It was still that glorious war-time which was felt to be a peculiar3 favour of Providence4 towards the landed interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry the race of small squires5 and yeomen down that road to ruin for which extravagant6 habits and bad husbandry were plentifully7 anointing their wheels. I am speaking now in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled it; for our old-fashioned country life had many different aspects, as all life must have when it is spread over a various surface, and breathed on variously by multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the thoughts of men, which are for ever moving and crossing each other with incalculable results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof8 from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families, and the poor thought that the rich were entirely9 in the right of it to lead a jolly life; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication10 of orts, which were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented12 the boiling of Squire Cass's hams, but her longing13 was arrested by the unctuous14 liquor in which they were boiled; and when the seasons brought round the great merry-makings, they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the poor. For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale—they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. After ladies had packed up their best gowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and had incurred15 the risk of fording streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when there was no knowing how high the water would rise, it was not to be supposed that they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived16 in the dark seasons, when there was little work to be done, and the hours were long, that several neighbours should keep open house in succession. So soon as Squire Cass's standing17 dishes diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests had nothing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to Mr. Osgood's, at the Orchards18, and they found hams and chines uncut, pork-pies with the scent11 of the fire in them, spun19 butter in all its freshness—everything, in fact, that appetites at leisure could desire, in perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, than at Squire Cass's.
For the Squire's wife had died long ago, and the Red House was without that presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain of wholesome20 love and fear in parlour and kitchen; and this helped to account not only for there being more profusion21 than finished excellence22 in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency with which the proud Squire condescended23 to preside in the parlour of the Rainbow rather than under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a place where moral censure24 was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and though some licence was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure, the neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey—a spiteful jeering25 fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry—always provided that his doings did not bring trouble on a family like Squire Cass's, with a monument in the church, and tankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest26, a fine open-faced good-natured young man who was to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same road with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If he went on in that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known that she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home days and days together. There was something wrong, more than common—that was quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn't look half so fresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was saying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would make! and if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the best, according to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn't turn over a new leaf, he might say "Good-bye" to Miss Nancy Lammeter.
It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life at Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes' brushes, on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth27 a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes propped28 up in the chimney-corners: signs of a domestic life destitute29 of any hallowing charm, with which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey's blond face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one's approach, and presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard across the large empty entrance-hall.
The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously30 elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication31. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred32. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth33 retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner.
"Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?" said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. "You're my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to come when you sent for me."
"Why, this is what I want—and just shake yourself sober and listen, will you?" said Godfrey, savagely34. He had himself been drinking more than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. "I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler's to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he's threatening to distrain35 for it, and it'll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if Fowler didn't come and pay up his arrears36 this week. The Squire's short o' cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with his money again. So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?"
"Oh!" said Dunsey, sneeringly37, coming nearer to his brother and looking in his face. "Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you'll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it was your brotherly love made you do it, you know."
Godfrey bit his lips and clenched39 his fist. "Don't come near me with that look, else I'll knock you down."
"Oh no, you won't," said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however. "Because I'm such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn't live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. But you see, I don't do it—I'm so easy and good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll get the hundred pounds for me—I know you will."
"How can I get the money?" said Godfrey, quivering. "I haven't a shilling to bless myself with. And it's a lie that you'd slip into my place: you'd get yourself turned out too, that's all. For if you begin telling tales, I'll follow. Bob's my father's favourite—you know that very well. He'd only think himself well rid of you."
"Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out of the window. "It 'ud be very pleasant to me to go in your company—you're such a handsome brother, and we've always been so fond of quarrelling with one another, I shouldn't know what to do without you. But you'd like better for us both to stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll manage to get that little sum o' money, and I'll bid you good-bye, though I'm sorry to part."
Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath—
"I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money."
"Borrow of old Kimble."
"I tell you, he won't lend me any more, and I shan't ask him."
"Well, then, sell Wildfire."
"Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money directly."
"Well, you've only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. There'll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. You'll get more bids than one."
"I daresay, and get back home at eight o'clock, splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance."
"Oho!" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak in a small mincing40 treble. "And there's sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be taken into favour, and—"
"Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool," said Godfrey, turning red, "else I'll throttle41 you."
"What for?" said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. "You've a very good chance. I'd advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it 'ud be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum some day, and make a widower42 of you. Miss Nancy wouldn't mind being a second, if she didn't know it. And you've got a good-natured brother, who'll keep your secret well, because you'll be so very obliging to him."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again, "my patience is pretty near at an end. If you'd a little more sharpness in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one leap as easy as another. I don't know but what it is so now: I may as well tell the Squire everything myself—I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, after all, he'll know some time. She's been threatening to come herself and tell him. So, don't flatter yourself that your secrecy's worth any price you choose to ask. You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify43 her with, and she'll do as she threatens some day. It's all one. I'll tell my father everything myself, and you may go to the devil."
Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a point at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he said, with an air of unconcern—
"As you please; but I'll have a draught44 of ale first." And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his whip.
Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such as could neither be knocked down nor throttled45. His natural irresolution46 and moral cowardice47 were exaggerated by a position in which dreaded48 consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and his irritation49 had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries50 he must bring on himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the present evil. The results of confession51 were not contingent52, they were certain; whereas betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that certainty he fell back on suspense53 and vacillation54 with a sense of repose55. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted56 tree, which, by the favour of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot where it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be won on those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose her as well as the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded him and left him without motive57 for trying to recover his better self, he could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession but that of "'listing for a soldier"—the most desperate step, short of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather trust to casualties than to his own resolve—rather go on sitting at the feast, and sipping58 the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging over him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession59 to Dunstan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfilment of his own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for this, and took his ale in shorter draughts60 than usual.
"It's just like you," Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, "to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool way—the last thing I've got to call my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if you'd got a spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering38 about it. But it's my belief you'd sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody feel he'd got a bad bargain."
"Aye, aye," said Dunstan, very placably, "you do me justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ticing people into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let me sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to-morrow for you, with pleasure. I shouldn't look so handsome as you in the saddle, but it's the horse they'll bid for, and not the rider."
"Yes, I daresay—trust my horse to you!"
"As you please," said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an air of great unconcern. "It's you have got to pay Fowler's money; it's none of my business. You received the money from him when you went to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it wasn't paid. I'd nothing to do with that; you chose to be so obliging as to give it me, that was all. If you don't want to pay the money, let it alone; it's all one to me. But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking61 to sell the horse, seeing it's not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow."
Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench62 the whip from his hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred63 him; but he was mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feelings stronger even than his resentment64. When he spoke65 again, it was in a half-conciliatory tone.
"Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If you don't, you know, everything 'ull go to smash, for I've got nothing else to trust to. And you'll have less pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your own skull's to be broken too."
"Aye, aye," said Dunstan, rising; "all right. I thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I'll get you a hundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny."
"But it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday, and then you can't go," said Godfrey, hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or not.
"Not it," said Dunstan. "I'm always lucky in my weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps66, you know—I always do. You've got the beauty, you see, and I've got the luck, so you must keep me by you for your crooked67 sixpence; you'll ne-ver get along without me."
"Confound you, hold your tongue!" said Godfrey, impetuously. "And take care to keep sober to-morrow, else you'll get pitched on your head coming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it."
"Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, opening the door. "You never knew me see double when I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the fun. Besides, whenever I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my legs."
With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination68 on his personal circumstances which was now unbroken from day to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious69 pleasure of seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied70 pains springing from the higher sensibility that accompanies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that dreary71 absence of impersonal72 enjoyment73 and consolation74 which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers75, whom we are apt to think very prosaic76 figures—men whose only work was to ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in the half-listless gratification of senses dulled by monotony—had a certain pathos77 in them nevertheless. Calamities78 came to them too, and their early errors carried hard consequences: perhaps the love of some sweet maiden79, the image of purity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem too long, even without rioting; but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, and then what was left to them, especially when they had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a gun over the furrows80, but to drink and get merry, or to drink and get angry, so that they might be independent of variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the things they had said already any time that twelvemonth? Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there were some whom—thanks to their native human-kindness—even riot could never drive into brutality81; men who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse82, had been pierced by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters83 from which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad circumstances, common to us all, their thoughts could find no resting-place outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty history.
That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of compunction, helped by those small indefinable influences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant84 nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was a blight85 on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion, delusion86, and waking from delusion, which needs not to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter memory. He had long known that the delusion was partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his brother's degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his jealous hate and his cupidity87. And if Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that destiny had put into his mouth would have chafed88 him less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud when he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan's diabolical89 cunning, he might have shrunk less from the consequences of avowal90. But he had something else to curse—his own vicious folly91, which now seemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all our follies92 and vices93 do when their promptings have long passed away. For four years he had thought of Nancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, as the woman who made him think of the future with joy: she would be his wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father's home had never been; and it would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a feverish94 way of annulling95 vacancy96. Godfrey's was an essentially97 domestic nature, bred up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits were not chastised98 by the presence of household order. His easy disposition99 made him fall in unresistingly with the family courses, but the need of some tender permanent affection, the longing for some influence that would make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lammeter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like those fresh bright hours of the morning when temptations go to sleep and leave the ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting100 to industry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough to save him from a course which shut him out of it for ever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken rope by which Nancy would have drawn101 him safe to the green banks where it was easy to step firmly, he had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for himself which robbed him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant exasperation102.
Still, there was one position worse than the present: it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret was disclosed; and the desire that continually triumphed over every other was that of warding103 off the evil day, when he would have to bear the consequences of his father's violent resentment for the wound inflicted104 on his family pride—would have, perhaps, to turn his back on that hereditary105 ease and dignity which, after all, was a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the certainty that he was banished106 for ever from the sight and esteem107 of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the interval108, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, at least, of the hateful consequences to which he had sold himself; the more opportunities remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and gathering109 some faint indications of her lingering regard. Towards this gratification he was impelled110, fitfully, every now and then, after having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize that only made him spring forward and find his chain all the more galling111. One of those fits of yearning112 was on him now, and it would have been strong enough to have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the morrow's hunt. That other reason was the fact that the morning's meet was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became more odious113 to him every day; and to his thought the whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke114 a man creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; and the good-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart, and enter again, like demons115 who had found in him a ready-garnished home.
What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cock-fighting: everybody was there, and what else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching him for some time, now jumped up in impatience116 for the expected caress117. But Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, followed humbly118 by the unresenting Snuff—perhaps because she saw no other career open to her.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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8
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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13
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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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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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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distrain
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| n.为抵债而扣押 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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39
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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41
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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42
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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43
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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44
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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45
throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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46
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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47
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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48
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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49
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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50
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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51
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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52
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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53
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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54
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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55
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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56
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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57
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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58
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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59
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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60
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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61
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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62
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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63
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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65
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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66
trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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67
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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68
rumination
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| n.反刍，沉思 | |
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69
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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71
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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72
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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73
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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74
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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75
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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76
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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77
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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78
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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80
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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82
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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83
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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85
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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86
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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87
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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88
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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89
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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90
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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91
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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92
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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93
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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94
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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95
annulling
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| v.宣告无效( annul的现在分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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96
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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97
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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98
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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99
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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100
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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103
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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104
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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106
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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108
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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109
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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110
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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112
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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113
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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114
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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115
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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116
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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117
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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118
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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