The Day Dream had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on the edge of the cliff for over an hour, watching those white sails, which bore so swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for her, whom she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.
Some little distance away to her left the lights from the coffee-room of “The Fisherman's Rest” glittered yellow in the gathering4 mist; from time to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thence the sound of merry-making and of jovial5 talk, or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband's, which grated continually upon her sensitive ears.
Sir Percy had had the delicacy6 to leave her severely7 alone. She supposed that, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have understood that she would wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared into the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose notions of propriety8 and decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that an attendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to her husband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for his thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his generosity9, which really was boundless10. She tried even at times to curb11 the sarcastic12, bitter thoughts of him, which made her—in spite of herself—say cruel, insulting things, which she vaguely14 hoped would wound him.
Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she too held him in contempt, that she too had forgotten that once she had almost loved him. Loved that inane15 fop! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar beyond the tying of a cravat16 or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! . . . vague memories, that were sweet and ardent17 and attuned18 to this calm summer's evening, came wafted19 back to her memory, on the invisible wings of the light sea-breeze: the time when first he worshipped her; he seemed so devoted—a very slave—and there was a certain latent intensity20 in that love which had fascinated her.
Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his courtship she had looked upon as the slavish fidelity21 of a dog, seemed to vanish completely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old St. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before some men—her friends—who had used this information against the unfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.
She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother, had loved Angèle de St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian23, and the Marquis full of the pride and arrogant24 prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the respectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem—enthusiastic, ardent, passionate—to the idol26 of his dreams. The next night he was waylaid27 just outside Paris by the valets of the Marquis de St. Cyr, and ignominiously28 thrashed—thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life—because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the aristocrat29. The incident was one which, in those days, some two years before the great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France; incidents of that type, in fact, led to the bloody30 reprisals31, which a few years later sent most of those haughty32 heads to the guillotine.
Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother must have suffered in his manhood and his pride must have been appalling33; what she suffered through him and with him she never attempted even to analyse.
Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his kind had found their masters, in those same plebeians34 whom they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the enthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines35 of the Revolution, while the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for the retention36 of those privileges which had placed them socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive37, thoughtless, not calculating the purport38 of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear—amongst her own coterie39—that the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor's support to quell40 the growing revolution in their own country.
In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite's few thoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit within twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising41 to send troops against the Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned42 for treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared this awful fate.
Marguerite, horrified43 at the terrible consequences of her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: her own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her soul. She made full confession44 of it to her husband, trusting to his blind love for her, her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear.
Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly; hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but what was more certain still, was that never after that could she detect the slightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been wholly hers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavoured to excite his jealousy45, if she could not rouse his love; tried to goad46 him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous47, invariably a gentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening, with the white sails of the Day Dream finally hidden by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plodded48 his way wearily along the rugged49 cliffs.
With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon the
sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards “The Fisherman's Rest.”
As she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew
louder and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'
occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of
the road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps
. . . the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards
her. Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and “The
Fisherman's Rest” was now well within call.
The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:
“Citoyenne St. Just.”
Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment52, at thus hearing her own familiar maiden53 name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively54 towards him.
“Chauvelin!” she exclaimed.
“Himself, citoyenne, at your service,” said the stranger, gallantly56 kissing the tips of her fingers.
Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty—a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously57 had joined Mr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.
“Chauvelin . . . my friend . . .” said Marguerite, with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction. “I am mightily58 pleased to see you.”
No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur59, and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned—a queen—over the intellectual coterie of the Rue13 de Richelieu. She did not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered61 round the thin lips of Chauvelin.
“But tell me,” she added merrily, “what in the world, or whom in the world, are you doing here in England?”
She had resumed her walk towards the inn, and Chauvelin turned and walked beside her.
“I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady,” he said. “What of yourself?”
They had reached the porch of “The Fisherman's Rest,” but Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled64 the breath of Paris, who knew Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while through the gaily65-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room came sounds of laughter, of calls for “Sally” and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and clinking of dice25, mingled66 with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed67 on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight68.
“You surprise me, citoyenne,” he said quietly, as he took a pinch of snuff.
“Do I now?” she retorted gaily. “Faith, my little Chauvelin, I should have thought that, with your penetration69, you would have guessed that an atmosphere composed of fogs and virtues70 would never suit Marguerite St. Just.”
“Dear me! is it as bad as that?” he asked, in mock consternation71.
“Quite,” she retorted, “and worse.”
“Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English country life peculiarly attractive.”
“Yes! so did I,” she said with a sigh. “Pretty women,” she added meditatively72, “ought to have a good time in England, since all the pleasant things are forbidden them—the very things they do every day.”
“Quite so!”
“You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,” she said earnestly, “but I often pass a whole day—a whole day—without encountering a single temptation.”
“No wonder,” retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, “that the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui63.”
“It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?” she said archly, “or I should not have been so pleased to see you.”
“And this within a year of a romantic love match! . . .”
“Yes! . . . a year of a romantic love match . . . that's just the difficulty . . .”
“Ah! . . . that idyllic75 folly,” said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm76, “did not then survive the lapse77 of . . . weeks?”
“Idyllic follies78 never last, my little Chauvelin. . . . They come upon us like the measles79 . . . and are as easily cured.”
Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted80 to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.
“No wonder,” he repeated, with the same gallantry, “that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with ennui.”
“How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish?”
“Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend?” she said drily.
“Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well do,” said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted83 a quick glance at Marguerite. “I have a most perfect prescription against the worst form of ennui, which I would have been happy to submit to you, but—”
“But what?”
“There is Sir Percy.”
“What has he to do with it?”
“Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!”
“Work?”
Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts. They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all round him, then, seeing that indeed no one was within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.
“Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?” he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face singular earnestness.
“La, man!” she replied flippantly, “how serious you look all of a sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I would render France a small service—at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she—or you—want.”
“Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?” she retorted with a long and merry laugh, “Faith, man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'à la Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'soufflé à la Scarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!” she added gaily, “the other day I ordered at my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she did not call that 'à la Scarlet Pimpernel.'”
Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled86 merrily along; he did not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive87, and hard, was not raised above his breath as he said,—
“Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and known, that the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym88, is the most bitter enemy of our republic, of France . . . of men like Armand St. Just.”
“La! . . .” she said, with a quaint89 little sigh, “I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter enemies these days.”
“But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril90.”
“My brother Armand devotes his life to France,” she retorted proudly; “as for me, I can do nothing . . . here in England. . . .”
“Yes, you . . .” he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like
face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity,
“here, in England, citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . . .
Listen!—I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as
its representative: I present my credentials91 to Mr. Pitt in London
to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League
since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats93—traitors to their
country, and enemies of the people—to escape from the just punishment
which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they
are over here, those French émigrés try to rouse public feeling against
the Republic. . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold
enough to attack France. . . . Now, within the last month, scores of these
the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel.
Their escape in each instance was planned, organised and effected by
this society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain
seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the most
he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this
to strike at that head, and for this I want your help—through him
English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!”
he urged, “find him for France!”
Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech without uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent98 in their pride of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; but, republican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hated and loathed99 the methods which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months; the horrors and bloodshed of the Reign60 of Terror, culminating in the September massacres100, had only come across the Channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guise101 of bloody justiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled102 in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her brother Armand—moderate republican as he was—might become one day the holocaust103.
Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts104, who, for sheer love of their fellow-men, dragged women and children, old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke22, her very soul went out to the gallant55 and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation105, for the sake of humanity.
Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the lace at her bosom106 rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she no longer heard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed107 her husband's voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination; his personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty108 of those who served under him in the same noble cause, and, above all, that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.
“Find him for France, citoyenne!”
Chauvelin's voice close to her ear roused her from her dreams. The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a man was drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.
“La! man,” she said with a return of her assumed flippancy109, “you are astonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?”
“You go everywhere, citoyenne,” whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly110, “Lady Blakeney is the pivot111 of social London, so I am told . . . you see everything, you hear everything.”
“Easy, my friend,” retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. “Easy! you seem to forget that there are six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose.”
“For the sake of France, citoyenne!” reiterated112 Chauvelin, earnestly.
“Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even if you did know who this Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him—an Englishman!”
“I'd take my chance of that,” said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping little laugh. “At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can apologise—humbly—to the British Government, and, if necessary, pay compensation to the bereaved113 family.”
“What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin,” she said, drawing away from him as from some noisome114 insect. “Whoever the man may be, he is brave and noble, and never—do you hear me?—never would I lend a hand to such villainy.”
“You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to this country?”
Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft115. Marguerite's fresh young cheeks became a thought more pale and she bit her under lip, for she would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.
“That is beside the question,” she said at last with indifference116. “I can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you—or for France. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my friend.”
And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight into the inn.
“That is not your last word, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, “we meet in London, I hope!”
“We meet in London,” she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, “but that is my last word.”
She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke117 and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed118 nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips.
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1
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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6
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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8
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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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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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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arrogant
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ignominiously
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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bloody
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reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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plebeians
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| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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retention
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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47
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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48
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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49
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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50
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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51
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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53
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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54
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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55
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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56
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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57
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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58
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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59
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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61
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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62
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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63
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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64
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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66
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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67
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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68
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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69
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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70
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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71
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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72
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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75
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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76
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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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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78
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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79
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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80
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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81
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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82
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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83
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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84
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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86
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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89
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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90
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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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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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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94
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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96
anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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97
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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98
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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99
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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100
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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101
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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102
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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103
holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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104
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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105
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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106
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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107
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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108
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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109
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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110
insinuatingly
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111
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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112
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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114
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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115
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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116
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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117
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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118
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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