Or so very little longer."
—Browning.
After half an hour's continuous walking—for the roads out of London were over-bad after the heavy rains during the past week—the Huguenot clerk, closely followed by Master Legros, who had his daughter on his arm, turned into the new parish of Soho, where a number of fine houses had been recently erected2, and a few more were even now in process of construction.
The clerk had at first seemed desirous of imparting various scraps3 of topographical information to his compatriots, but to his interesting conversation the tailor only responded in curt4 monosyllables. He still harboured a vague mistrust against his guide. The latter part of the walk through the ill-paved, muddy and evil-smelling streets of London was therefore accomplished5 in silence. Rose Marie's nerves were tingling6 with excitement, and she shivered beneath her cloak and hood7, despite the warmth of this fine summer afternoon.
Soon the little party came to a halt before a newly-built house, fashioned of red brick with a fine portico8 of stone, richly carved and tall, arched windows set in flush with the outside walls and painted in creamy white.
"Here lives my lord of Stowmaries," said the clerk, as without waiting for further permission he plied9 the brass10 knocker vigorously. "Shall I ask if he hath come home?"
[328] The tailor nodded in assent11. He, too, was now getting too excited to speak. The next moment a serving-man, dressed in clothes of sober grey, opened the front door, and to the clerk's query12 whether my lord was at home, he replied in the affirmative.
Master Legros and Rose Marie were far too troubled in their minds to notice the furnishings and appointments of the house. Rose Marie threw the hood back from her face, and asked whether they could speak with my lord forthwith.
"Will you tell him, I pray you," she added, "that Monsieur Legros from Paris desires speech with him."
Legros dismissed the clerk—who was eager enough to get away—by bestowing13 a shilling upon him, and after that he and his daughter followed the serving-man through the hall into a small withdrawing room where they were bidden to wait.
A few moments of suspense—terrible alike to the girl and to the father—then a firm tread on the flagged floor outside; a step that to Rose Marie's supersensitive ear sounded strangely, almost weirdly14 familiar.
The next moment Michael Kestyon had entered the room.
"You have come to speak with me, good M. Legros—" he said even as he entered. Then he caught sight of Rose Marie and the words died on his lips.
They looked at one another—these two who once had been all in all one to the other—parted now by the shadow of that unforgettable wrong.
Instinctively—with eye fixed16 to eye—each asked the other the mute question: "Didst suffer as I did?" and in the heart of each—of the defiant17 adventurer, and the unsophisticated girl—there rose the wild, mad thrill, the tri[329]umphant, exulting18 hosanna, at sight of the lines of sorrow, so unmistakable, so eloquent19 on the face so dearly loved.
Rose Marie saw at once how much Michael had altered—that tender, motherly instinct inseparable from perfect womanhood told her even more than that which the sunken eyes and the drawn20 look in the face so pathetically expressed.
Yet outwardly he had changed but little; the step—as he rapidly crossed the room—had been as firm, as elastic21 as of old; he still carried his head high, and his manner—as of yore—was easy and gracious. When he had first entered, there was even an eager, joyful22 expression in his face. He did not know, you see, that M. Legros' visit to him was the result of a mistake, the freak of a mischievous23 clerk. He really thought that the good tailor had come here to see him, Michael, and the news had brought almost joy to his heart and had accelerated his footsteps as he flew down to greet his visitor.
No, the change was in none of these outward signs. It was the spirit in him which had changed. The dark eyes once so full of tenderness had a cold, steely look in them now, which was apparent even through the first pleasurable greeting. The mouth, too, looked set in its lines; the lips, which ere this were ever wont24 to smile, were now tightly pressed as if for ever controlling a sigh or trying to suppress a cry of pain.
Michael—with the eyes of a man hungering for love—gazed on his snowdrop and saw the change which the past dark months had wrought25 on the former serenity26 of her face. And if he had suffered during that time the exquisite27 pangs28 of mad and hopeless longing29, how much more acute did that pain seem now that he saw her, looking pale and fragile, almost frightened, too, in his presence, cold as she[330] had been ere that mad glad moment when he had held her—a living, loving woman—in his arms, with the hot blood rushing to her cheeks at his whispered words of passion, and the light of love kindled30 in her eyes.
Can brain of man or of torturing devils conceive aught so cruel as this living, breathing embodiment of the might-have-been; this tearing of every heart-string in the maddening desire for one more embrace, one last lingering kiss, one touch only of hand against hand, one final breath of life—after which, death and peace?
As in a dream, good Master Legros' diffident voice struck on Michael's ear:
"It was with my lord of Stowmaries that we wished to speak."
And directly after that, Rose Marie's trembling tones, half-choked with sobs31 resolutely32 suppressed:
"Let us go, Father—we—we must not stay here—let us go—"
She had drawn close to her father, and was twining her hands round his arm trying to drag him away.
The sad pathos33 of this appeal—this clinging to another as if for protection and help, whilst he—Michael—stood by—nothing to her, less than nothing, a thing to fear, to hate, mayhap, certainly to despise—struck him as with a whip-lash across his aching breast. But it woke him from his dream. It brought him back to earth, with senses bruised34 and temples throbbing35, his pride of manhood brought down to the dust of a childish desire to keep her here in his presence if only for a moment, a second; to hear her speak, to look on her, to endure her scorn if need be, only to have her there.
[331]
"Will you at least tell me, good Master, if I cannot serve you in any way?"
"No, sir, you cannot," replied Papa Legros gruffly. "I would have you believe and know that we came here under a misapprehension. A miscreant37 interpreter brought us hither, though he was bidden to take us to the house of Lord Stowmaries. We did not know that this was your house, sir, or believe me, we had never entered it."
"This is not my house," rejoined Michael gravely. "It is that of my mother, who hath left her Kentish village in order to dwell with me. For the rest, the misapprehension is most easy of explanation; nor is your interpreter so very much to blame."
He paused for the space of a second or two, then fixing steady eyes on the face of Rose Marie and throwing his head back with an air that was almost defiant in its pride, he said:
"You asked to speak with my lord of Stowmaries—'tis I who am the lord of Stowmaries now."
Then, as Legros, somewhat bewildered, stared at him in blank surprise, he added more quietly:
"You did not know this, mayhap?"
"No—no—my lord," stammered38 the tailor, who of a truth felt strangely perturbed39, "we—that is, I and my daughter did not know that—"
There was a moment's silence in the room. It seemed as if Michael was anticipating something, waiting for a word from Rose Marie. His very attitude was an expectant one; he was leaning forward, and his eyes had sought her lips, as if trying to guess what they would utter.
"Then the title which you borrowed from your cousin[332] awhile ago, and to some purpose, you have now succeeded in filching41 from him altogether?" said the girl coldly.
If she had the desire to hurt him, she certainly did succeed. Michael did not move, but his cheeks, already pale, turned to ashy grey; the eyes sank still deeper within their sockets42, and in a moment the face looked worn and haggard as that of a man with one foot in the grave.
Then he said slowly:
"Your pardon, Mistress; I have filched43 naught44 which was not already mine, mine and my father's before me. That which I took was my right; it is also my mother's, who for years had been left to starve whilst another filched from her that which was hers. For her sake did I claim that which was mine, because during all those years of starvation, misery45 and degradation—her misery and mine own degradation—she kept up her faith in me. And also for mine own sake did I claim my right, and in order to mend a wrong which, it seems, I had committed. Good Master Legros," he added, turning to the vastly bewildered tailor, "as Lord of Stowmaries I entered your house and, methinks, your heart. Of this I am not ashamed; the wrong that I did you is past; the righting thereof will last my lifetime and yours. I was Lord Stowmaries then by the word of God—I am that now by the word of the King and Parliament. That which seemed a lie I have proved to be true. Will you give me back your daughter, whom the caprice of a wanton reprobate46 would have cast from him, and whom I have justly won, by my deeds, by my will, by my crime if you call it so, but whom I have won rightfully and whom I would wish to render happy even at the cost of my life."
Gradually, as he spoke48, the tone of defiance49 died out of his voice and only pride remained expressed therein—pride[333] and an infinity50 of tenderness. There was no attempt at mitigating51 the fault that was past, no desire to excuse or to palliate. The man and his sin were inseparable; obviously had the sin to be again committed, Michael would have committed it again, with the same determination and the same defiance.
"I am a man, and what I do, I do. I won you by a trick. I fought for your love and won it. Mine enemy put a weapon in my hand. With it I conquered him; I conquered Fate and you. Had I been ashamed of the act, I had never committed it. I looked sin squarely in the face and took it by its grim hand and allowed it to lead me to your feet. To you I never lied; you I do not cheat."
These thoughts and more were fully47 expressed in his eyes as they rested on Rose Marie, and so subtle is the wave of sympathy that she understood every word which he did not utter; she understood them, even though she steeled her heart against the insidious52 whisperings of a drowsy53 conscience.
We may well imagine that on the other hand, good M. Legros, though he did not altogether grasp the proud sophistries54 of such a splendid blackguard, nevertheless quickly ranged himself against the whole array of all the grim virtues55. Would you blame him very much if you knew that within the innermost recesses56 of his kindly57 and simple heart he no longer greatly desired to speak with the man whom he had come all the way from Paris to supplicate58 and to warn?
Was it very wrong, think you, very self-interested on the part of this amiable59 little tailor to be now cursing those very necessities engendered60 by an ultrasensitive sense of loyalty61 which imposed on him the task of cleaving62 to that[334] man who was now dispossessed, beggared, a most undesirable63 husband for his beautiful daughter?
Truly the situation, from the point of view of conscience and of decency64, was a very difficult one. Is it a wonder that the doting65 father was quite unable to grapple with it?
Here was a man who was a terrible scoundrel, yet a mightily66 pleasing one for all that. He was now rich, of high consideration and power; he professed67 and undoubtedly68 felt a great and genuine love for Rose Marie. On the other hand, the other—his daughter's rightful lord—only too ready, nay69, anxious, to repudiate70 her—who truly was a far greater blackguard and not nearly such an attractive one—he was now poor and insignificant—always providing that Michael Kestyon's story was true and—and—
Good M. Legros' conscience was having such a tough fight inside him that he had to take out his vast, coloured handkerchief and to mop his forehead well, for he was literally71 in a sweat of intense perturbation. He would not meet Michael's enquiring72 eyes, lest the latter should read in his own the ready assent which they proclaimed. The worst of the situation was that good M. Legros was bound to leave the ultimate decision to his daughter, and alas73, he knew quite well what that decision would be. And God help them all, but he was bound to admit that that decision was the only right one, in the sight of the Lord and of all His self-denying and uncomfortably rigid74 saints.
Even now Rose Marie's clear voice, which had lost all its childlike ring of old and all its light tones of joy, broke in on her father's meditation75.
"Sir, or my lord," she said coldly, "for of a truth I know not which you are, meseems you do a cowardly thing by appealing to my father. He would only have my[335] earthly welfare in view, and even in this he might be mistaken if he thought that my earthly welfare could lie there, where there is disloyalty and shameless betrayal. For all your pride, good sir, and for all your defiance, you cannot e'en persuade yourself that what you do is right. As for me, I am a wife—not yours, my lord—despite the trick wherewith you drew from me an oath at the altar. I swore no love, no allegiance to any man save to him whom you have now wholly despoiled76 and beggared—nay," she added with a look of pride at least as great as his own, "I need no reminder77, sir, that I stand here, a cast-out wife, repudiated78 for no fault of mine own, but through an infamy79 in which you bore the leading hand. But, nevertheless, I am a wife, and as such God hath enjoined80 me to cleave81 to my husband. Since you have beggared him, I, thank God, can still enrich him. Never have I blest my father's wealth so sincerely as now, when it can go to proving to a scoffer82 that there is truth and loyalty in women, even when sordid83 self-interest fights against truth and justice. And if all the world, his king and country, turned against my lord, I, his wife, good sir, his wife in the sight of God, despite dispensations, despite courts of law and decrees of popes or kings, I, his wife, for all that would still be ready to serve him."
Gradually her voice as she spoke had become more steady and also less trenchant84; there was a quiver of passion in it, the passion of self-sacrifice. And he—poor man—mistook that warm, vibrating ring in the sweet, tender voice for the expression of true love felt for another.
"I did not know that you loved him, Rose Marie," he said simply.
She bent85 her head in order to hide the blush which rose[336] to her cheeks at his words. Was she thankful that he had misunderstood? Perhaps! For of a truth it would make the battle less hard to fight, and would guard against defeat. But, nevertheless, two heavy tears rose to her eyes, and strive as she might she could not prevent their falling down onto her hands which were clasped before her.
"He who was my lord of Stowmaries is a beggar now."
"No, not a beggar," he rejoined quietly, "for he is rich beyond the dreams of men."
"Good sir—or—or my lord," here interposed Papa Legros, who was still in a grave state of mental perturbation, "you see that the decision doth not rest with me—Heaven help me, but with all your fault I would—somehow—somehow have entrusted87 my child in your keeping with an easy heart."
"But you see, kind sir—I mean my lord—that this cannot be. My lord of Stowmaries—if so be that he is that no longer—yet as lord of Stowmaries he did wed1 my daughter. She feels—and rightly, too, no doubt—that she owes fealty89 to him. God knows but 'tis all very puzzling and I never was a casuist, but she says this is right and no doubt it is. It had all been much easier but for this additional grave trouble which threatens my lord."
"A scoundrel, liar15 and perjurer91 hath laid information against my lord, that he did conspire92 against the King of England."
"Impossible."
"Ay! 'tis true, good my lord. The damned ruffian[337] came to Paris to inform me of all the lies which he meant to tell against Lord Stowmaries, hoping that I would be pleased thereat and would reward him for his perjuries93. I kicked him out of my house, and my daughter and I came to warn my lord of the mischief94 that was brewing95 against him."
A frown of deep perplexity darkened Michael's brow.
"Good master tailor, I pray you leave me to see my cousin forthwith. The trouble, alas, if your information be correct, is graver than even you have any idea of. England is mad just now! Terror hath chased away all her reason, and, God help her, all her sense of justice. It may be that I shall have to arrange that my cousin leave the country as soon as may be. An you return to France soon he could travel in your company."
"I would wish to see my lord myself," said Rose Marie.
"Because you do not trust me?" he asked.
She would not reply to his look of reproach. How strange it is when a wave of cruelty sweeps over a woman, who otherwise is tender and kind and gentle. Rose Marie felt herself quite unable to stifle96 this longing to wound and to hurt, even though her heart ached at sight of the hopeless misery which was expressed in Michael's every movement, in the tonelessness of his voice, and the drawn look in his face. Who shall probe the secrets of a woman's heart, of a woman who has been cheated of a great love even at its birth, of a woman who thought that she had reached the utmost pinnacle97 of happiness only to find herself hurled98 from those giddy heights down, down to an abyss of loneliness, of lovelessness, and of bitter, undying memories.
"The child is unstrung, good my lord," here interposed Papa Legros gently. "I pray, do not think that we do not[338] trust in you. It were better mayhaps that you did see Lord Stowmaries—er—your cousin—alas! I know not how to call him now—and we'll to him this afternoon. He can then best tell us what he desires to do."
"Come, Rose Marie, we had best go now," he added with a pathetic sigh, which expressed all the disappointment of his kindly heart.
He picked up his soft felt hat and with gentle, trembling movement twirled it round and round in his hand. Rose Marie drew the hood over her hair and prepared to follow him.
It was all over then! The seconds had flown. She had come and would now go again, leaving him mayhap a shade more desolate99 even than before.
It was all over, and the darkness of the past months would descend100 on him once more, only that the darkness would be more dense101, more unbearable102, because of this one ray of light—caused by her presence here for these few brief moments.
Of a truth he had not known until now quite how much he had hoped, during these past months whilst he fought his battle with grim and steady vigour103, winning step by step, until that last final decision of the king, which gave him all that he wanted, all that he desired to offer her.
Now she was going out of his life—for the second time—and it seemed more irrevocable than that other parting at St. Denis. She was going and there would not remain one single tiny spark of hope to light the darkness of his despair.
Nothing would remain, only memory! Memory, on which the tears of Love would henceforth for ever be fed. Her words might ring in his ears, her image dwell in his mind, but his heart would go on starving, starving, athirst[339] for just one tiny remembrance on which to dwell until mercifully it would break at last.
"May I not kiss your finger tips once more, Rose Marie?" he pleaded.
The words had escaped his lips almost involuntarily. The longing for the tiny remembrance had been too strong to be stilled.
A kiss on her finger tips, one crumb104 of bread to a man dying of hunger, the sponge steeped in water to slake105 a raging thirst.
She turned to him. The tears had dried on her cheeks by now, and her eyes were seared and aching. She looked on his face, but did not lift her hand. Papa Legros, who felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat, busied himself with a careful examination of the door handle.
"It will probably be a long farewell," said Michael gently. "Will you not let me hold your hand just once again, my snowdrop? Nay, not mine, but another's—a king now amongst men."
Then, as very slowly, and with eyes fixed straight into his own, she raised her hand up to his, he took it, and looked long at each finger tip, tapering106 and delicately tipped with rose.
"See the epicure107 I am," he said, whilst a quaint108 smile played round the corners of his lips; "your little hand rests now in mine. I know that I may kiss it, that my lips may linger on each exquisite finger tip, until my poor brain, dizzy with joy, will mayhap totter109 into the land of madness. I know that I may kiss this cold little hand—so cold! I know that it will chill my lips—and still I wait—for my last joy now is anticipation110. Nay, do not draw your hand away, my beautiful ice-maid. Let me hold it just one little brief while longer. Are we not to be[340] friends in the future? Then as a friend may I not hold and kiss your hand?"
She could not speak, for sobs which she resolutely suppressed would rise in her throat, but she allowed her hand to rest in his; there was some solace111 even in this slight touch.
"Is it not strange," he said, "that life will go on just the same? The birds will sing, the leaves in autumn will wither112 and will fall. Your dear eyes will greet the first swallow when it circles over the towers of St. Gervais. Nature will not wear mourning because a miserable113 reprobate is eating out his heart in an agony of the might-have-been."
"I pray you, milor, release my hand," she murmured, for of a truth she no longer could bear the strain. "My father waits—"
"And the husband whom you love—nay, he must be a good man since God hath loved him so—"
"Farewell, my lord."
"Farewell, Rose Marie—my rosemary—'tis for remembrance, you know."
He tasted the supreme114 joy to the full—all the joy that was left to him now—five finger tips, cold against his burning lips, and they trembled beneath each kiss. Then she turned and followed her father out of the room.
For a moment he remained alone, standing115 there like one drunken or dazed. Mechanically his hand went to the inner pocket of his coat and anon he pulled out a withered116, crumbling117 bunch of snowdrops, the tiny bouquet118 which she had dropped at his feet that day in Paris, when first he saw her, and her blue eyes kindled the flame of a great and overwhelming passion.
Nay! thou art a man, and of what thou doest, thou art[341] not ashamed; but, proud man that thou art, there is thy Master, Love; he rules thee with his rod of steel, and if thou sin, beware! for that rod will smite119 thee 'til thou kneel humbly in the dust, with the weakness of unshed tears shaming thy manhood, and with a faded bunch of snowdrops pressed against thy lips, to smother120 a miserable, intensely human cry of awful agony.
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1
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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scraps
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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tingling
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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brass
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assent
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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weirdly
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liar
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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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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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exulting
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eloquent
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drawn
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elastic
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joyful
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mischievous
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wont
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wrought
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serenity
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exquisite
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pangs
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longing
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kindled
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sobs
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resolutely
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pathos
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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throbbing
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humbly
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miscreant
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stammered
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perturbed
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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41
filching
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的现在分词 ) | |
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42
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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43
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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45
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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46
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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47
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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48
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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49
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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50
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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51
mitigating
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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52
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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53
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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54
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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55
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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56
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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57
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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58
supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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59
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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60
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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62
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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63
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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64
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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65
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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66
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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67
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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68
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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69
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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70
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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71
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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72
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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74
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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75
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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76
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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78
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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79
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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80
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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82
scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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83
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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84
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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87
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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89
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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90
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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91
perjurer
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| n.伪誓者，伪证者 | |
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92
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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93
perjuries
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| n.假誓，伪证，伪证罪( perjury的名词复数 ) | |
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94
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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95
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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96
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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97
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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98
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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99
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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100
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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101
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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102
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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103
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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104
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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105
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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106
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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107
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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108
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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109
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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110
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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111
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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112
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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113
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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114
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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115
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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116
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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117
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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118
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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119
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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120
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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