"Mrs. Vincent was in a dying state, according to the telegraphic message," Robert thought. "If I do find her, I shall at least succeed in discovering whether that message was genuine."
He found Crescent Villas after some difficulty. The houses were large, but they lay half imbedded among the chaos3 of brick and rising mortar4 around them. New terraces, new streets, new squares led away into hopeless masses of stone and plaster on every side. The roads were sticky with damp clay, which clogged5 the wheels of the cab and buried the fetlocks of the horse. The desolations—that awful aspect of incompleteness and discomfort6 which pervades7 a new and unfinished neighborhood—had set its dismal8 seal upon the surrounding streets which had arisen about and intrenched Crescent Villas; and Robert wasted forty minutes by his watch, and an hour and a quarter by the cabman's reckoning, in driving up and down uninhabited streets and terraces, trying to find the Villas; whose chimney-tops were frowning down upon him black and venerable, amid groves10 of virgin11 plaster, undimmed by time or smoke.
But having at last succeeded in reaching his destination, Mr. Audley alighted from the cab, directed the driver to wait for him at a certain corner, and set out upon his voyage of discovery.
"If I were a distinguished12 Q.C., I could not do this sort of thing," he thought; "my time would be worth a guinea or so a minute, and I should be retained in the great case of Hoggs vs. Boggs, going forward this very day before a special jury at Westminster Hall. As it is, I can afford to be patient."
He inquired for Mrs. Vincent at the number which Mr. Dawson had given him. The maid who opened the door had never heard that lady's name; but after going to inquire of her mistress, she returned to tell Robert that Mrs. Vincent had lived there, but that she had left two months before the present occupants had entered the house, "and missus has been here fifteen months," the girl added emphatically.
"But you cannot tell where she went on leaving here?" Robert asked, despondingly.
"No, sir; missus says she believes the lady failed, and that she left sudden like, and didn't want her address to be known in the neighborhood."
Mr. Audley felt himself at a standstill once more. If Mrs. Vincent had left the place in debt, she had no doubt scrupulously13 concealed14 her whereabouts. There was little hope, then, of learning her address from the tradespeople; and yet, on the other hand, it was just possible that some of her sharpest creditors15 might have made it their business to discover the defaulter's retreat.
He looked about him for the nearest shops, and found a baker16's, a stationer's, and a fruiterer's a few paces from the Crescent. Three empty-looking, pretentious17 shops, with plate-glass windows, and a hopeless air of gentility.
He stopped at the baker's, who called himself a pastrycook and confectioner, and exhibited some specimens18 of petrified19 sponge-cake in glass bottles, and some highly-glazed tarts20, covered with green gauze.
"She must have bought bread," Robert thought, as he deliberated before the baker's shop; "and she is likely to have bought it at the handiest place. I'll try the baker."
The baker was standing21 behind his counter, disputing the items of a bill with a shabby-genteel young woman. He did not trouble himself to attend to Robert Audley until he had settled the dispute, but he looked up as he was receipting the bill, and asked the barrister what he pleased to want.
"Can you tell me the address of a Mrs. Vincent, who lived at No. 9 Crescent Villas a year and a half ago?" Mr. Audley inquired, mildly.
"No, I can't," answered the baker, growing very red in the face, and speaking in an unnecessarily loud voice; "and what's more, I wish I could. That lady owes me upward of eleven pound for bread, and it's rather more than I can afford to lose. If anybody can tell me where she lives, I shall be much obliged to 'em for so doing."
Robert Audley shrugged22 his shoulders and wished the man good-morning. He felt that his discovery of the lady's whereabouts would involve more trouble than he had expected. He might have looked for Mrs. Vincent's name in the Post-Office directory, but he thought it scarcely likely that a lady who was on such uncomfortable terms with her creditors, would afford them so easy a means of ascertaining23 her residence.
"If the baker can't find her, how should I find her?" he thought, despairingly. "If a resolute24, sanguine25, active and energetic creature, such as the baker, fail to achieve this business, how can a lymphatic wretch26 like me hope to accomplish it? Where the baker has been defeated, what preposterous27 folly28 it would be for me to try to succeed."
Mr. Audley abandoned himself to these gloomy reflections as he walked slowly back toward the corner at which he had left the cab. About half-way between the baker's shop and this corner he was arrested by hearing a woman's step close at his side, and a woman's voice asking him to stop. He turned and found himself face to face with the shabbily-dressed woman whom he had left settling her account with the baker.
"Eh, what?" he asked, vaguely29. "Can I do anything for you, ma'am? Does Mrs. Vincent owe you money, too?"
"Yes, sir," the woman answered, with a semi-genteel manner which corresponded with the shabby gentility of her dress. "Mrs. Vincent is in my debt; but it isn't that, sir. I—I want to know, please, what your business may be with her—because—because—"
"You can give me her address if you choose, ma'am. That's what you mean to say, isn't it?"
The woman hesitated a little, looking rather suspiciously at Robert.
"You're not connected with—with the tally30 business, are you, sir?" she asked, after considering Mr. Audley's personal appearance for a few moments.
"The what, ma'am?" asked the young barrister, staring aghast at his questioner.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," exclaimed the little woman, seeing that she had made some awful mistake. "I thought you might have been, you know. Some of the gentlemen who collect for the tally shops do dress so very handsome; and I know Mrs. Vincent owes a good deal of money."
Robert Audley laid his hand upon the speaker's arm.
"My dear madam," he said, "I want to know nothing of Mrs. Vincent's affairs. So far from being concerned in what you call the tally business, I have not the remotest idea what you mean by that expression. You may mean a political conspiracy31; you may mean some new species of taxes. Mrs. Vincent does not owe me any money, however badly she may stand with that awful-looking baker. I never saw her in my life; but I wish to see her to-day for the simple purpose of asking her a few very plain questions about a young lady who once resided in her house. If you know where Mrs. Vincent lives and will give me her address, you will be doing me a great favor."
He took out his card-case and handed a card to the woman, who examined the slip of pasteboard anxiously before she spoke32 again.
"I'm sure you look and speak like a gentleman, sir," she said, after a brief pause, "and I hope you will excuse me if I've seemed mistrustful like; but poor Mrs. Vincent has had dreadful difficulties, and I'm the only person hereabouts that she's trusted with her addresses. I'm a dressmaker, sir, and I've worked for her for upward of six years, and though she doesn't pay me regular, you know, sir, she gives me a little money on account now and then, and I get on as well as I can. I may tell you where she lives, then, sir? You haven't deceived me, have you?"
"On my honor, no."
"Well, then sir," said the dressmaker, dropping her voice as if she thought the pavement beneath her feet, or the iron railings before the houses by her side, might have ears to hear her, "it's Acacia Cottage, Peckham Grove9. I took a dress there yesterday for Mrs. Vincent."
"Thank you," said Robert, writing the address in his pocketbook. "I am very much obliged to you, and you may rely upon it, Mrs. Vincent shall not suffer any inconvenience through me."
He lifted his hat, bowed to the little dressmaker, and turned back to the cab.
"I have beaten the baker, at any rate," he thought. "Now for the second stage, traveling backward, in my lady's life."
The drive from Brompton to the Peckham Road was a very long one, and between Crescent Villas and Acacia Cottage, Robert Audley had ample leisure for reflection. He thought of his uncle lying weak and ill in the oak-room at Audley Court. He thought of the beautiful blue eyes watching Sir Michael's slumbers33; the soft, white hands tending on his waking moments; the low musical voice soothing34 his loneliness, cheering and consoling his declining years. What a pleasant picture it might have been, had he been able to look upon it ignorantly, seeing no more than others saw, looking no further than a stranger could look. But with the black cloud which he saw brooding over it, what an arch mockery, what a diabolical35 delusion36 it seemed.
Peckham Grove—pleasant enough in the summer-time—has rather a dismal aspect upon a dull February day, when the trees are bare and leafless, and the little gardens desolate37. Acacia Cottage bore small token of the fitness of its nomenclature, and faced the road with its stuccoed walls sheltered only by a couple of attenuated38 poplars. But it announced that it was Acacia Cottage by means of a small brass39 plate upon one of the gate-posts, which was sufficient indication for the sharp-sighted cabman, who dropped Mr. Audley upon the pavement before the little gate.
Acacia Cottage was much lower in the social scale than Crescent Villas, and the small maid-servant who came to the low wooden gate and parleyed with Mr. Audley, was evidently well used to the encounter of relentless40 creditors across the same feeble barricade41.
She murmured the familiar domestic fiction of the uncertainty42 regarding her mistress's whereabouts; and told Robert that if he would please to state his name and business, she would go and see if Mrs. Vincent was at home.
Mr. Audley produced a card, and wrote in pencil under his own name: "a connection of the late Miss Graham."
He directed the small servant to carry his card to her mistress, and quietly awaited the result.
The servant returned in about five minutes with the key of the gate. Her mistress was at home, she told Robert as she admitted him, and would be happy to see the gentleman.
The square parlor43 into which Robert was ushered44 bore in every scrap45 of ornament46, in every article of furniture, the unmistakable stamp of that species of poverty which is most comfortless because it is never stationary47. The mechanic who furnishes his tiny sitting-room48 with half-a-dozen cane49 chairs, a Pembroke table, a Dutch clock, a tiny looking-glass, a crockery shepherd and shepherdess, and a set of gaudily-japanned iron tea-trays, makes the most of his limited possessions, and generally contrives51 to get some degree of comfort out of them; but the lady who loses the handsome furniture of the house she is compelled to abandon and encamps in some smaller habitation with the shabby remainder—bought in by some merciful friend at the sale of her effects—carries with her an aspect of genteel desolation and tawdry misery52 not easily to be paralleled in wretchedness by any other phase which poverty can assume.
The room which Robert Audley surveyed was furnished with the shabbier scraps53 snatched from the ruin which had overtaken the imprudent schoolmistress in Crescent Villas. A cottage piano, a chiffonier, six sizes too large for the room, and dismally54 gorgeous in gilded55 moldings that were chipped and broken; a slim-legged card-table, placed in the post of honor, formed the principal pieces of furniture. A threadbare patch of Brussels carpet covered the center of the room, and formed an oasis56 of roses and lilies upon a desert of shabby green drugget. Knitted curtains shaded the windows, in which hung wire baskets of horrible-looking plants of the cactus57 species, that grew downward, like some demented class of vegetation, whose prickly and spider-like members had a fancy for standing on their heads.
The green-baize covered card-table was adorned58 with gaudily-bound annuals or books of beauty, placed at right angles; but Robert Audley did not avail himself of these literary distractions59. He seated himself upon one of the rickety chairs, and waited patiently for the advent60 of the schoolmistress. He could hear the hum of half-a-dozen voices in a room near him, and the jingling61 harmonies of a set of variations in Deh Conte, upon a piano, whose every wire was evidently in the last stage of attenuation62.
He had waited for about a quarter of an hour, when the door was opened, and a lady, very much dressed, and with the setting sunlight of faded beauty upon her face, entered the room.
"Mr. Audley, I presume," she said, motioning to Robert to reseat himself, and placing herself in an easy-chair opposite to him. "You will pardon me, I hope, for detaining you so long; my duties—"
"It is I who should apologize for intruding63 upon you," Robert answered, politely; "but my motive64 for calling upon you is a very serious one, and must plead my excuse. You remember the lady whose name I wrote upon my card?"
"May I ask how much you know of that lady's history since her departure from your house?"
"Very little. In point of fact, scarcely anything at all. Miss Graham, I believe, obtained a situation in the family of a surgeon resident in Essex. Indeed, it was I who recommended her to that gentleman. I have never heard from her since she left me."
"But you have communicated with her?" Robert asked, eagerly.
"No, indeed."
Mr. Audley was silent for a few moments, the shadow of gloomy thoughts gathering66 darkly on his face.
"May I ask if you sent a telegraphic dispatch to Miss Graham early in last September, stating that you were dangerously ill, and that you wished to see her?"
Mrs. Vincent smiled at her visitor's question.
"I had no occasion to send such a message," she said; "I have never been seriously ill in my life."
Robert Audley paused before he asked any further questions, and scrawled67 a few penciled words in his note-book.
"If I ask you a few straightforward68 questions about Miss Lucy Graham, madam," he said. "Will you do me the favor to answer them without asking my motive in making such inquiries69?"
"Most certainly," replied Mrs. Vincent. "I know nothing to Miss Graham's disadvantage, and have no justification70 for making a mystery of the little I do know."
"Then will you tell me at what date the young lady first came to you?"
Mrs. Vincent smiled and shook her head. She had a pretty smile—the frank smile of a woman who had been admired, and who has too long felt the certainty of being able to please, to be utterly71 subjugated72 by any worldly misfortune.
"It's not the least use to ask me, Mr. Audley," she said. "I'm the most careless creature in the world; I never did, and never could remember dates, though I do all in my power to impress upon my girls how important it is for their future welfare that they should know when William the Conqueror73 began to reign74, and all that kind of thing. But I haven't the remotest idea when Miss Graham came to me, although I know it was ages ago, for it was the very summer I had my peach-colored silk. But we must consult Tonks—Tonks is sure to be right."
Robert Audley wondered who or what Tonks could be; a diary, perhaps, or a memorandum-book—some obscure rival of Letsome.
Mrs. Vincent rung the bell, which was answered by the maid-servant who had admitted Robert.
"Ask Miss Tonks to come to me," she said. "I want to see her particularly."
In less than five minutes Miss Tonks made her appearance. She was wintry and rather frost-bitten in aspect, and seemed to bring cold air in the scanty75 folds of her somber76 merino dress. She was no age in particular, and looked as if she had never been younger, and would never grow older, but would remain forever working backward and forward in her narrow groove77, like some self-feeding machine for the instruction of young ladies.
"Tonks, my dear," said Mrs. Vincent, without ceremony, "this gentleman is a relative of Miss Graham's. Do you remember how long it is since she came to us at Crescent Villas?"
"She came in August, 1854," answered Miss Tonks; "I think it was the eighteenth of August, but I'm not quite sure that it wasn't the seventeenth. I know it was on a Tuesday."
"Thank you, Tonks; you are a most invaluable78 darling," exclaimed Mrs. Vincent, with her sweetest smile. It was, perhaps, because of the invaluable nature of Miss Tonks' services that she had received no remuneration whatever from her employer for the last three or four years. Mrs. Vincent might have hesitated to pay from very contempt for the pitiful nature of the stipend79 as compared with the merits of the teacher.
"Is there anything else that Tonks or I can tell you, Mr. Audley?" asked the schoolmistress. "Tonks has a far better memory than I have."
"Can you tell me where Miss Graham came from when she entered your household?" Robert inquired.
"Not very precisely," answered Mrs. Vincent. "I have a vague notion that Miss Graham said something about coming from the seaside, but she didn't say where, or if she did I have forgotten it. Tonks, did Miss Graham tell you where she came from?"
"Oh, no!" replied Miss Tonks, shaking her grim little head significantly. "Miss Graham told me nothing; she was too clever for that. She knows how to keep her own secrets, in spite of her innocent ways and her curly hair," Miss Tonks added, spitefully.
"You think she had secrets?" Robert asked, rather eagerly.
"I know she had," replied Miss Tonks, with frosty decision; "all manner of secrets. I wouldn't have engaged such a person as junior teacher in a respectable school, without so much as one word of recommendation from any living creature."
"You had no reference, then, from Miss Graham?" asked Robert, addressing Mrs. Vincent.
"No," the lady answered, with some little embarrassment80; "I waived81 that. Miss Graham waived the question of salary; I could not do less than waive82 the question of reference. She quarreled with her papa, she told me, and she wanted to find a home away from all the people she had ever known. She wished to keep herself quite separate from these people. She had endured so much, she said, young as she was, and she wanted to escape from her troubles. How could I press her for a reference under these circumstances, especially when I saw that she was a perfect lady. You know that Lucy Graham was a perfect lady, Tonks, and it is very unkind for you to say such cruel things about my taking her without a reference."
"When people make favorites, they are apt to be deceived in them," Miss Tonks answered, with icy sententiousness, and with no very perceptible relevance83 to the point in discussion.
"I never made her a favorite, you jealous Tonks," Mrs. Vincent answered, reproachfully. "I never said she was as useful as you, dear. You know I never did."
"Oh, no!" replied Miss Tonks, with a chilling accent, "you never said she was useful. She was only ornamental84; a person to be shown off to visitors, and to play fantasias on the drawing-room piano."
"Then you can give me no clew to Miss Graham's previous history?" Robert asked, looking from the schoolmistress to her teacher. He saw very clearly that Miss Tonks bore an envious85 grudge86 against Lucy Graham—a grudge which even the lapse87 of time had not healed.
"If this woman knows anything to my lady's detriment88, she will tell it," he thought. "She will tell it only too willingly."
But Miss Tonks appeared to know nothing whatever; except that Miss Graham had sometimes declared herself an ill-used creature, deceived by the baseness of mankind, and the victim of unmerited sufferings, in the way of poverty and deprivation89. Beyond this, Miss Tonks could tell nothing; and although she made the most of what she did know, Robert soon sounded the depth of her small stock of information.
"I have only one more question to ask," he said at last. "It is this: Did Miss Graham leave any books or knick-knacks, or any other kind of property whatever, behind her, when she left your establishment?"
"Not to my knowledge," Mrs. Vincent replied.
"Yes," cried Miss Tonks, sharply. "She did leave something. She left a box. It's up-stairs in my room. I've got an old bonnet90 in it. Would you like to see the box?" she asked, addressing Robert.
"If you will be so good as to allow me," he answered, "I should very much like to see it."
"I'll fetch it down," said Miss Tonks. "It's not very big."
She ran out of the room before Mr. Audley had time to utter any polite remonstrance91.
"How pitiless these women are to each other," he thought, while the teacher was absent. "This one knows intuitively that there is some danger to the other lurking92 beneath my questions. She sniffs93 the coming trouble to her fellow female creature, and rejoices in it, and would take any pains to help me. What a world it is, and how these women take life out of her hands. Helen Maldon, Lady Audley, Clara Talboys, and now Miss Tonks—all womankind from beginning to end."
Miss Tonks re-entered while the young barrister was meditating94 upon the infamy95 of her sex. She carried a dilapidated paper-covered bonnet-box, which she submitted to Robert's inspection96.
Mr. Audley knelt down to examine the scraps of railway labels and addresses which were pasted here and there upon the box. It had been battered97 upon a great many different lines of railway, and had evidently traveled considerably98. Many of the labels had been torn off, but fragments of some of them remained, and upon one yellow scrap of paper Robert read the letters, TURI.
"The box has been to Italy," he thought. "Those are the first four letters of the word Turin, and the label is a foreign one."
The only direction which had not been either defaced or torn away was the last, which bore the name of Miss Graham, passenger to London. Looking very closely at this label, Mr. Audley discovered that it had been pasted over another.
"Will you be so good as to let me have a little water and a piece of sponge?" he said. "I want to get off this upper label. Believe me that I am justified99 in what I am doing."
Miss Tonks ran out of the room and returned immediately with a basin of water and a sponge.
"Shall I take off the label?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Robert answered, coldly. "I can do it very well myself."
He damped the upper label several times before he could loosen the edges of the paper; but after two or three careful attempts the moistened surface peeled off, without injury to the underneath100 address.
Miss Tonks could not contrive50 to read this address across Robert's shoulder, though she exhibited considerable dexterity101 in her endeavors to accomplish that object.
Mr. Audley repeated his operations upon the lower label, which he removed from the box, and placed very carefully between two blank leaves of his pocket-book.
"I need intrude102 upon you no longer, ladies," he said, when he had done this. "I am extremely obliged to you for having afforded me all the information in your power. I wish you good-morning."
Mrs. Vincent smiled and bowed, murmuring some complacent103 conventionality about the delight she had felt in Mr. Audley's visit. Miss Tonks, more observant, stared at the white change, which had come over the young man's face since he had removed the upper label from the box.
Robert walked slowly away from Acacia Cottage. "If that which I have found to-day is no evidence for a jury," he thought, "it is surely enough to convince my uncle that he has married a designing and infamous104 woman."
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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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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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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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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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diabolical
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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37
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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38
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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39
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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41
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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42
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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43
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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44
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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46
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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47
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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48
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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49
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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50
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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52
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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53
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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54
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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55
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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56
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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57
cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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58
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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59
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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61
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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attenuation
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| n.变薄；弄细；稀薄化；减少 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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67
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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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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70
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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71
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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72
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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74
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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76
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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77
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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78
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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79
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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80
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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81
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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82
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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83
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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84
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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85
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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86
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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87
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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88
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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89
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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90
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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91
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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92
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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93
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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94
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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95
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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96
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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97
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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98
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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99
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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100
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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101
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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102
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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103
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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104
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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