and in his feelings, but in his prospects35. Charley was much more alarmed and uneasy, and much more grieved for Geoffrey, than even Bowker; for he had reason to fear that no supposition derogatory to Margaret's antecedents could surpass the reality. He alone knew where and how the acquaintance between Geoffrey and Margaret had begun, and he was therefore prepared to estimate the calamity36 of such a marriage correctly. He did not exactly know what he had intended to say to Matilda Ludlow; he had come to the house with a vague idea that something ought to be done;--that Til ought to speak to her sister-in-law,--a notion which in itself proved Charley Potts to be any thing but a wise man,--ought to point out to her that her indifference37 to her husband was at once ungrateful to him and shortsighted to her own interest; and that people, notably38 his employer, were talking about it. Charley Potts was not exactly an adept39 in reading character, and the real Margaret was a being such as he could neither have understood nor believed in; therefore the crudity40, wildness, and inapplicability of this scheme were to be excused.
A very few words on his part served to open the susceptible41 heart of Miss Til, especially as they had spoken on the subject, though generally, before; and they were soon deep in the exchange of mutual43 confidences. Til cried quietly, so as not to wake her mother; and it distressed44 Charley very keenly to see her tears and to hear her declare that her sister-in-law had not the slightest regard for her opinion; that though perfectly46 civil to her, Margaret had met all her attempts at sisterly intimacy47 with most forbidding coldness; and that she felt sure any attempt to put their relation on a more familiar footing would be useless.
"She must have been very badly brought up, I am sure," said Til. "We don't know anything about her family; but I am sure she never learned what the duties of a wife and mother are."
Charley looked admirably at Til as she sadly uttered this remark, and his mind was divided between a vision of Til realising in the most perfect manner the highest ideal of conjugal48 and maternal49 duty, and speculating upon what might have been the polite fiction presented by Geoffrey to his mother and sister as an authentic50 history of Margaret's parentage and antecedents.
"Did Geoffrey seem cheerful and happy to-day?" he asked, escaping off the dangerous ground of questions which he could have answered only too completely.
"Well," replied Til, "I can't say he did. He talked and laughed, and all that; but I could see that he was uneasy and unhappy. How much happier he was when we were all together, in the days which seem so far off now!"
At this point the conversation became decidedly sentimental51; for Charley, while carefully maintaining that true happiness was only to be found in the married state, was equally careful to state his opinion that separation from Til must involve a perfectly incomparable condition of misery52; and altogether matters were evidently reaching a climax53. Matilda Ludlow was an unaffected honest girl: she knew perfectly well that Charley loved her, and she had no particular objection to his selecting this particular occasion on which to tell her so. But Til and Charley were not to part that evening in the character of affianced lovers; for in one of those significant pauses which precede important words, cab-wheels rolled rapidly up to the little gate, hurried footsteps ran along the flagged path, and a loud knock and ring at the door impatiently demanded attention.
Mrs. Ludlow awoke with a violent start: Charley and Til looked at each other. The door was opened, and a moment later the cook from Elm Lodge was in the room, and had replied to Charley's hurried question by the statement that her master was very ill, and she had been sent to fetch Miss Ludlow.
"Very ill! has any accident happened?" they all questioned the woman, who showed much feeling--all his dependents loved Geoffrey--and the confusion was so great, that it was some minutes before they succeeded in learning what actually had happened. That Geoffrey had returned home as usual; had gone to the nursery, and played with the child and talked to the nurse as usual; had gone to his painting-room; and had not again been seen by the servants, until the housemaid had found him lying on the hearth-rug an hour before, when they had sent for Dr. Brandram, and that gentleman had despatched the cook to bring Miss Ludlow.
"Did Mrs. Ludlow tell you to come?" asked Til.
To this question the woman replied that her mistress was not at home. She had been out the greater part of the day, had returned home some time later than Mr. Ludlow, and had kept the cab waiting for an hour; then she had gone away again, and had not returned when the cook had been sent on her errand. Charley Potts exchanged looks of undisguised alarm with Til at this portion of the woman's narrative55, and, seeing that reserve would now be wholly misplaced, he questioned her closely concerning Mrs. Ludlow. She had nothing to tell, however, beyond that the housemaid had said her master and mistress had been together in the dining-room, and, surprised that dinner had not been ordered up, she had gone thither56; but hearing her mistress speaking "rather strangely," she had not knocked at the door. The servants had wondered at the delay, she said, not understanding why their master should go without his dinner because Mrs. Ludlow was not at home, and had at length found him as she described.
"Did Mrs. Ludlow often go out in this way?" asked Mr. Potts.
"No, sir, never," said the woman. "I never knew my mistress leave my master alone before, sir; and I am afraid something has took place between them."
The distress45 and bewilderment of the little party were extreme. Manifestly there was but one thing to be done; Til must obey the doctor's summons, and repair immediately to her brother's house. He was very ill indeed, the cook said, and quite "off his head;" he did not talk much, but what he did say was all nonsense; and Dr. Brandram had said it was the beginning of brain-fever. Charley and Til were both surprised at the firmness and collectedness manifested by Mrs. Ludlow under this unexpected trial. She was very pale and she trembled very much, but she was quite calm and quiet when she told Til that she must put up such articles of clothing as she would require for a few days, as it was her intention to go to her son and to remain with him.
"I am the fittest person, my dear," said the old lady. "If it be only illness that ails57 him, I know more about it than you do; if it is sorrow also, and sorrow of the kind I suspect, I am fitter to hear it and act in it than you."
It was finally agreed that they should both go to Geoffrey's house and that Til should return home in the morning; for even in this crisis Mrs. Ludlow could not quite forget her household gods, and to contemplate58 them bereft59 at once of her own care and that of Til would have been too grievous; so they started--the three women in the cab, and Charley Potts on the box, very silent, very gloomy, and not even in his inmost thoughts approaching the subject of a pipe.
It was past ten when Geoffrey Ludlow's mother and sister reached the house which had seen such terrible events since they had visited it last. Already the dreary60 neglected air which settles over every room in a dwelling61 invaded by serious illness, except the one which is the scene of suffering, had come upon it. Four hours earlier all was bright and cheerful, well cared for and orderly; now, though the disarray62 was not material, it was most expressive63. Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow had not returned; the doctor had gone away, but was coming back as soon as possible, having left one of the servants by Geoffrey's bedside, with orders to apply wet linen64 to his temples without intermission. Geoffrey was quiet now--almost insensible, they thought. Mrs. Ludlow and Til went to the sick-room at once, and Charley Potts turned disconsolately65 into the dining-room, where the cloth was still laid, and the chairs stood about in disorder--one, which Geoffrey had knocked down, lay unheeded on the ground. Charley picked it up, sat down upon it, and leaned his elbows disconsolately on the table.
"It's all up, I'm afraid," said he to himself; "and she's off with the other fellow, whoever he is. Well, well, it will either kill Geoff outright66 or break his heart for the rest of his life. At all events, there couldn't have been much good in her if she didn't like Til."
After some time Dr. Brandram arrived, and Charley heard him ask the servant whether Mrs. Ludlow had returned, and heard her reply that her mistress was still absent, but Mrs. Ludlow and her daughter had come, and were in her master's room. The doctor went upstairs immediately, and Charley still waited in the parlour, determined67 to waylay68 him has he came down.
Geoffrey was dangerously ill, there was no doubt of that, though his mother's terror magnified danger into hopelessness, and refused to be comforted by Dr. Brandram's assurance that no living man for certain could tell how things would be. She met the doctor's inquiry69 about Margaret with quiet reserve: she did not expect her daughter-in-law's return that evening, she said; but she and Miss Ludlow were prepared to remain. It was very essential that they should do so, Dr. Brandram assured her; and on the following day he would procure70 a professional nurse. Then he made a final examination of his patient, gave the ladies their instructions, observed with satisfaction the absence of fuss, and the quiet self-subduing alacrity71 of Til, and went downstairs, shaking his head and wondering, to be pounced72 upon in the little hall by the impulsive Charley, who drew him into the dining-room, and poured out a torrent73 of questions. Dr. Brandram was disposed to be a little reserved at first, but unbent when Charley assured him that he and Geoffrey were the most intimate friends--"Brothers almost," said Mr. Potts in a conscious tone, which did not strike the doctor. Then he told his anxious interlocutor that Geoffrey was suffering from brain-fever, which he supposed to be the result of a violent shock, but of what kind he could form no idea; and then he said something, in a hesitating sort of way, about "domestic affairs."
"It is altogether on the mind, then," said Charley. "In that case, no one can explain any thing but himself."
"Precisely74 so," said Dr. Brandram; "and it may, it most probably will, be a considerable time before he will be able to give us any explanation of any thing, and before it would be safe to ask him for any. In the mean time,--but no doubt Mrs. Ludlow will return, and--"
"I don't think she will do any thing of the kind," said Charley Potts in a decisive tone; "and, in fact, doctor, I think it would be well to say as little as possible about her."
Dr. Brandram looked at Mr. Potts with an expression intended to be knowing, but which was in reality only puzzled, and assuring him of his inviolable discretion75, departed. Charley remained at Elm Lodge until after midnight, and then, finding that he could be of no service to the watchers, sorrowfully wended his way back to town on foot.
Wearily dragged on the days in the sick man's room, where he lay racked and tormented76 by fever, and vaguely77 oppressed in mind. His mother and sister tended him with unwearied assiduity, and Dr. Brandram called in further medical advice. Geoffrey's life hung in the balance for many days--days during which the terror his mother and Til experienced are not to be told. The desolate78 air of he house deepened; the sitting-rooms were quite deserted79 now. All the bright pretty furniture which Geoff had bought for the delectation of his bride, all the little articles of use and ornament80 peculiarly associated with Margaret, were dust-covered, and had a ghostly seeming. Charley Potts--who passed a great deal of his time moping about Elm Lodge, too thankful to be permitted on the premises81, and occasionally to catch a glimpse of Til's figure, as she glided82 noiselessly from the sick-room to the lower regions in search of some of the innumerable things which are always being wanted in illness and are never near at hand--occasionally strolled into the painting-room, and lifting the cover which had been thrown over it, looked sadly at "The Esplanade at Brighton," and wondered whether dear old Geoff would ever paint baby's portrait among that group in the left-hand corner.
The only member of the household who pursued his usual course of existence was this same baby. Unconscious alike of the flight of his mother and the illness, nigh unto death, of his father, the child throve apace, and sometimes the sound of his cooing, crowing voice, coming through the open doors into the room where his grandmother sat and looked into the wan83 haunted face of her son, caused her unspeakable pangs84 of sorrow and compassion85. The child "took to" Til wonderfully, and it is impossible to tell the admiration86 with which the soul of Charley Potts was filled, as he saw the motherly ways of the young lady towards the little fellow, happily unconscious that he did not possess a mother's love.
Of Margaret nothing was heard. Mrs. Ludlow and Til were utterly87 confounded by the mystery which surrounded them. She made no sign from the time she left the house. Their ignorance of the circumstances of her departure was so complete, that they could not tell whether to expect her to do so or not. Her dresses and ornaments88 were all undisturbed in the drawers in the room where poor Geoffrey lay, and they did not know whether to remove them or not. She had said to Geoffrey, "Whatever I actually require I will send for;" but they did not know this, and she never had sent. The centre of the little system--the chief person in the household--the idolised wife--she had disappeared as utterly as if her existence had been only a dream. The only person who could throw any light on the mystery was, perhaps, dying--at all events, incapable89 of recollection, thought, or speech. It "got about" in the neighbourhood that Mr. Ludlow was dangerously ill, and that his mother and sister were with him, but his beautiful wife was not; whereat the neighbourhood, feeling profoundly puzzled, merely looked unutterably wise, and had always thought there was something odd in that quarter. Then the neighbourhood called to enquire90 and to condole91, and was very pointed92 in its hopes that Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow was "bearing up well," and very much astonished to receive for answer, "Thank you ma'am; but missis is not at home." Mrs. Ludlow knew nothing of all this, and Til, who did know, cared nothing; but it annoyed Charley Potts, who beard and saw a good deal from his post of vantage in the dining-room window, and who relieved his feelings by swearing under his breath, and making depreciatory93 comments upon the personal appearance of the ladies as they approached the house, with their faces duly arranged to the sympathetic pattern.
It chanced that, on one occasion, when Geoffrey had been about ten days ill, Til came down to the dining-room to speak to the faithful Charley, carrying the baby on one arm, and in her other hand a bundle of letters. Charley took the child from her as a matter of course; and the youthful autocrat94 graciously sanctioning the arrangement, the two began to talk eagerly of Geoffrey. Til was looking very pale and weary, and Charley was much moved by her appearance.
"I tell you what it is," he said, "you'll kill yourself, whether Geoffrey lives or dies." He spoke42 in a tone suggestive of feeling himself personally injured, and Til was not too far gone to blush and smile faintly as she perceived it.
"O no, I sha'n't," she said. "I'm going to lie down all this afternoon in the night-nursery. Mamma is asleep now, and Geoffrey is quite quiet, though the nurse says she sees no change for the better, no real change of any kind indeed. And so I came down to ask you what you think I had better do about these letters." She laid them on the table as she spoke. "I don't think they are business letters, because you have taken care to let all Geoffrey's professional friends know, haven't you, Charley?"
Charley thrilled; she had dropped unconsciously, in the intimacy of a common sorrow, into calling him by his Christian95 name, but the pleasure it gave him had by no means worn off yet.
"Yes," he said; "and you have no notion what a state they are all in about dear old Geoff. I assure you they all envy me immensely, because I can be of some little use to you. They don't come here, you know, because that would be no use--only making a row with the door-bell, and taking up the servants' time; but every day they come down to my place, or write me notes, or scribble96 their names on the door, with fat notes of interrogation after them, if I'm not at home. That means, 'How's dear old Geoff? send word at once.' Why, there's Stompff--I told you he was a beast, didn't I? Well, he's not half a beast, I assure you; he is in such a way about Geoff; and, upon my word, I don't think it's all because he is worth no end of money to him,--I don't indeed. He is mercenary, of course, but not always and not altogether; and he really quite got over me yesterday by the way he talked of Geoffrey, and wanted to know if there was any thing in the world he could do. Any thing in the world, according to Stompff, meant any thing in the way of money, I suppose; an advance upon the 'Esplanade,' or something of that sort."
"Yes, I suppose it did," said Til; "but we don't want money. Mamma has plenty to go on with until--" here her lipquivered,--"until Geoffrey can understand and explain things. It's very kind of Mr. Stompff, however, and I'm glad he's not quite a beast," said the young lady simply. "But, Charley, about these letters; what should I do?"
At this point the baby objected to be any longer unnoticed, and was transferred to Til, who walked up and down the room with the injured innocent, while Charley turned over the letters, and looked at their superscriptions.
"You are sure there is no letter from his wife among these?" said Charley.
"O no!" replied Til; "I know Margaret's hand well; and I have examined all the letters carefully every day. There has never been one from her."
"Here are two with the same monogram97, and the West-end district mark; I think they must be from Miss Maurice. If these letters can be made out to mean any thing, they are A.M. And see, one is plain, and one has a deep black edge."
Til hurried up to the table. "I hope Lord Caterham is not dead," she said! "I have heard Geoffrey speak of him with great regard; and only the day he was taken ill, he said he feared the poor fellow was going fast."
"I think we had better break the seal and see," said Charley; "Geoff would not like any neglect in that quarter."
He broke the seal as he spoke, and read the melancholy98 note which Annie had written to Geoffrey when Arthur died, and which had never received an answer.
Charley Potts and Til were much shocked and affected54 at the intelligence which the note contained.
"I haven't cared about the papers since Geoff has been ill, or I suppose I should have seen the announcement of Lord Caterham's death, though I don't particularly care for reading about the swells99 at any time," said Charley. "But how nicely she writes to Geoffrey, poor girl! I am sure she will be shocked to hear of his illness, and you must write to her,--h'm,--Til. What do you say to writing, and letting me take your letter to-morrow myself? Then she can ask me any questions she likes, and you need not enter into any painful explanations."
Til was eminently100 grateful for this suggestion which she knew was dictated101 by the sincerest and most disinterested102 wish to spare her; for to Charley the idea of approaching the grandeur103 of St. Barnabas Square, and the powdered pomposity104 of the lordly flunkeys, was, as she well knew, wholly detestable. So it was arranged that Charley should fulfil this mission early on the following day, before he presented himself at Elm Lodge. The baby was sent upstairs, Til wrote her note, and Charley departed very reluctantly, stipulating105 that Til should at once fulfil her promise of lying down in the nursery.
When, on the ensuing morning, Miss Maurice's maid reached Elm Lodge, the servants communicated to her the startling intelligence, which she roused Annie from her sleep to impart to her, without any reference to Mrs. Ludlow and Til, who were not aware for some time that Miss Maurice had sent to make inquiries106. On his arrival at St. Barnabas Square, Charley Potts was immediately admitted to Annie's presence, and the result of the interview was that she arrived at Elm Lodge escorted by that gentleman, whose embarrassment under the distinguished107 circumstances was extreme, before noon. She knew from Charley's report that it would be quite in vain to take Caterham's letter with her; that it must be long ere it should meet the eyes for which it was written, if ever it were to do so, and it remained still undisturbed in her charge. So Annie Maurice shared the sorrow and the fear of Geoffrey's mother and sister, and discussed the mystery that surrounded the calamities108 which had befallen them, perfectly unconscious that within reach of her own hand lay the key to the enigma109.
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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abruptly
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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mortification
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delightful
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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reticent
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longing
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justifiable
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annoyance
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unreasonable
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promptly
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desultory
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intervals
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| 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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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33
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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36
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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42
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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43
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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44
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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53
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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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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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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80
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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82
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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83
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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84
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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85
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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86
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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87
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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88
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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89
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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90
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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91
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
depreciatory
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| adj.贬值的，蔑视的 | |
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94
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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95
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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97
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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98
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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99
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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101
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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102
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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103
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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104
pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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105
stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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106
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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107
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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108
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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109
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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