In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver14, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation17 in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted18 stone-pit. The questionable19 sound of Silas's loom20, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting21 of the winnowing-machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail22, had a half-fearful fascination23 for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds'-nesting to peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counterbalancing a certain awe24 at the mysterious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn25 from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though chary26 of his time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend27 from his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that was always enough to make them take to their legs in terror. For how was it possible to believe that those large brown protuberant28 eyes in Silas Marner's pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart29 cramp30, or rickets31, or a wry32 mouth at any boy who happened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint that Silas Marner could cure folks' rheumatism33 if he had a mind, and add, still more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent34 listener among the grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity35. A shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion36 can be induced to refrain from inflicting37 harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the Invisible in the minds of men who have always been pressed close by primitive38 wants, and to whom a life of hard toil39 has never been illuminated40 by any enthusiastic religious faith. To them pain and mishap41 present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment42: their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. "Is there anything you can fancy that you would like to eat?" I once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had offered him. "No," he answered, "I've never been used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat that." Experience had bred no fancies in him that could raise the phantasm of appetite.
And Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts43 of civilization—inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly-desirable tithes44. But it was nestled in a snug45 well-wooded hollow, quite an hour's journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was never reached by the vibrations46 of the coach-horn, or of public opinion. It was an important-looking village, with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, with well-walled orchards47 and ornamental48 weathercocks, standing49 close upon the road, and lifting more imposing50 fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side of the churchyard:—a village which showed at once the summits of its social life, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and manor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide.
It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance would have had nothing strange for people of average culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities52 which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent53 from an unknown region called "North'ard". So had his way of life:—he invited no comer to step across his door-sill, and he never strolled into the village to drink a pint54 at the Rainbow, or to gossip at the wheelwright's: he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries; and it was soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one of them to accept him against her will—quite as if he had heard them declare that they would never marry a dead man come to life again. This view of Marner's personality was not without another ground than his pale face and unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred55 that one evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner leaning against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of resting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would have done; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that Marner's eyes were set like a dead man's, and he spoke56 to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they'd been made of iron; but just as he had made up his mind that the weaver was dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, in the winking57 of an eye, and said "Good-night", and walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by token that it was the very day he had been mole-catching on Squire58 Cass's land, down by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been in a "fit", a word which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn't it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, no; it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse between the shafts59, and then walk off as soon as you can say "Gee60!" But there might be such a thing as a man's soul being loose from his body, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this shell-less state to those who could teach them more than their neighbours could learn with their five senses and the parson. And where did Master Marner get his knowledge of herbs from—and charms too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney's story was no more than what might have been expected by anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally Oates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart had been beating enough to burst her body, for two months and more, while she had been under the doctor's care. He might cure more folks if he would; but he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from doing you a mischief61.
It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was indebted for protecting him from the persecution62 that his singularities might have drawn upon him, but still more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neighbouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft made him a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the district, and even to the more provident63 cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn64 at the year's end. Their sense of his usefulness would have counteracted65 any repugnance66 or suspicion which was not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had rolled on without producing any change in the impressions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said just the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning: they did not say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly when they did say them. There was only one important addition which the years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money somewhere, and that he could buy up "bigger men" than himself.
But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly stationary67, and his daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every fervid68 nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned69, to solitude70. His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in a narrow religious sect71, where the poorest layman72 has the chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, the weight of a silent voter in the government of his community. Marner was highly thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as the church assembling in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent73 faith; and a peculiar51 interest had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rigidity74 and suspension of consciousness, which, lasting76 for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. To have sought a medical explanation for this phenomenon would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow-members, a wilful77 self-exclusion from the spiritual significance that might lie therein. Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar discipline; and though the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful78 man than he might have been tempted79 into the subsequent creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory; a less sane80 man might have believed in such a creation; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent81 men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry82 and knowledge. He had inherited from his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation—a little store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest—but of late years he had had doubts about the lawfulness83 of applying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs; so that the inherited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation.
Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little older than himself, with whom he had long lived in such close friendship that it was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining instance of youthful piety84, though somewhat given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes85 others might discern in William, to his friend's mind he was faultless; for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness86 and lean on contradiction. The expression of trusting simplicity87 in Marner's face, heightened by that absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward triumph that lurked88 in the narrow slanting89 eyes and compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most frequent topics of conversation between the two friends was Assurance of salvation90: Silas confessed that he could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled91 with fear, and listened with longing92 wonder when William declared that he had possessed93 unshaken assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion94, he had dreamed that he saw the words "calling and election sure" standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such colloquies95 have occupied many a pair of pale-faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been like young winged things, fluttering forsaken96 in the twilight97.
It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship had suffered no chill even from his formation of another attachment98 of a closer kind. For some months he had been engaged to a young servant-woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mutual99 savings100 in order to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him that Sarah did not object to William's occasional presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their history that Silas's cataleptic fit occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst the various queries101 and expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow-members, William's suggestion alone jarred with the general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for special dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of divine favour, and exhorted102 his friend to see that he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound to accept rebuke103 and admonition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment104, but only pain, at his friend's doubts concerning him; and to this was soon added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah's manner towards him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation105 between an effort at an increased manifestation106 of regard and involuntary signs of shrinking and dislike. He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement; but she denied this: their engagement was known to the church, and had been recognized in the prayer-meetings; it could not be broken off without strict investigation107, and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the feeling of the community. At this time the senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless widower108, he was tended night and day by some of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently took his turn in the night-watching with William, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his usual audible breathing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to lift it to see the patient's face distinctly. Examination convinced him that the deacon was dead—had been dead some time, for the limbs were rigid75. Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock: it was already four in the morning. How was it that William had not come? In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there were several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them, while Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to know the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the minister. They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church members there; and to his inquiry concerning the cause of the summons the only reply was, "You will hear." Nothing further was said until Silas was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes of those who to him represented God's people fixed109 solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and asked him if he knew where he had left that knife? Silas said, he did not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own pocket—but he was trembling at this strange interrogation. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to confess and repent110. The knife had been found in the bureau by the departed deacon's bedside—found in the place where the little bag of church money had lain, which the minister himself had seen the day before. Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? For some time Silas was mute with astonishment111: then he said, "God will clear me: I know nothing about the knife being there, or the money being gone. Search me and my dwelling112; you will find nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these six months." At this William groaned113, but the minister said, "The proof is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he had not come; and, moreover, you neglected the dead body."
"I must have slept," said Silas. Then, after a pause, he added, "Or I must have had another visitation like that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief must have come and gone while I was not in the body, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else."
The search was made, and it ended—in William Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber114! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him, and said, "William, for nine years that we have gone in and out together, have you ever known me tell a lie? But God will clear me."
"Brother," said William, "how do I know what you may have done in the secret chambers115 of your heart, to give Satan an advantage over you?"
Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over his face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William.
"I remember now—the knife wasn't in my pocket."
William said, "I know nothing of what you mean." The other persons present, however, began to inquire where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he would give no further explanation: he only said, "I am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me."
On their return to the vestry there was further deliberation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining116 the culprit was contrary to the principles of the church in Lantern Yard, according to which prosecution117 was forbidden to Christians118, even had the case held less scandal to the community. But the members were bound to take other measures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which has gone on in the alleys119 of our towns. Silas knelt with his brethren, relying on his own innocence120 being certified121 by immediate122 divine interference, but feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for him even then—that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised123. The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty. He was solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money: only on confession124, as the sign of repentance125, could he be received once more within the folds of the church. Marner listened in silence. At last, when everyone rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agitation—
"The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut a strap126 for you. I don't remember putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But you may prosper127, for all that: there is no just God that governs the earth righteously, but a God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent."
William said meekly130, "I leave our brethren to judge whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas."
Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul—that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his wounded spirit, he said to himself, "She will cast me off too." And he reflected that, if she did not believe the testimony131 against him, her whole faith must be upset as his was. To people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught state of mind in which the form and the feeling have never been severed132 by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it inevitable133 that a man in Marner's position should have begun to question the validity of an appeal to the divine judgment134 by drawing lots; but to him this would have been an effort of independent thought such as he had never known; and he must have made the effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into the anguish135 of disappointed faith. If there is an angel who records the sorrows of men as well as their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable136.
Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned137 by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by getting into his loom and working away as usual; and before many hours were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the messengers to work at his loom again. In little more than a month from that time, Sarah was married to William Dane; and not long afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the town.
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1
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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5
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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6
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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7
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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8
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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9
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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10
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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13
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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17
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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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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19
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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21
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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23
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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25
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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rickets
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| n.软骨病，佝偻病，驼背 | |
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32
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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41
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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42
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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43
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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44
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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45
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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46
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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47
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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48
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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49
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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50
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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51
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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52
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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53
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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54
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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55
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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56
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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57
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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58
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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59
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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60
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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61
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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62
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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63
provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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64
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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65
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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66
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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67
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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68
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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69
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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71
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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72
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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73
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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74
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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75
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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76
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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77
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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78
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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79
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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81
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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82
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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83
lawfulness
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| 法制，合法 | |
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84
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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85
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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86
imperativeness
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87
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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88
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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90
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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91
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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92
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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93
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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94
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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96
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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97
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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98
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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99
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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100
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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101
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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102
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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104
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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105
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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106
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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107
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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108
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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109
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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110
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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111
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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112
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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113
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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114
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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115
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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116
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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117
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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118
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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119
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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120
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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121
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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122
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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123
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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124
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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125
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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126
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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127
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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128
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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129
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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130
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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131
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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132
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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133
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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134
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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135
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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136
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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137
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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