Robert Audley waited with consummate3 patience for a considerable time; but as the express was generally a long train, and as there were a great many passengers from Norfolk carrying guns and pointers, and other paraphernalia4 of a critical description, it took a long while to make matters agreeable to all claimants, and even the barrister's seraphic indifference5 to mundane6 affairs nearly gave way.
"Perhaps, when that gentleman who is making such a noise about a pointer with liver-colored spots, has discovered the particular pointer and spots that he wants—which happy combination of events scarcely seems likely to arrive—they'll give me my luggage and let me go. The designing wretches7 knew at a glance that I was born to be imposed upon; and that if they were to trample8 the life out of me upon this very platform, I should never have the spirit to bring an action against the company."
Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and he left the porter to struggle for the custody9 of his goods, and walked round to the other side of the station.
He heard a bell ring, and looking at the clock, had remembered that the down train for Colchester started at this time. He had learned what it was to have an earnest purpose since the disappearance10 of George Talboys; and he reached the opposite platform in time to see the passengers take their seats.
There was one lady who had evidently only just arrived at the station; for she hurried on to the platform at the very moment that Robert approached the train, and almost ran against that gentleman in her haste and excitement.
"I beg your pardon," she began, ceremoniously; then raising her eyes from Mr. Audley's waistcoat, which was about on a level with her pretty face, she exclaimed, "Robert, you in London already?"
"You got tired of it—I knew you would. Please open the carriage door for me: the train will start in two minutes."
Robert Audley was looking at his uncle's wife with rather a puzzled expression of countenance12.
"What does it mean?" he thought. "She is altogether a different being to the wretched, helpless creature who dropped her mask for a moment, and looked at me with her own pitiful face, in the little room at Mount Stanning, four hours ago. What has happened to cause the change?"
He opened the door for her while he thought this, and helped her to settle herself in her seat, spreading her furs over her knees, and arranging the huge velvet13 mantle14 in which her slender little figure was almost hidden.
"Thank you very much; how good you are to me," she said, as he did this. "You will think me very foolish to travel upon such a day, without my dear darling's knowledge too; but I went up to town to settle a very terrific milliner's bill, which I did not wish my best of husbands to see; for, indulgent as he is, he might think me extravagant15; and I cannot bear to suffer even in his thoughts."
"Heaven forbid that you ever should, Lady Audley," Robert said, gravely.
"Heaven forbid it, indeed," she murmured. "I don't think I ever shall."
The second bell rung, and the train moved as she spoke17. The last Robert Audley saw of her was that bright defiant smile.
"Whatever object brought her to London has been successfully accomplished," he thought. "Has she baffled me by some piece of womanly jugglery18? Am I never to get any nearer to the truth, but am I to be tormented19 all my life by vague doubts, and wretched suspicions, which may grow upon me till I become a monomaniac? Why did she come to London?"
He was still mentally asking himself this question as he ascended20 the stairs in Figtree Court, with one of his dogs under each arm, and his railway rugs over his shoulder.
He found his chambers21 in their accustomed order. The geraniums had been carefully tended, and the canaries had retired23 for the night under cover of a square of green baize, testifying to the care of honest Mrs. Maloney. Robert cast a hurried glance round the sitting-room24; then setting down the dogs upon the hearth25-rug, he walked straight into the little inner chamber22 which served as his dressing-room.
It was in this room that he kept disused portmanteaus, battered26 japanned cases, and other lumber27; and it was in this room that George Talboys had left his luggage. Robert lifted a portmanteau from the top of a large trunk, and kneeling down before it with a lighted candle in his hand, carefully examined the lock.
To all appearance it was exactly in the same condition in which George had left it, when he laid his mourning garments aside and placed them in this shabby repository with all other memorials of his dead wife. Robert brushed his coat sleeve across the worn, leather-covered lid, upon which the initials G. T. were inscribed28 with big brass-headed nails; but Mrs. Maloney, the laundress, must have been the most precise of housewives, for neither the portmanteau nor the trunk were dusty.
Mr. Audley dispatched a boy to fetch his Irish attendant, and paced up and down his sitting-room waiting anxiously for her arrival.
She came in about ten minutes, and, after expressing her delight in the return of "the master," humbly29 awaited his orders.
"I only sent for you to ask if anybody has been here; that is to say, if anybody has applied30 to you for the key of my rooms to-day—any lady?"
"Lady? No, indeed, yer honor; there's been no lady for the kay; barrin' it's the blacksmith."
"The blacksmith!"
"Yes; the blacksmith your honor ordered to come to-day."
"I order a blacksmith!" exclaimed Robert. "I left a bottle of French brandy in the cupboard," he thought, "and Mrs. M. has been evidently enjoying herself."
"Sure, and the blacksmith your honor tould to see to the locks," replied Mrs. Maloney. "It's him that lives down in one of the little streets by the bridge," she added, giving a very lucid31 description of the man's whereabouts.
"If you'll sit down and compose yourself, Mrs. M.," he said—he abbreviated33 her name thus on principle, for the avoidance of unnecessary labor—"perhaps we shall be able by and by to understand each other. You say a blacksmith has been here?"
"Sure and I did, sir."
"To-day?"
"Quite correct, sir."
Step by step Mr. Audley elicited34 the following information. A locksmith had called upon Mrs. Maloney that afternoon at three o'clock, and had asked for the key of Mr. Audley's chambers, in order that he might look to the locks of the doors, which he stated were all out of repair. He declared that he was acting35 upon Mr. Audley's own orders, conveyed to him by a letter from the country, where the gentleman was spending his Christmas. Mrs. Maloney, believing in the truth of this statement, had admitted the man to the chambers, where he stayed about half an hour.
"But you were with him while he examined the locks, I suppose?" Mr. Audley asked.
"Sure I was, sir, in and out, as you may say, all the time, for I've been cleaning the stairs this afternoon, and I took the opportunity to begin my scouring36 while the man was at work."
"Oh, you were in and out all the time. If you could conveniently give me a plain answer, Mrs. M., I should be glad to know what was the longest time that you were out while the locksmith was in my chambers?"
But Mrs. Maloney could not give a plain answer. It might have been ten minutes; though she didn't think it was as much. It might have been a quarter of an hour; but she was sure it wasn't more. It didn't seem to her more than five minutes, but "thim stairs, your honor;" and here she rambled37 off into a disquisition upon the scouring of stairs in general, and the stairs outside Robert's chambers in particular.
Mr. Audley sighed the weary sigh of mournful resignation.
"Never mind, Mrs. M.," he said; "the locksmith had plenty of time to do anything he wanted to do, I dare say, without your being any the wiser."
"Sure, there wasn't anything for him to stale, your honor, barrin' the birds and the geran'ums, and—"
"No, no, I understand. There, that'll do, Mrs. M. Tell me where the man lives, and I'll go and see him."
"But you'll have a bit of dinner first, sir?"
"I'll go and see the locksmith before I have my dinner."
He took up his hat as he announced his determination, and walked toward the door.
"The man's address, Mrs. M?"
The Irishwoman directed him to a small street at the back of St. Bride's Church, and thither39 Mr. Robert Audley quietly strolled, through the miry slush which simple Londoners call snow.
He found the locksmith, and, at the sacrifice of the crown of his hat, contrived40 to enter the low, narrow doorway41 of a little open shop. A jet of gas was flaring42 in the unglazed window, and there was a very merry party in the little room behind the shop; but no one responded to Robert's "Hulloa!" The reason of this was sufficiently43 obvious. The merry party was so much absorbed in its own merriment as to be deaf to all commonplace summonses from the outer world; and it was only when Robert, advancing further into the cavernous little shop, made so bold as to open the half-glass door which separated him from the merry-makers, that he succeeded in obtaining their attention.
A very jovial45 picture of the Teniers school was presented to Mr. Robert Audley upon the opening of this door.
The locksmith, with his wife and family, and two or three droppers-in of the female sex, were clustered about a table, which was adorned46 by two bottles; not vulgar bottles of that colorless extract of the juniper berry, much affected47 by the masses; but of bona fide port and sherry—fiercely strong sherry, which left a fiery48 taste in the mouth, nut-brown sherry—rather unnaturally49 brown, if anything—and fine old port; no sickly vintage, faded and thin from excessive age: but a rich, full-bodied wine, sweet and substantial and high colored.
The locksmith was speaking as Robert Audley opened the door.
The whole party was thrown into confusion by the appearance of Mr. Audley, but it was to be observed that the locksmith was more embarrassed than his companions. He set down his glass so hurriedly, that he spilt his wine, and wiped his mouth nervously51 with the back of his dirty hand.
"You called at my chambers to-day," Robert said, quietly. "Don't let me disturb you, ladies." This to the droppers-in. "You called at my chambers to-day, Mr. White, and—"
The man interrupted him.
"I hope, sir, you will be so good as to look over the mistake," he stammered52. "I'm sure, sir, I'm very sorry it should have occurred. I was sent for to another gentleman's chambers, Mr. Aulwin, in Garden Court; and the name slipped my memory; and havin' done odd jobs before for you, I thought it must be you as wanted me to-day; and I called at Mrs. Maloney's for the key accordin'; but directly I see the locks in your chambers, I says to myself, the gentleman's locks ain't out of order; the gentleman don't want all his locks repaired."
"But you stayed half an hour."
"Yes, sir; for there was one lock out of order—the door nighest the staircase—and I took it off and cleaned it and put it on again. I won't charge you nothin' for the job, and I hope as you'll be as good as to look over the mistake as has occurred, which I've been in business thirteen years come July, and—"
"Nothing of this kind ever happened before, I suppose," said Robert, gravely. "No, it's altogether a singular kind of business, not likely to come about every day. You've been enjoying yourself this evening I see, Mr. White. You've done a good stroke of work to-day, I'll wager—made a lucky hit, and you're what you call 'standing53 treat,' eh?"
Robert Audley looked straight into the man's dingy54 face as he spoke. The locksmith was not a bad-looking fellow, and there was nothing that he need have been ashamed of in his face, except the dirt, and that, as Hamlet's mother says, "is common;" but in spite of this, Mr. White's eyelids55 dropped under the young barrister's calm scrutiny56, and he stammered out some apologetic sort of speech about his "missus," and his missus' neighbors, and port wine and sherry wine, with as much confusion as if he, an honest mechanic in a free country, were called upon to excuse himself to Robert Audley for being caught in the act of enjoying himself in his own parlor57.
Robert cut him short with a careless nod.
"Pray don't apologize," he said; "I like to see people enjoy themselves. Good-night, Mr. White good-night, ladies."
He lifted his hat to "the missus," and the missus' neighbors, who were much fascinated by his easy manner and his handsome face, and left the shop.
"And so," he muttered to himself as he went back to his chambers, "'with that she walked off as graceful as you please.'Who was it that walked off; and what was the story which the locksmith was telling when I interrupted him at that sentence? Oh, George Talboys, George Talboys, am I ever to come any nearer to the secret of your fate? Am I coming nearer to it now, slowly but surely? Is the radius58 to grow narrower day by day until it draws a dark circle around the home of those I love? How is it all to end?"
He sighed wearily as he walked slowly back across the flagged quadrangles in the Temple to his own solitary59 chambers.
Mrs. Maloney had prepared for him that bachelor's dinner, which, however excellent and nutritious60 in itself, has no claim to the special charm of novelty. She had cooked for him a mutton-chop, which was soddening61 itself between two plates upon the little table near the fire.
Robert Audley sighed as he sat down to the familiar meal, remembering his uncle's cook with a fond, regretful sorrow.
"Her cutlets a la Maintenon made mutton seem more than mutton; a sublimated62 meat that could scarcely have grown upon any mundane sheep," he murmured sentimentally63, "and Mrs. Maloney's chops are apt to be tough; but such is life—what does it matter?"
He pushed away his plate impatiently after eating a few mouthfuls.
"I have never eaten a good dinner at this table since I lost George Talboys," he said. "The place seems as gloomy as if the poor fellow had died in the next room, and had never been taken away to be buried. How long ago that September afternoon appears as I look back at it—that September afternoon upon which I parted with him alive and well; and lost him as suddenly and unaccountably as if a trap-door had opened in the solid earth and let him through to the antipodes!"
Mr. Audley rose from the dinner-table and walked over to the cabinet in which he kept the document he had drawn64 up relating to George Talboys. He unlocked the doors of his cabinet, took the paper from the pigeon-hole marked important, and seated himself at his desk to write. He added several paragraphs to those in the document, numbering the fresh paragraphs as carefully as he had numbered the old ones.
"Heaven help us all," he muttered once; "is this paper with which no attorney has had any hand to be my first brief?"
He wrote for about half an hour, then replaced the document in the pigeon-hole, and locked the cabinet. When he had done this, he took a candle in his hand, and went into the room in which were his own portmanteaus and the trunk belonging to George Talboys.
He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and tried them one by one. The lock of the shabby old trunk was a common one, and at the fifth trial the key turned easily.
"There'd be no need for any one to break open such a lock as this," muttered Robert, as he lifted the lid of the trunk.
He slowly emptied it of its contents, taking out each article separately, and laying it carefully upon a chair by his side. He handled the things with a respectful tenderness, as if he had been lifting the dead body of his lost friend. One by one he laid the neatly65 folded mourning garments on the chair. He found old meerschaum pipes, and soiled, crumpled66 gloves that had once been fresh from the Parisian maker44; old play-bills, whose biggest letters spelled the names of actors who were dead and gone; old perfume-bottles, fragrant67 with essences, whose fashion had passed away; neat little parcels of letters, each carefully labeled with the name of the writer; fragments of old newspapers; and a little heap of shabby, dilapidated books, each of which tumbled into as many pieces as a pack of cards in Robert's incautious hand. But among all the mass of worthless litter, each scrap68 of which had once had its separate purpose, Robert Audley looked in vain for that which he sought—the packet of letters written to the missing man by his dead wife Helen Talboys. He had heard George allude69 more than once to the existence of these letters. He had seen him once sorting the faded papers with a reverent70 hand; and he had seen him replace them, carefully tied together with a faded ribbon which had once been Helen's, among the mourning garments in the trunk. Whether he had afterward71 removed them, or whether they had been removed since his disappearance by some other hand, it was not easy to say; but they were gone.
Robert Audley sighed wearily as he replaced the things in the empty box, one by one, as he had taken them out. He stopped with the little heap of tattered72 books in his hand, and hesitated for a moment.
"I will keep these out," he muttered, "there may be something to help me in one of them."
George's library was no very brilliant collection of literature. There was an old Greek Testament73 and the Eton Latin Grammar; a French pamphlet on the cavalry74 sword-exercise; an odd volume of Tom Jones with one half of its stiff leather cover hanging to it by a thread; Byron's Don Juan, printed in a murderous type, which must have been invented for the special advantage of oculists and opticians; and a fat book in a faded gilt75 and crimson76 cover.
Robert Audley locked the trunk and took the books under his arm. Mrs. Maloney was clearing away the remains77 of his repast when he returned to the sitting-room. He put the books aside on a little table in a corner of the fire-place, and waited patiently while the laundress finished her work. He was in no humor even for his meerschaum consoler; the yellow-papered fictions on the shelves above his head seemed stale and profitless—he opened a volume of Balzac, but his uncle's wife's golden curls danced and trembled in a glittering haze78, alike upon the metaphysical diablerie of the Peau de Chagrin79, and the hideous80 social horrors of "Cousine Bette." The volume dropped from his hand, and he sat wearily watching Mrs. Maloney as she swept up the ashes on the hearth, replenished81 the fire, drew the dark damask curtains, supplied the simple wants of the canaries, and put on her bonnet82 in the disused clerk's office, prior to bidding her employer good-night. As the door closed upon the Irishwoman, he arose impatiently from his chair, and paced up and down the room.
"Why do I go on with this," he said, "when I know that it is leading me, step by step, day by day, hour by hour, nearer to that conclusion which, of all others, I should avoid? Am I tied to a wheel, and must I go with its every revolution, let it take me where it will? Or can I sit down here to-night and say I have done my duty to my missing friend, I have searched for him patiently, but I have searched in vain? Should I be justified83 in doing this? Should I be justified in letting the chain which I have slowly put together, link by link, drop at this point, or must I go on adding fresh links to that fatal chain until the last rivet84 drops into its place and the circle is complete? I think, and I believe, that I shall never see my friend's face again; and that no exertion85 of mine can ever be of any benefit to him. In plainer, crueler words I believe him to be dead. Am I bound to discover how and where he died? or being, as I think, on the road to that discovery, shall I do a wrong to the memory of George Talboys by turning back or stopping still? What am I to do?—what am I to do?"
He rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The one purpose which had slowly grown up in his careless nature until it had become powerful enough to work a change in that very nature, made him what he had never been before—a Christian86; conscious of his own weakness; anxious to keep to the strict line of duty; fearful to swerve87 from the conscientious88 discharge of the strange task that had been forced upon him; and reliant on a stronger hand than his own to point the way which he was to go. Perhaps he uttered his first earnest prayer that night, seated by his lonely fireside, thinking of George Talboys. When he raised his head from that long and silent revery, his eyes had a bright, determined89 glance, and every feature in his face seemed to wear a new expression.
"Justice to the dead first," he said; "mercy to the living afterward."
He wheeled his easy-chair to the table, trimmed the lamp, and settled himself to the examination of the books.
He took them up, one by one, and looked carefully through them, first looking at the page on which the name of the owner is ordinarily written, and then searching for any scrap of paper which might have been left within the leaves. On the first page of the Eton Latin Grammar the name of Master Talboys was written in a prim90, scholastic91 hand; the French pamphlet had a careless G.T. scrawled92 on the cover in pencil, in George's big, slovenly93 calligraphy94: the Tom Jones had evidently been bought at a book-stall, and bore an inscription95, dated March 14th, 1788, setting forth96 that the book was a tribute of respect to Mr. Thos. Scrowton, from his obedient servant, James Anderley; the Don Juan and the Testament were blank. Robert Audley breathed more freely; he had arrived at the last but one of the books without any result whatever, and there only remained the fat gilt-and-crimson-bound volume to be examined before his task was finished.
It was an annual of the year 1845. The copper-plate engravings of lovely ladies, who had flourished in that day, were yellow and spotted97 with mildew98; the costumes grotesque99 and outlandish; the simpering beauties faded and commonplace. Even the little clusters of verses (in which the poet's feeble candle shed its sickly light upon the obscurities of the artist's meaning) had an old-fashioned twang; like music on a lyre, whose strings100 are slackened by the damps of time. Robert Audley did not stop to read any of the mild productions. He ran rapidly through the leaves, looking for any scrap of writing or fragment of a letter which might have been used to mark a place. He found nothing but a bright ring of golden hair, of that glittering hue101 which is so rarely seen except upon the head of a child—a sunny lock, which curled as naturally as the tendril of a vine; and was very opposite in texture102, if not different in hue, to the soft, smooth tresses which the landlady103 at Ventnor had given to George Talboys after his wife's death. Robert Audley suspended his examination of the book, and folded this yellow lock in a sheet of letter paper, which he sealed with his signet-ring, and laid aside, with the memorandum104 about George Talboys and Alicia's letter, in the pigeon-hole marked important. He was going to replace the fat annual among the other books, when he discovered that the two blank leaves at the beginning were stuck together. He was so determined to prosecute105 his search to the very uttermost, that he took the trouble to part these leaves with the sharp end of his paper-knife, and he was rewarded for his perseverance106 by finding an inscription upon one of them. This inscription was in three parts, and in three different hands. The first paragraph was dated as far back as the year in which the annual had been published, and set forth that the book was the property of a certain Miss Elizabeth Ann Bince, who had obtained the precious volume as a reward for habits of order, and for obedience107 to the authorities of Camford House Seminary, Torquay. The second paragraph was dated five years later, and was in the handwriting of Miss Bince herself, who presented the book, as a mark of undying affection and unfading esteem108 (Miss Bince was evidently of a romantic temperament) to her beloved friend, Helen Maldon. The third paragraph was dated September, 1853, and was in the hand of Helen Maldon, who gave the annual to George Talboys; and it was at the sight of this third paragraph that Mr. Robert Audley's face changed from its natural hue to a sickly, leaden pallor.
"I thought it would be so," said the young man, shutting the book with a weary sigh. "God knows I was prepared for the worst, and the worst has come. I can understand all now. My next visit must be to Southampton. I must place the boy in better hands."
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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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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defiant
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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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jugglery
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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retired
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sitting-room
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hearth
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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applied
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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eyebrows
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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36
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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37
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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38
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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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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41
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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42
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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43
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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50
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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51
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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52
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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54
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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soddening
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| v.（液体）沸腾( seethe的过去分词 )( sodden的现在分词 )；激动，大怒；强压怒火；生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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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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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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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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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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72
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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76
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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81
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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82
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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83
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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84
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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85
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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86
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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87
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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88
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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91
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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92
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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94
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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95
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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96
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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97
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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98
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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99
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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100
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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101
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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102
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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103
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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104
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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105
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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106
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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107
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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108
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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