Mary turned and looked into the white face gazing up at her so defiantly9, and she recognized the girl to whom she had tossed the money. Suddenly she gave a gasp11 of astonishment12. “Jean Armour13!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“Aye, Jean Armour,” repeated the gypsy. “Come down to me; I must have a word with you alone,” she whispered sibilantly.
Mary gave a quick look around. Mrs. Dunlop was still deep in her gossip, and Robert was nowhere to be seen. She walked to the end of the balcony and found the steps. Quickly she reached the bottom, and going to Jean took her two hands in hers and shook them warmly. She was so glad to see anyone from Mossgiel, friend or foe14.
Jean regarded her advance with sullen15 suspicion. “Two years ago I was an invited guest here at Athol Castle,” she sneered16 bitterly, “while you were a barefooted dairymaid in Mossgiel. Now look at us. You[231] are the lady and I am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.”
“My father has turned me into the street,” answered Jean dully.
“Had ye done wrong?” inquired Mary timidly.
Jean laughed mirthlessly. “Wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to marry an old man I detested18 be wrong.”
“An’ your father turned ye out for that?”
“But—but ye gave him up long ago, Jean, of your own free will,” faltered20 Mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “An’ your father wrote Robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced21 all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never to see or hear o’ him again.”
A look of hatred23 spread over the face of the other. “My father lied when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity24, “for I told him I would never renounce22 my marriage to Robert, irregular though it was, and I never will. He is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes. For a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the words stamped themselves[232] one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy25. She felt sick and dizzy. There was a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony passed over her pallid26 face.
“Oh, Robert, my love, have I lost ye again?” she thought dully. “I knew it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” There was a choking sensation in her throat, but she did not weep. As in a horrid27 dream she heard the sharp metallic29 voice hissing30 in her ear, “He is my husband, Mary Campbell. You must give him up to me.” She roused herself out of the lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed31 her large pathetic eyes on Jean, who instinctively32 shrank back before the speechless despair of that helpless gaze. “But ye have no claim on Robbie noo, Jean,” she faltered slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” She paused and her pale lips quivered. “Why have ye come here noo to disturb him?” she asked with infinite pathos33. “He is happy, so happy noo. Dinna destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. Ye took him from me once; dinna separate us again.” Her voice broke and a hard sob34 choked her utterance35. A great pity welled up in Jean’s heart for the stricken child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly37[233] quiet. Presently Mary spoke38 again. “I hae nothing in this world, Jean, and I love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’. We have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’ stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.” Her voice rose to passionate39 pleading. “Oh, what is your weak fancy compared to such a love, Jean Armour?” she asked piteously. “Oh, I tell you I canna give him up to you again.” She sank down convulsively on the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low heart-breaking sobs40. Tears of sympathy slowly filled Jean’s eyes as she watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and pitiable condition.
“You must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” She paused a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with ease and grace through the dignified41 measures of the minuet. By and by she turned to the drooping42 form and spoke again. “My God, girl, don’t you suppose I too love him!” she exclaimed passionately43. “Why have I tramped mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults, struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?”
[234]
Mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness. “Your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she said with pathetic simplicity44. “He never loved ye, Jean Armour, ye ken36 that weel.”
Jean winced45 at the blunt truth, and a quiver of anger passed over her defiant10 face. “I know that only too well,” she replied bitterly. Then she gave a little mocking laugh, which nevertheless held a suggestion of tears. “You may have his heart, Mary Campbell,” she continued, “but I am what you can never be, his wife and the mother of his bairns.”
“The bairns,” repeated Mary blankly, “are they alive, Jean?”
“Yes, they are alive, thank God!” murmured Jean softly, “that is why I am here, Mary, that is why I must demand my rights, for my bairns’ sake.” Then she continued quickly, feverishly47, “Had it not been for them I would have done my father’s bidding, would have forgotten Robert, renounced him utterly48, and married the man my father had chosen for me, but I wanted my little ones to have the protection of a father’s name, so I stubbornly refused his commands. After my father had driven me from his door with curses on his lips, I discovered too late that Robert had tried again and again to see me, had even begged my father to allow him to legalize our marriage, and that his overtures50 were met with scorn and abuse. Then I decided51 to come to Edinburgh[235] myself to tell Robert the truth and to claim my rights.” She paused defiantly.
Lady Glencairn upon her return to the drawing-room had missed Mary, and upon learning from Mrs. Dunlop that she was upon the balcony, she sauntered slowly in that direction. As she stepped through the window she heard the low murmur46 of voices, and looking down perceived with amazement the young girl seated below her in company with a fantastically-dressed gypsy. Suddenly, with a start, she recognized the voice of Jean Armour. Hastily concealing52 herself behind a large marble pillar she listened in growing wonder, her face becoming hard and repellent, to the direful confession53 of her god-daughter.
“I arrived in Edinburgh after a month of hardships,” continued Jean with suppressed excitement, “and to-night I saw him in all his prosperity entering the castle like a king, looking so handsome, so contented54, and so very happy.”
“Yes, he is happy noo,” replied Mary softly. “Happier than he’ll e’er be on earth again, perhaps,” and she closed her eyes wearily.
For a moment there was silence, broken only by the monotonous55 hum of voices and the faint twanging of the harp28 from within the drawing-room. Presently Mary opened her eyes and spoke again.
“Ye maunna blame Robert for anything at a’, Jean,” she said loyally. “He thought the bairns were[236] dead, an’ he believed your father’s words, but noo, when he kens56 a’, he will do his duty nobly for his bairns’ sake.” She smiled bravely into the eager face of the other. “Ye have the right to him, Jean, I see that noo,” she continued sadly, “an’—an’ forgive my rude and unkind words to ye just noo,” and gently she held out her little hand.
Jean took it tenderly in her own. “What will you do now, where will you go?” she asked with a feeling of remorse57.
“I shall go back to Colonel Montgomery’s,” replied Mary, in a sad, spiritless voice, from which all the life seemed to have fled, “where I can see my friends sometimes. Mistress Burns loves me, an’ I—I may see Robbie, if only from the window as he passes. It willna harm anyone.” She looked at Jean in a pleading, timid manner, while her mouth quivered pathetically, but she forced a wan49 smile to her pale lips and then slowly turned and walked toward the stairway. As she mounted the bottom step Jean ran quickly to her side and clasped her hand impulsively58.
“Mary, I’m so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, “but I’m doing it for my bairns’ sake, ye ken that.”
“I understand, Jean,” answered Mary simply, “I dinna blame ye.” She leaned back against the marble balustrade. “But, oh, it’s hard, bitter hard,” she murmured brokenly; “if I could only die here and[237] noo.” She stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “Oh, Robbie, my darlin’,” she exclaimed in a sobbing59 whisper, “how can I tell ye, how can I break your heart? I thought ye had drunk your cup o’ misery60 empty, but the dregs are yet to be drained.”
The sympathetic tears rolled down Jean’s face. “Will you tell him I’m here, Mary, and that I must see him at once?” she asked pleadingly. Mary slowly bowed her head in assent2. “Oh, how I dread61 to meet him,” continued Jean in a frightened whisper, “to have him look at me with stern and angry eyes; to know that he longs to be free, and that he wishes me dead, perhaps.” She covered her face with her hands and shivered apprehensively62.
“Ye needna fear, Jean,” replied Mary, with reproachful pride. “Robert Burns is a mon of honor; ye should know that weel. I’ll go noo an’ tell him ye are here.” For a moment she swayed as if about to fall, but she recovered herself in an instant and slowly mounted the few remaining steps to the balcony. As she reached the top she pressed her hand against her heart as if that action would still its rapid beating. “Heaven give me the strength to tell him,” she breathed, and, with a little prayer on her lips, she slowly entered the drawing-room, where she found Mrs. Dunlop anxiously looking for her.
Jean watched her for a few moments, then, with a sigh of nervous dread, she turned and paced restlessly[238] up and down within the deep shadows beneath the overhanging trees. She had only taken one turn when she felt herself seized by the arm and drawn63 into the bright moonlight. Smothering64 the startled cry of alarm which rose to her lips she turned and faced her assailant. “Lady Glencairn!” she gasped65, starting back in astonishment.
“So, Jean Armour,” hissed her ladyship, “’tis you whose name has been coupled so disgracefully with that of Robert Burns.”
Jean dropped her head quickly, flushing crimson66 before the scornful light in the other’s eyes, which flashed like stars in the pale moonlight that came streaming down upon them. “Then you have heard?” she faltered, after a little frightened pause.
“Yes, I have heard everything,” her ladyship returned witheringly, “and my suspicions of you of two years ago have turned out to be right.”
“Please say no more now, Lady Glencairn,” retorted Jean sullenly. “Let me go.” She tried to pass, but Lady Glencairn put a restraining hand upon her shoulder. “I will say no more, you foolish girl,” she replied angrily. “Why do you insist upon thrusting yourself upon Robert Burns, to-night? He utterly detests67 your memory. He has done with you forever.”
Jean looked at her defiantly. “I am his wife. He must acknowledge me,” she declared firmly.
Lady Glencairn laughed scornfully. “You foolish[239] child, do you think he will ever forgive you for stepping in between him and Mary Campbell again?” she asked with studied indifference68. “No, he would hate you; you know his erratic69 temper, my dear Jean; you would but ruin your chance for a reconciliation70 forever, if he sees you now, when his heart is torn by grief and sorrow at losing for the second time the one lass who is all the world to him.” She paused and watched narrowly the look of dread and doubt creep slowly over the downcast face before her.
By and by Jean looked up, her eyes burning with unshed tears and shining feverishly. “What shall I do then, Lady Glencairn?” she asked helplessly, “where shall I go?”
Lady Glencairn did not answer for a few moments. She was thinking with a thrill of joy that Jean’s coming would separate the two lovers forever. “More than likely Robert would now remain in Edinburgh,” she mused71 with wildly beating heart. “But, on the other hand, if he stayed he would quixotically marry Jean Armour, and publicly right her in the eyes of the world,” she thought jealously, “and then——” She broke off and stared at the girl intently. “If she were out of the way,” she thought maliciously72, “might not his fickle73 fancy be caught in the rebound74?” These thoughts flowed quickly through her brain, and her eyes half shut wickedly, her gleaming white bosom75 heaving from her hurried breathing, as she decided on her course. “You must[240] leave here at once,” she said softly, taking Jean’s hand with an affectation of tenderness.
“I cannot return to my father,” she replied dully. “I have nowhere to go now.”
“Go to an inn for to-night,” said her ladyship hurriedly, “and I’ll come to you in the morning and advise you as to your future movements, and help you.”
“But I must see Robert first.”
Lady Glencairn frowned impatiently. “Foolish girl, take my advice and wait until to-morrow. You will lose nothing by it, for I will myself plead with Robert in your behalf.”
Jean did not answer. She stood mute and undecided.
“Surely, my dear Jean,” continued Lady Glencairn mockingly, “you don’t expect him to proclaim you as his dearly beloved wife before them all, do you?” She waved her hand carelessly toward the drawing-room.
Jean flushed and looked away. “No, I didn’t come for that,” she muttered slowly.
“Then why not do as I advise? I know that when the keen edge of his grief has worn off he will willingly take you to his heart and by a church marriage make you his lawful76 wife,” and she threw her warm arm over the shoulders of the yielding girl.
Jean gave a nervous little laugh. “I vow77, Lady Glencairn, I have not the courage to meet him now,”[241] she said. “I—I thank you gratefully for your kindness. I—I know ’tis better to wait——” She paused and sighed dejectedly. “You’ll find me at the Star and Garter Inn in King’s Court,” she said quickly after a moment’s indecision. Then she drew her scarf hurriedly about her shoulders as if anxious to get away.
At that instant a laughing group of people came out on the balcony. Lady Glencairn hastily drew her back in the shadows. “Go, go quickly!” she whispered, “before you are seen.” With a panting word of thanks Jean glided78 through the bushes, and, skirting the patches of light, she soon reached the secret door through which she had so unceremoniously entered and passed out to the street now deserted79, save for the motionless coachmen asleep on their boxes. Lady Glencairn breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Jean fade out of sight, swallowed up in the darkness. “Both out of the way now,” she murmured, a triumphant80 smile on her full crimson lips. She walked quickly toward the balcony. “What a contemptible81 creature I have become,” she thought with careless unconcern. “And all for love of a low-born peasant,” and she laughed derisively82, as she mounted the steps. She slowly entered the drawing-room, feeling strangely nervous and guilty, to find a great many people going to supper. Robert had grown tired of the heat and glare and noise, and seeing Mary sitting[242] so weary and wan looking, surrounded by a crowd of admirers who worshiped at the shrine83 of youth and beauty, he crossed quickly and whispered his wishes to her. She rose gladly and both advanced to bid their hostess farewell.
“Sorry you cannot remain longer,” said the Duchess with genuine cordiality. “You must bring Miss Campbell some afternoon to see me, Mr. Burns, when I am not receiving the public,” and with a pleasant smile she bade them good-night. Slowly they made their way through the crowd and met Lady Glencairn coming swiftly toward them.
As her eyes rested upon his happy countenance84 she knew that he was still in ignorance of Jean’s arrival in Edinburgh. “Won’t you have some supper?” she inquired brightly. “Don’t go yet.”
But Robert quietly insisted, as he perceived Mary’s increasing languor85 and pallor. So Lady Glencairn, with anger and disappointment gnawing86 at her heart, for she had hoped to show him the beauties of the garden by moonlight before he went, seeing that remonstrances87 were of no avail, bade them both an effusive88 good-night. “Don’t forget my garden party to-morrow,” she said with a patronizing smile, touching89 Mary’s cold hand lightly. “I shall expect you,” and she turned to greet her husband, who was approaching with Mr. Mackenzie.
“Thank ye, your ladyship,” answered Mary simply, making a little courtesy.
[243]
“Let me escort you to the carriage, Miss Campbell,” said Lord Glencairn, at once offering her his arm.
“And allow me to follow,” added Mr. Mackenzie, slipping his arm through Robert’s, to whom he whispered, “How dare you, sir, how dare you be such a provokingly happy man in this miserable90 old world?” Robert laughed, and they all walked slowly down to the carriage, conversing91 gayly on their way.
Suddenly Mary stopped with a little exclamation92 of dismay. “We’ve forgotten Mrs. Dunlop,” she said contritely93.
With a laugh Lord Glencairn dispatched a footman to find her, and the good lady soon appeared, flushed and panting from her hurried departure. With a last handshake all around Robert sprang in beside them and within a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight.
“Ye were the queen of the evening, Mary, just as I told ye ye’d be,” said Robert triumphantly94. “Have ye enjoyed yoursel’?”
“Ay, for a whiley,” answered Mary listlessly, leaning back against the heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. She had had no opportunity as yet to tell Robert the dread news, and her heart was filled with misgivings95 as she thought of Jean waiting patiently in the garden for him to come to her. She started up suddenly, resolved to[244] tell him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of Mrs. Dunlop, cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable. If she didn’t tell him to-night what would Jean do? With her usual unselfishness she gave no thought to self. She was miserably96 unhappy, but she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. Her whole thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged97, and of Jean and her bairns, Robert’s bairns. She sighed quiveringly, and a little pang98 of jealousy99 shot through her heart like a breath of fire, but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. She clasped her hands together feverishly. “Should she whisper to him now, tell him all and bid him drive back to Jean?” she asked herself in an agony of indecision. At that moment the carriage stopped at the door of Mrs. Dunlop’s mansion100. It was too late now. She gave a little sigh of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. Robert escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her sweet air of refinement101. She looked very frail102 and spirituelle, as she turned to him quietly and bade him good-night.
“Has something gone wrong, Mary?” he inquired solicitously103, noticing with alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness.
She shook her head slowly, not daring to trust[245] her voice. Mrs. Dunlop put her arm about her fondly.
“The lassie is tired, Robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no wonder. She’ll be as bright as a lark104 in the morning.” Bidding them both a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the carriage, and drove off toward his chambers105, whistling softly to himself the tune5 of “Mary of Argyle.”
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1
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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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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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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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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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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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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passionate
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| 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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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44
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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45
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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52
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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56
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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57
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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60
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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61
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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83
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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contritely
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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98
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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99
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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100
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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101
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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102
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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103
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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104
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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105
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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