Robert had heard of cases in which men of his uncle's age had borne some great grief, as Sir Michael had borne this, with a strange quiet; and had gone away from those who would have comforted them, and whose anxieties have been relieved by this patient stillness, to fall down upon the ground and die under the blow which at first had only stunned9 him. He remembered cases in which paralysis10 and apoplexy had stricken men as strong as his uncle in the first hour of the horrible affliction; and he lingered in the lamp-lit vestibule, wondering whether it was not his duty to be with Sir Michael—to be near him, in case of any emergency, and to accompany him wherever he went.
Yet would it be wise to force himself upon that gray-headed sufferer in this cruel hour, in which he had been awakened11 from the one delusion12 of a blameless life to discover that he had been the dupe of a false face, and the fool of a nature which was too coldly mercenary, too cruelly heartless, to be sensible of its own infamy13?
"No," thought Robert Audley, "I will not intrude14 upon the anguish of this wounded heart. There is humiliation15 mingled16 with this bitter grief. It is better he should fight the battle alone. I have done what I believe to have been my solemn duty, yet I should scarcely wonder if I had rendered myself forever hateful to him. It is better he should fight the battle alone. I can do nothing to make the strife17 less terrible. Better that it should be fought alone."
While the young man stood with his hand upon the library door, still half-doubtful whether he should follow his uncle or re-enter the room in which he had left that more wretched creature whom it had been his business to unmask, Alicia Audley opened the dining-room door, and revealed to him the old-fashioned oak-paneled apartment, the long table covered with showy damask, and bright with a cheerful glitter of glass and silver.
"Is papa coming to dinner?" asked Miss Audley. "I'm so hungry; and poor Tomlins has sent up three times to say the fish will be spoiled. It must be reduced to a species of isinglass soup, by this time, I should think," added the young lady, as she came out into the vestibule with the Times newspaper in her hand.
She had been sitting by the fire reading the paper, and waiting for her seniors to join her at the dinner table.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Robert Audley." she remarked, indifferently. "You dine with us of course. Pray go and find papa. It must be nearly eight o'clock, and we are supposed to dine at six."
Mr. Audley answered his cousin rather sternly. Her frivolous18 manner jarred upon him, and he forgot in his irrational19 displeasure that Miss Audley had known nothing of the terrible drama which had been so long enacting20 under her very nose.
"Your papa has just endured a very great grief, Alicia," the young man said, gravely.
The girl's arch, laughing face changed in a moment to a tenderly earnest look of sorrow and anxiety. Alicia Audley loved her father very dearly.
"A grief?" she exclaimed; "papa grieved! Oh! Robert, what has happened?"
"I can tell you nothing yet, Alicia," Robert answered in a low voice.
He took his cousin by the wrist, and drew her into the dining-room as he spoke1. He closed the door carefully behind him before he continued:
"Alicia, can I trust you?" he asked, earnestly.
"Trust me to do what?"
"To be a comfort and a friend to your poor father under a very heavy affliction."
"Yes!" cried Alicia, passionately21. "How can you ask me such a question? Do you think there is anything I would not do to lighten any sorrow of my father's? Do you think there is anything I would not suffer if my suffering could lighten his?"
The rushing tears rose to Miss Audley's bright gray eyes as she spoke.
"Oh, Robert! Robert! could you think so badly of me as to think I would not try to be a comfort to my father in his grief?" she said, reproachfully.
"No, no, my dear," answered the young man, quietly; "I never doubted your affection, I only doubted your discretion22. May I rely upon that?"
"You may, Robert," said Alicia, resolutely23.
"Very well, then, my dear girl, I will trust you. Your father is going to leave the Court, for a time at least. The grief which he has just endured—a sudden and unlooked-for sorrow, remember—has no doubt made this place hateful to him. He is going away; but he must not go alone, must he, Alicia?"
"Alone? no! no! But I suppose my lady—"
"Lady Audley will not go with him," said Robert, gravely; "he is about to separate himself from her."
"For a time?"
"No, forever."
"Separate himself from her forever!" exclaimed Alicia. "Then this grief—"
"Is connected with Lady Audley. Lady Audley is the cause of your father's sorrow."
Alicia's face, which had been pale before, flushed crimson24. Sorrow, of which my lady was the cause—a sorrow which was to separate Sir Michael forever from his wife! There had been no quarrel between them—there had never been anything but harmony and sunshine between Lady Audley and her generous husband. This sorrow must surely then have arisen from some sudden discovery; it was, no doubt, a sorrow associated with disgrace. Robert Audley understood the meaning of that vivid blush.
"You will offer to accompany your father wherever he may choose to go, Alicia," he said. "You are his natural comforter at such a time as this, but you will best befriend him in this hour of trial by avoiding all intrusion upon his grief. Your very ignorance of the particulars of that grief will be a security for your discretion. Say nothing to your father that you might not have said to him two years ago, before he married a second wife. Try and be to him what you were before the woman in yonder room came between you and your father's love."
"I will," murmured Alicia, "I will."
"You will naturally avoid all mention of Lady Audley's name. If your father is often silent, be patient; if it sometimes seems to you that the shadow of this great sorrow will never pass away from his life, be patient still; and remember that there can be no better hope of a cure of his grief than the hope that his daughter's devotion may lead him to remember there is one woman upon this earth who will love him truly and purely25 until the last."
"Yes—yes, Robert, dear cousin, I will remember."
Mr. Audley, for the first time since he had been a schoolboy, took his cousin in his arms and kissed her broad forehead.
"My dear Alicia," he said, "do this and you will make me happy. I have been in some measure the means of bringing this sorrow upon your father. Let me hope that it is not an enduring one. Try and restore my uncle to happiness, Alicia, and I will love you more dearly than brother ever loved a noble-hearted sister; and a brotherly affection may be worth having, perhaps, after all, my dear, though it is very different to poor Sir Harry26's enthusiastic worship."
Alicia's head was bent27 and her face hidden from her cousin while he spoke, but she lifted her head when he had finished, and looked him full in the face with a smile that was only the brighter for her eyes being filled with tears.
"You are a good fellow, Bob," she said; "and I've been very foolish and wicked to feel angry with you because—"
The young lady stopped suddenly.
"Because what, my dear?" asked Mr. Audley.
"Because I'm silly, Cousin Robert," Alicia said, quickly; "never mind that, Bob, I'll do all you wish, and it shall not be my fault if my dearest father doesn't forget his troubles before long. I'd go to the end of the world with him, poor darling, if I thought there was any comfort to be found for him in the journey. I'll go and get ready directly. Do you think papa will go to-night?"
"Yes, my dear; I don't think Sir Michael will rest another night under this roof yet awhile."
"The mail goes at twenty minutes past nine," said Alicia; "we must leave the house in an hour if we are to travel by it. I shall see you again before we go, Robert?"
"Yes, dear."
Miss Audley ran off to her room to summon her maid, and make all necessary preparations for the sudden journey, of whose ultimate destination she was as yet quite ignorant.
She went heart and soul into the carrying out of the duty which Robert had dictated28 to her. She assisted in the packing of her portmanteaus, and hopelessly bewildered her maid by stuffing silk dresses into her bonnet-boxes and satin shoes into her dressing-case. She roamed about her rooms, gathering29 together drawing-materials, music-books, needle-work, hair-brushes, jewelry30, and perfume-bottles, very much as she might have done had she been about to sail for some savage31 country, devoid32 of all civilized33 resources. She was thinking all the time of her father's unknown grief, and perhaps a little of the serious face and earnest voice which had that night revealed her Cousin Robert to her in a new character.
Mr. Audley went up-stairs after his cousin, and found his way to Sir Michael's dressing-room. He knocked at the door and listened, Heaven knows how anxiously, for the expected answer. There was a moment's pause, during which the young man's heart beat loud and fast, and then the door was opened by the baronet himself. Robert saw that his uncle's valet was already hard at work preparing for his master's hurried journey.
Sir Michael came out into the corridor.
"Have you anything more to say to me, Robert?" he asked, quietly.
"I only came to ascertain34 if I could assist in any of your arrangements. You go to London by the mail?"
"Yes."
"Have you any idea of where you will stay."
"Yes, I shall stop at the Clarendon; I am known there. Is that all you have to say?"
"Yes; except that Alicia will accompany you?"
"Alicia!"
"She could not very well stay here, you know, just now. It would be best for her to leave the Court until—"
"Yes, yes, I understand," interrupted the baronet; "but is there nowhere else that she could go—must she be with me?"
"She could go nowhere else so immediately, and she would not be happy anywhere else."
"Let her come, then," said Sir Michael, "let her come."
He spoke in a strange, subdued36 voice, and with an apparent effort, as if it were painful to him to have to speak at all; as if all this ordinary business of life were a cruel torture to him, and jarred so much upon his grief as to be almost worse to bear than that grief itself.
"Very well, my dear uncle, then all is arranged; Alicia will be ready to start at nine o'clock."
"Very good, very good," muttered the baronet; "let her come if she pleases, poor child, let her come."
He sighed heavily as he spoke in that half pitying tone of his daughter. He was thinking how comparatively indifferent he had been toward that only child for the sake of the woman now shut in the fire-lit room below.
"I shall see you again before you go, sir," said Robert; "I will leave you till then."
"Stay!" said Sir Michael, suddenly; "have you told Alicia?"
"I have told her nothing, except that you are about to leave the Court for some time."
"You are very good, my boy, you are very good," the baronet murmured in a broken voice.
He stretched out his hand. His nephew took it in both his own, and pressed it to his lips.
"Oh, sir! how can I ever forgive myself?" he said; "how can I ever cease to hate myself for having brought this grief upon you?"
"No, no, Robert, you did right; I wish that God had been so merciful to me as to take my miserable37 life before this night; but you did right."
Sir Michael re-entered his dressing-room, and Robert slowly returned to the vestibule. He paused upon the threshold of that chamber38 in which he had left Lucy—Lady Audley, otherwise Helen Talboys, the wife of his lost friend.
She was lying upon the floor, upon the very spot in which she had crouched39 at her husband's feet telling her guilty story. Whether she was in a swoon, or whether she lay there in the utter helplessness of her misery40, Robert scarcely cared to know. He went out into the vestibule, and sent one of the servants to look for her maid, the smart, be-ribboned damsel who was loud in wonder and consternation41 at the sight of her mistress.
"Lady Audley is very ill," he said; "take her to her room and see that she does not leave it to-night. You will be good enough to remain near her, but do not either talk to her or suffer her to excite herself by talking."
My lady had not fainted; she allowed the girl to assist her, and rose from the ground upon which she had groveled. Her golden hair fell in loose, disheveled masses about her ivory throat and shoulders, her face and lips were colorless, her eyes terrible in their unnatural light.
"Take me away," she said, "and let me sleep! Let me sleep, for my brain is on fire!"
As she was leaving the room with her maid, she turned and looked at Robert. "Is Sir Michael gone?" she asked.
"He will leave in half an hour."
"There were no lives lost in the fire at Mount Stanning?"
"None."
"I am glad of that."
"The landlord of the house, Marks, was very terribly burned, and lies in a precarious42 state at his mother's cottage; but he may recover."
"I am glad of that—I am glad no life was lost. Good-night, Mr. Audley."
"I shall ask to see you for half an hour's conversation in the course of to-morrow, my lady."
"Whenever you please. Good night."
"Good night."
She went away quietly leaning upon her maid's shoulder, and leaving Robert with a sense of strange bewilderment that was very painful to him.
He sat down by the broad hearth43 upon which the red embers were fading, and wondered at the change in that old house which, until the day of his friend's disappearance44, had been so pleasant a home for all who sheltered beneath its hospitable45 roof. He sat brooding over the desolate46 hearth, and trying to decide upon what must be done in this sudden crisis. He sat helpless and powerless to determine upon any course of action, lost in a dull revery, from which he was aroused by the sound of carriage-wheels driving up to the little turret47 entrance.
The clock in the vestibule struck nine as Robert opened the library door. Alicia had just descended48 the stairs with her maid; a rosy-faced country girl.
"Good-by, Robert," said Miss Audley, holding out her hand to her cousin; "good-by, and God bless you! You may trust me to take care of papa."
"I am sure I may. God bless you, my dear."
For the second time that night Robert Audley pressed his lips to his cousin's candid49 forehead, and for the second time the embrace was of a brotherly or paternal50 character, rather than the rapturous proceeding51 which it would have been had Sir Harry Towers been the privileged performer.
It was five minutes past nine when Sir Michael came down-stairs, followed by his valet, grave and gray-haired like himself. The baronet was pale, but calm and self-possessed. The hand which he gave to his nephew was as cold as ice, but it was with a steady voice that he bade the young man good-by.
"I leave all in your hands, Robert," he said, as he turned to leave the house in which he had lived so long. "I may not have heard the end, but I have heard enough. Heaven knows I have no need to hear more. I leave all to you, but you will not be cruel—you will remember how much I loved—"
His voice broke huskily before he could finish the sentence.
"I will remember you in everything, sir," the young man answered. "I will do everything for the best."
A treacherous52 mist of tears blinded him and shut out his uncle's face, and in another minute the carriage had driven away, and Robert Audley sat alone in the dark library, where only one red spark glowed among the pale gray ashes. He sat alone, trying to think what he ought to do, and with the awful responsibility of a wicked woman's fate upon his shoulders.
"Good Heaven!" he thought; "surely this must be God's judgment53 upon the purposeless, vacillating life I led up to the seventh day of last September. Surely this awful responsibility has been forced upon me in order that I may humble54 myself to an offended Providence55, and confess that a man cannot choose his own life. He cannot say, 'I will take existence lightly, and keep out of the way of the wretched, mistaken, energetic creatures, who fight so heartily56 in the great battle.' He cannot say, 'I will stop in the tents while the strife is fought, and laugh at the fools who are trampled57 down in the useless struggle.' He cannot do this. He can only do, humbly58 and fearfully, that which the Maker59 who created him has appointed for him to do. If he has a battle to fight, let him fight it faithfully; but woe60 betide him if he skulks61 when his name is called in the mighty62 muster-roll, woe betide him if he hides in the tents when the tocsin summons him to the scene of war!"
One of the servants brought candles into the library and relighted the fire, but Robert Audley did not stir from his seat by the hearth. He sat as he had often sat in his chambers63 in Figtree Court, with his elbows resting upon the arms of his chair, and his chin upon his hand.
But he lifted his head as the servant was about to leave the room.
"Can I send a message from here to London?" he asked.
"It can be sent from Brentwood, sir—not from here."
Mr. Audley looked at his watch thoughtfully.
"One of the men can ride over to Brentwood, sir, if you wish any message to be sent."
"I do wish to send a message; will you manage it for me, Richards?"
"Certainly, sir."
"You can wait, then, while I write the message."
"Yes, sir."
The man brought writing materials from one of the side-tables, and placed them before Mr. Audley.
Robert dipped a pen in the ink, and stared thoughtfully at one of the candles for a few moments before he began to write.
The message ran thus:
"From Robert Audley, of Audley Court, Essex, to Francis Wilmington, of Paper-buildings, Temple.
"DEAR WILMINGTON—If you know any physician experienced in cases of mania64, and to be trusted with a secret, be so good as to send me his address by telegraph."
"You will see that this is given to a trustworthy person, Richards," he said, "and let the man wait at the station for the return message. He ought to get it in an hour and a half."
Mr. Richards, who had known Robert Audley in jackets and turn-down collars, departed to execute his commission. Heaven forbid that we should follow him into the comfortable servants' hall at the Court, where the household sat round the blazing fire, discussing in utter bewilderment the events of the day.
Nothing could be wider from the truth than the speculations67 of these worthy66 people. What clew had they to the mystery of that firelit room in which a guilty woman had knelt at their master's feet to tell the story of her sinful life? They only knew that which Sir Michael's valet had told them of this sudden journey. How his master was as pale as a sheet, and spoke in a strange voice that didn't sound like his own, somehow, and how you might have knocked him—Mr. Parsons, the valet—down with a feather, if you had been minded to prostrate69 him by the aid of so feeble a weapon.
The wiseheads of the servants' hall decided70 that Sir Michael had received sudden intelligence through Mr. Robert—they were wise enough to connect the young man with the catastrophe—either of the death of some near and dear relation—the elder servants decimated the Audley family in their endeavors to find a likely relation—or of some alarming fall in the funds, or of the failure of some speculation68 or bank in which the greater part of the baronet's money was invested. The general leaning was toward the failure of a bank, and every member of the assembly seemed to take a dismal71 and raven-like delight in the fancy, though such a supposition involved their own ruin in the general destruction of that liberal household.
Robert sat by the dreary72 hearth, which seemed dreary even now when the blaze of a great wood-fire roared in the wide chimney, and listened to the low wail73 of the March wind moaning round the house and lifting the shivering ivy74 from the walls it sheltered. He was tired and worn out, for remember that he had been awakened from his sleep at two o'clock that morning by the hot breath of blazing timber and the sharp crackling of burning woodwork. But for his presence of mind and cool decision, Mr. Luke Marks would have died a dreadful death. He still bore the traces of the night's peril75, for the dark hair had been singed76 upon one side of his forehead, and his left hand was red and inflamed77, from the effect of the scorching78 atmosphere out of which he had dragged the landlord of the Castle Inn. He was thoroughly79 exhausted80 with fatigue81 and excitement, and he fell into a heavy sleep in his easy-chair before the bright fire, from which he was only awakened by the entrance of Mr. Richards with the return message.
This return message was very brief.
"DEAR AUDLEY—Always glad to oblige. Alwyn Mosgrave, M.D., 12 Saville Row. Safe."
This with names and addresses, was all that it contained.
"I shall want another message taken to Brentwood to-morrow morning, Richards," said Mr. Audley, as he folded the telegram. "I should be glad if the man would ride over with it before breakfast. He shall have half a sovereign for his trouble."
Mr. Richards bowed.
"Thank you, sir—not necessary, sir; but as you please, of course, sir," he murmured. "At what hour might you wish the man to go?"
Mr. Audley might wish the man to go as early as he could, so it was decided that he should go at six.
"My room is ready, I suppose, Richards?" said Robert.
"Yes, sir—your old room."
"Very good. I shall go to bed at once. Bring me a glass of brandy and water as hot as you can make it, and wait for the telegram."
This second message was only a very earnest request to Doctor Mosgrave to pay an immediate35 visit to Audley Court on a matter of serious moment.
Having written this message, Mr. Audley felt that he had done all that he could do. He drank his brandy and water. He had actual need of the diluted82 alcohol, for he had been chilled to the bone by his adventures during the fire. He slowly sipped83 the pale golden liquid and thought of Clara Talboys, of that earnest girl whose brother's memory was now avenged84, whose brother's destroyer was humiliated85 in the dust. Had she heard of the fire at the Castle Inn? How could she have done otherwise than hear of it in such a place as Mount Stanning? But had she heard that he had been in danger, and that he had distinguished86 himself by the rescue of a drunken boor87? I fear that, even sitting by that desolate hearth, and beneath the roof whose noble was an exile from his own house, Robert Audley was weak enough to think of these things—weak enough to let his fancy wander away to the dismal fir-trees under the cold March sky, and the dark-brown eyes that were so like the eyes of his lost friend.
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1
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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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6
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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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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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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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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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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skulks
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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