At the end of this avenue there was an old arch and a clock tower, with a stupid, bewildering clock, which had only one hand—and which jumped straight from one hour to the next—and was therefore always in extremes. Through this arch you walked straight into the gardens of Audley Court.
A smooth lawn lay before you, dotted with groups of rhododendrons, which grew in more perfection here than anywhere else in the county. To the right there were the kitchen gardens, the fish-pond, and an orchard2 bordered by a dry moat, and a broken ruin of a wall, in some places thicker than it was high, and everywhere overgrown with trailing ivy3, yellow stonecrop, and dark moss4. To the left there was a broad graveled walk, down which, years ago, when the place had been a convent, the quiet nuns5 had walked hand in hand; a wall bordered with espaliers, and shadowed on one side by goodly oaks, which shut out the flat landscape, and circled in the house and gardens with a darkening shelter.
The house faced the arch, and occupied three sides of a quadrangle. It was very old, and very irregular and rambling6. The windows were uneven7; some small, some large, some with heavy stone mullions and rich stained glass; others with frail8 lattices that rattled9 in every breeze; others so modern that they might have been added only yesterday. Great piles of chimneys rose up here and there behind the pointed10 gables, and seemed as if they were so broken down by age and long service that they must have fallen but for the straggling ivy which, crawling up the walls and trailing even over the roof, wound itself about them and supported them. The principal door was squeezed into a corner of a turret11 at one angle of the building, as if it were in hiding from dangerous visitors, and wished to keep itself a secret—a noble door for all that—old oak, and studded with great square-headed iron nails, and so thick that the sharp iron knocker struck upon it with a muffled12 sound, and the visitor rung a clanging bell that dangled13 in a corner among the ivy, lest the noise of the knocking should never penetrate14 the stronghold.
A glorious old place. A place that visitors fell in raptures15 with; feeling a yearning16 wish to have done with life, and to stay there forever, staring into the cool fish-ponds and counting the bubbles as the roach and carp rose to the surface of the water. A spot in which peace seemed to have taken up her abode17, setting her soothing18 hand on every tree and flower, on the still ponds and quiet alleys19, the shady corners of the old-fashioned rooms, the deep window-seats behind the painted glass, the low meadows and the stately avenues—ay, even upon the stagnant20 well, which, cool and sheltered as all else in the old place, hid itself away in a shrubbery behind the gardens, with an idle handle that was never turned and a lazy rope so rotten that the pail had broken away from it, and had fallen into the water.
A noble place; inside as well as out, a noble place—a house in which you incontinently lost yourself if ever you were so rash as to attempt to penetrate its mysteries alone; a house in which no one room had any sympathy with another, every chamber21 running off at a tangent into an inner chamber, and through that down some narrow staircase leading to a door which, in its turn, led back into that very part of the house from which you thought yourself the furthest; a house that could never have been planned by any mortal architect, but must have been the handiwork of that good old builder, Time, who, adding a room one year, and knocking down a room another year, toppling down a chimney coeval22 with the Plantagenets, and setting up one in the style of the Tudors; shaking down a bit of Saxon wall, allowing a Norman arch to stand here; throwing in a row of high narrow windows in the reign24 of Queen Anne, and joining on a dining-room after the fashion of the time of Hanoverian George I, to a refectory that had been standing25 since the Conquest, had contrived26, in some eleven centuries, to run up such a mansion27 as was not elsewhere to be met with throughout the county of Essex. Of course, in such a house there were secret chambers28; the little daughter of the present owner, Sir Michael Audley, had fallen by accident upon the discovery of one. A board had rattled under her feet in the great nursery where she played, and on attention being drawn29 to it, it was found to be loose, and so removed, revealed a ladder, leading to a hiding-place between the floor of the nursery and the ceiling of the room below—a hiding-place so small that he who had hid there must have crouched30 on his hands and knees or lain at full length, and yet large enough to contain a quaint31 old carved oak chest, half filled with priests' vestments, which had been hidden away, no doubt, in those cruel days when the life of a man was in danger if he was discovered to have harbored a Roman Catholic priest, or to have mass said in his house.
The broad outer moat was dry and grass-grown, and the laden32 trees of the orchard hung over it with gnarled, straggling branches that drew fantastical shadows upon the green slope. Within this moat there was, as I have said, the fish-pond—a sheet of water that extended the whole length of the garden and bordering which there was an avenue called the lime-tree walk; an avenue so shaded from the sun and sky, so screened from observation by the thick shelter of the over-arching trees that it seemed a chosen place for secret meetings or for stolen interviews; a place in which a conspiracy33 might have been planned, or a lover's vow34 registered with equal safety; and yet it was scarcely twenty paces from the house.
At the end of this dark arcade35 there was the shrubbery, where, half buried among the tangled36 branches and the neglected weeds, stood the rusty37 wheel of that old well of which I have spoken. It had been of good service in its time, no doubt; and busy nuns have perhaps drawn the cool water with their own fair hands; but it had fallen into disuse now, and scarcely any one at Audley Court knew whether the spring had dried up or not. But sheltered as was the solitude39 of this lime-tree walk, I doubt very much if it was ever put to any romantic uses. Often in the cool of the evening Sir Michael Audley would stroll up and down smoking his cigar, with his dogs at his heels, and his pretty young wife dawdling40 by his side; but in about ten minutes the baronet and his companion would grow tired of the rustling41 limes and the still water, hidden under the spreading leaves of the water-lilies, and the long green vista42 with the broken well at the end, and would stroll back to the drawing-room, where my lady played dreamy melodies by Beethoven and Mendelssohn till her husband fell asleep in his easy-chair.
Sir Michael Audley was fifty-six years of age, and he had married a second wife three months after his fifty-fifth birthday. He was a big man, tall and stout43, with a deep, sonorous44 voice, handsome black eyes, and a white beard—a white beard which made him look venerable against his will, for he was as active as a boy, and one of the hardest riders in the country. For seventeen years he had been a widower45 with an only child, a daughter, Alicia Audley, now eighteen, and by no means too well pleased at having a step-mother brought home to the Court; for Miss Alicia had reigned46 supreme47 in her father's house since her earliest childhood, and had carried the keys, and jingled48 them in the pockets of her silk aprons49, and lost them in the shrubbery, and dropped them into the pond, and given all manner of trouble about them from the hour in which she entered her teens, and had, on that account, deluded50 herself into the sincere belief, that for the whole of that period, she had been keeping the house.
But Miss Alicia's day was over; and now, when she asked anything of the housekeeper51, the housekeeper would tell her that she would speak to my lady, or she would consult my lady, and if my lady pleased it should be done. So the baronet's daughter, who was an excellent horsewoman and a very clever artist, spent most of her time out of doors, riding about the green lanes, and sketching53 the cottage children, and the plow-boys, and the cattle, and all manner of animal life that came in her way. She set her face with a sulky determination against any intimacy54 between herself and the baronet's young wife; and amiable55 as that lady was, she found it quite impossible to overcome Miss Alicia's prejudices and dislike; or to convince the spoilt girl that she had not done her a cruel injury by marrying Sir Michael Audley. The truth was that Lady Audley had, in becoming the wife of Sir Michael, made one of those apparently56 advantageous57 matches which are apt to draw upon a woman the envy and hatred58 of her sex. She had come into the neighborhood as a governess in the family of a surgeon in the village near Audley Court. No one knew anything of her, except that she came in answer to an advertisement which Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, had inserted in The Times. She came from London; and the only reference she gave was to a lady at a school at Brompton, where she had once been a teacher. But this reference was so satisfactory that none other was needed, and Miss Lucy Graham was received by the surgeon as the instructress of his daughters. Her accomplishments59 were so brilliant and numerous, that it seemed strange that she should have answered an advertisement offering such very moderate terms of remuneration as those named by Mr. Dawson; but Miss Graham seemed perfectly60 well satisfied with her situation, and she taught the girls to play sonatas61 by Beethoven, and to paint from nature after Creswick, and walked through a dull, out-of-the-way village to the humble62 little church, three times every Sunday, as contentedly63 as if she had no higher aspiration65 in the world than to do so all the rest of her life.
People who observed this, accounted for it by saying that it was a part of her amiable and gentle nature always to be light-hearted, happy and contented64 under any circumstances.
Wherever she went she seemed to take joy and brightness with her. In the cottages of the poor her fair face shone like a sunbeam. She would sit for a quarter of an hour talking to some old woman, and apparently as pleased with the admiration66 of a toothless crone as if she had been listening to the compliments of a marquis; and when she tripped away, leaving nothing behind her (for her poor salary gave no scope to her benevolence), the old woman would burst out into senile raptures with her grace, beauty, and her kindliness67, such as she never bestowed68 upon the vicar's wife, who half fed and clothed her. For you see, Miss Lucy Graham was blessed with that magic power of fascination69, by which a woman can charm with a word or intoxicate70 with a smile. Every one loved, admired, and praised her. The boy who opened the five-barred gate that stood in her pathway, ran home to his mother to tell of her pretty looks, and the sweet voice in which she thanked him for the little service. The verger at the church, who ushered71 her into the surgeon's pew; the vicar, who saw the soft blue eyes uplifted to his face as he preached his simple sermon; the porter from the railway station, who brought her sometimes a letter or a parcel, and who never looked for reward from her; her employer; his visitors; her pupils; the servants; everybody, high and low, united in declaring that Lucy Graham was the sweetest girl that ever lived.
Perhaps it was the rumor72 of this which penetrated73 into the quiet chamber of Audley Court; or, perhaps, it was the sight of her pretty face, looking over the surgeon's high pew every Sunday morning; however it was, it was certain that Sir Michael Audley suddenly experienced a strong desire to be better acquainted with Mr. Dawson's governess.
He had only to hint his wish to the worthy74 doctor for a little party to be got up, to which the vicar and his wife, and the baronet and his daughter, were invited.
That one quiet evening sealed Sir Michael's fate. He could no more resist the tender fascination of those soft and melting blue eyes; the graceful75 beauty of that slender throat and drooping76 head, with its wealth of showering flaxen curls; the low music of that gentle voice; the perfect harmony which pervaded77 every charm, and made all doubly charming in this woman; than he could resist his destiny! Destiny! Why, she was his destiny! He had never loved before. What had been his marriage with Alicia's mother but a dull, jog-trot bargain made to keep some estate in the family that would have been just as well out of it? What had been his love for his first wife but a poor, pitiful, smoldering78 spark, too dull to be extinguished, too feeble to burn? But this was love—this fever, this longing79, this restless, uncertain, miserable80 hesitation81; these cruel fears that his age was an insurmountable barrier to his happiness; this sick hatred of his white beard; this frenzied82 wish to be young again, with glistening83 raven84 hair, and a slim waist, such as he had twenty years before; these, wakeful nights and melancholy85 days, so gloriously brightened if he chanced to catch a glimpse of her sweet face behind the window curtains, as he drove past the surgeon's house; all these signs gave token of the truth, and told only too plainly that, at the sober age of fifty-five, Sir Michael Audley had fallen ill of the terrible fever called love.
I do not think that, throughout his courtship, the baronet once calculated upon his wealth or his position as reasons for his success. If he ever remembered these things, he dismissed the thought of them with a shudder86. It pained him too much to believe for a moment that any one so lovely and innocent could value herself against a splendid house or a good old title. No; his hope was that, as her life had been most likely one of toil87 and dependence88, and as she was very young nobody exactly knew her age, but she looked little more than twenty, she might never have formed any attachment89, and that he, being the first to woo her, might, by tender attentions, by generous watchfulness90, by a love which should recall to her the father she had lost, and by a protecting care that should make him necessary to her, win her young heart, and obtain from her fresh and earliest love, the promise of her hand. It was a very romantic day-dream, no doubt; but, for all that, it seemed in a very fair way to be realized. Lucy Graham appeared by no means to dislike the baronet's attentions. There was nothing whatever in her manner that betrayed the shallow artifices91 employed by a woman who wishes to captivate a rich man. She was so accustomed to admiration from every one, high and low, that Sir Michael's conduct made very little impression upon her. Again, he had been so many years a widower that people had given up the idea of his ever marrying again. At last, however, Mrs. Dawson spoke38 to the governess on the subject. The surgeon's wife was sitting in the school-room busy at work, while Lucy was putting the finishing touches on some water-color sketches92 done by her pupils.
"Do you know, my dear Miss Graham," said Mrs. Dawson, "I think you ought to consider yourself a remarkably93 lucky girl?"
The governess lifted her head from its stooping attitude, and stared wonderingly at her employer, shaking back a shower of curls. They were the most wonderful curls in the world—soft and feathery, always floating away from her face, and making a pale halo round her head when the sunlight shone through them.
"What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Dawson?" she asked, dipping her camel's-hair brush into the wet aquamarine upon the palette, and poising94 it carefully before putting in the delicate streak95 of purple which was to brighten the horizon in her pupil's sketch52.
"Why, I mean, my dear, that it only rests with yourself to become Lady Audley, and the mistress of Audley Court."
Lucy Graham dropped the brush upon the picture, and flushed scarlet96 to the roots of her fair hair; and then grew pale again, far paler than Mrs. Dawson had ever seen her before.
"My dear, don't agitate97 yourself," said the surgeon's wife, soothingly98; "you know that nobody asks you to marry Sir Michael unless you wish. Of course it would be a magnificent match; he has a splendid income, and is one of the most generous of men. Your position would be very high, and you would be enabled to do a great deal of good; but, as I said before, you must be entirely99 guided by your own feelings. Only one thing I must say, and that is that if Sir Michael's attentions are not agreeable to you, it is really scarcely honorable to encourage him."
"His attentions—encourage him!" muttered Lucy, as if the words bewildered her. "Pray, pray don't talk to me, Mrs. Dawson. I had no idea of this. It is the last thing that would have occurred to me." She leaned her elbows on the drawing-board before her, and clasping her hands over her face, seemed for some minutes to be thinking deeply. She wore a narrow black ribbon round her neck, with a locket, or a cross, or a miniature, perhaps, attached to it; but whatever the trinket was, she always kept it hidden under her dress. Once or twice, while she sat silently thinking, she removed one of her hands from before her face, and fidgeted nervously100 with the ribbon, clutching at it with a half-angry gesture, and twisting it backward and forward between her fingers.
"I think some people are born to be unlucky, Mrs. Dawson," she said, by-and-by; "it would be a great deal too much good fortune for me to become Lady Audley."
She said this with so much bitterness in her tone, that the surgeon's wife looked up at her with surprise.
"You unlucky, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I think you are the last person who ought to talk like that—you, such a bright, happy creature, that it does every one good to see you. I'm sure I don't know what we shall do if Sir Michael robs us of you."
After this conversation they often spoke upon the subject, and Lucy never again showed any emotion whatever when the baronet's admiration for her was canvassed101. It was a tacitly understood thing in the surgeon's family that whenever Sir Michael proposed, the governess would quietly accept him; and, indeed, the simple Dawsons would have thought it something more than madness in a penniless girl to reject such an offer.
So, one misty102 August evening, Sir Michael, sitting opposite to Lucy Graham, at a window in the surgeon's little drawing-room, took an opportunity while the family happened by some accident to be absent from the room, of speaking upon the subject nearest to his heart. He made the governess, in a few but solemn words, an offer of his hand. There was something almost touching103 in the manner and tone in which he spoke to her—half in deprecation, knowing that he could hardly expect to be the choice of a beautiful young girl, and praying rather that she would reject him, even though she broke his heart by doing so, than that she should accept his offer if she did not love him.
"I scarcely think there is a greater sin, Lucy," he said, solemnly, "than that of a woman who marries a man she does not love. You are so precious to me, my beloved, that deeply as my heart is set on this, and bitter as the mere104 thought of disappointment is to me, I would not have you commit such a sin for any happiness of mine. If my happiness could be achieved by such an act, which it could not—which it never could," he repeated, earnestly—"nothing but misery105 can result from a marriage dictated106 by any motive107 but truth and love."
Lucy Graham was not looking at Sir Michael, but straight out into the misty twilight108 and dim landscape far away beyond the little garden. The baronet tried to see her face, but her profile was turned to him, and he could not discover the expression of her eyes. If he could have done so, he would have seen a yearning gaze which seemed as if it would have pierced the far obscurity and looked away—away into another world.
"Lucy, you heard me?"
"Yes," she said, gravely; not coldly, or in any way as if she were offended at his words.
"And your answer?"
She did not remove her gaze from the darkening country side, but for some moments was quite silent; then turning to him, with a sudden passion in her manner, that lighted up her face with a new and wonderful beauty which the baronet perceived even in the growing twilight, she fell on her knees at his feet.
"No, Lucy; no, no!" he cried, vehemently109, "not here, not here!"
"Yes, here, here," she said, the strange passion which agitated110 her making her voice sound shrill111 and piercing—not loud, but preternaturally distinct; "here and nowhere else. How good you are—how noble and how generous! Love you! Why, there are women a hundred times my superiors in beauty and in goodness who might love you dearly; but you ask too much of me! Remember what my life has been; only remember that! From my very babyhood I have never seen anything but poverty. My father was a gentleman: clever, accomplished112, handsome—but poor—and what a pitiful wretch113 poverty made of him! My mother—But do not let me speak of her. Poverty—poverty, trials, vexations, humiliations, deprivations114. You cannot tell; you, who are among those for whom life is so smooth and easy, you can never guess what is endured by such as we. Do not ask too much of me, then. I cannot be disinterested115; I cannot be blind to the advantages of such an alliance. I cannot, I cannot!"
Beyond her agitation116 and her passionate117 vehemence118, there is an undefined something in her manner which fills the baronet with a vague alarm. She is still on the ground at his feet, crouching119 rather than kneeling, her thin white dress clinging about her, her pale hair streaming over her shoulders, her great blue eyes glittering in the dusk, and her hands clutching at the black ribbon about her throat, as if it had been strangling her. "Don't ask too much of me," she kept repeating; "I have been selfish from my babyhood."
"Lucy—Lucy, speak plainly. Do you dislike me?"
"Dislike you? No—no!"
"But is there any one else whom you love?"
She laughed aloud at his question. "I do not love any one in the world," she answered.
He was glad of her reply; and yet that and the strange laugh jarred upon his feelings. He was silent for some moments, and then said, with a kind of effort:
"Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you. I dare say I am a romantic old fool; but if you do not dislike me, and if you do not love any one else, I see no reason why we should not make a very happy couple. Is it a bargain, Lucy?"
"Yes."
The baronet lifted her in his arms and kissed her once upon the forehead, then quietly bidding her good-night, he walked straight out of the house.
He walked straight out of the house, this foolish old man, because there was some strong emotion at work in his breast—neither joy nor triumph, but something almost akin23 to disappointment—some stifled120 and unsatisfied longing which lay heavy and dull at his heart, as if he had carried a corpse121 in his bosom122. He carried the corpse of that hope which had died at the sound of Lucy's words. All the doubts and fears and timid aspirations123 were ended now. He must be contented, like other men of his age, to be married for his fortune and his position.
Lucy Graham went slowly up the stairs to her little room at the top of the house. She placed her dim candle on the chest of drawers, and seated herself on the edge of the white bed, still and white as the draperies hanging around her.
"No more dependence, no more drudgery124, no more humiliations," she said; "every trace of the old life melted away—every clew to identity buried and forgotten—except these, except these."
She had never taken her left hand from the black ribbon at her throat. She drew it from her bosom, as she spoke, and looked at the object attached to it.
It was neither a locket, a miniature, nor a cross; it was a ring wrapped in an oblong piece of paper—the paper partly written, partly printed, yellow with age, and crumpled125 with much folding.
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1
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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abode
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soothing
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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stagnant
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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coeval
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| adj.同时代的；n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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reign
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standing
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contrived
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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conspiracy
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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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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39
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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40
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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41
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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42
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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44
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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45
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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46
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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47
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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48
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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49
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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50
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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52
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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53
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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55
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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58
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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59
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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60
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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61
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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62
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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63
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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64
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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65
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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66
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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67
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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68
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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71
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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73
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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74
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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75
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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76
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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77
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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79
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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80
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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81
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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82
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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83
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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84
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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85
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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86
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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87
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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88
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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89
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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90
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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91
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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93
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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94
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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95
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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96
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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97
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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98
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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99
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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100
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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101
canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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102
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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103
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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104
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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105
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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106
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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107
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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108
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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109
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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110
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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111
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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112
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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113
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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114
deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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115
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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116
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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117
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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118
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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119
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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120
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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121
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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122
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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123
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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124
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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125
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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