All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they ultimately turned into the road, and presently the faint echo of the old cart-wheels, the halting gait of the lean nag1, told her that her enemy was a quarter of a league away. How long she lay there she knew not. She had lost count of time; dreamily she looked up at the moonlit sky, and listened to the monotonous2 roll of the waves.
The invigorating scent3 of the sea was nectar to her wearied body, the immensity of the lonely cliffs was silent and dreamlike. Her brain only remained conscious of its ceaseless, its intolerable torture of uncertainty4.
She did not know!—
She did not know whether Percy was even now, at this moment, in the hands of the soldiers of the Republic, enduring—as she had done herself—the gibes5 and jeers6 of his malicious7 enemy. She did not know, on the other hand, whether Armand's lifeless body did not lie there, in the hut, whilst Percy had escaped, only to hear that his wife's hands had guided the human bloodhounds to the murder of Armand and his friends.
The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here for ever, after all the turmoil8, the passion, and the intrigues9 of the last few days—here, beneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary10, so silent, like unto dreamland. Even the last faint echo of the distant cart had long ago died away, afar.
Suddenly . . . a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly11, that these lonely cliffs of France had ever heard, broke the silent solemnity of the shore.
So strange a sound was it that the gentle breeze ceased to murmur12, the tiny pebbles13 to roll down the steep incline! So strange, that Marguerite, wearied, overwrought as she was, thought that the beneficial unconsciousness of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping senses a weird14 and elusive15 trick.
It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British “Damn!”
The sea-gulls in their nests awoke and looked round in astonishment16; a distant and solitary owl17 set up a midnight hoot18, the tall cliffs frowned down majestically19 at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege.
Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on her hands, she strained every sense to see or hear, to know the meaning of this very earthly sound.
All was still again for the space of a few seconds; the same silence once more fell upon the great and lonely vastness.
Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she must be dreaming with that cool, magnetic moonlight overhead, heard again; and this time her heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated20, looked round her, not daring to trust to her other sense.
“Odd's life! but I wish those demmed fellows had not hit quite so hard!”
This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular pair of essentially21 British lips could have uttered those words, in sleepy, drawly, affected22 tones.
“Damn!” repeated those same British lips, emphatically. “Zounds! but I'm as weak as a rat!”
In a moment Marguerite was on her feet.
Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony23 cliffs the gates of paradise? Was the fragrant24 breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of angels' wings, bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her suffering, or—faint and ill—was she the prey25 of delirium26?
She listened again, and once again she heard the same very earthly sounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin27 to whisperings from paradise or flutter of angels' wings.
She looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the lonely hut, the great stretch of rocky beach. Somewhere there, above or below her, behind a boulder28 or inside a crevice29, but still hidden from her longing30, feverish31 eyes, must be the owner of that voice, which once used to irritate her, but which now would make her the happiest woman in Europe, if only she could locate it.
“Percy! Percy!” she shrieked32 hysterically33, tortured between doubt and hope, “I am here! Come to me! Where are you? Percy! Percy! . . .”
“It's all very well calling me, m'dear!” said the same sleepy, drawly voice, “but odd's my life, I cannot come to you: those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a goose on a spit, and I am as weak as a mouse . . . I cannot get away.”
And still Marguerite did not understand. She did not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came that voice, so drawly, so dear, but alas34! with a strange accent of weakness and of suffering. There was no one within sight . . . except by that rock . . . Great God! . . . the Jew! . . . Was she mad or dreaming? . . .
His back was against the pale moonlight, he was half-crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms tightly pinioned35. Marguerite ran up to him, took his head in both her hands . . . and looked straight into a pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused—shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew.
“Percy! . . . Percy! . . . my husband!” she gasped36, faint with the fulness of her joy. “Thank God! Thank God!”
“La! m'dear,” he rejoined good-humouredly, “we will both do that anon, an you think you can loosen these demmed ropes, and release me from my inelegant attitude.”
She had no knife, her fingers were numb37 and weak, but she worked away with her teeth, while great welcome tears poured from her eyes, onto those poor, pinioned hands.
“Odd's life!” he said, when at last, after frantic38 efforts on her part, the ropes seemed at last to be giving way, “but I marvel39 whether it has ever happened before, that an English gentleman allowed himself to be licked by a demmed foreigner, and made no attempt to give as good as he got.”
It was very obvious that he was exhausted40 from sheer physical pain, and when at last the rope gave way, he fell in a heap against the rock.
Marguerite looked helplessly round her.
“Oh! for a drop of water on this awful beach!” she cried in agony, seeing that he was ready to faint again.
“Nay, m'dear,” he murmured with his good-humoured smile, “personally I should prefer a drop of good French brandy! an you'll dive in the pocket of this dirty old garment, you'll find my flask41. . . . I am demmed if I can move.”
When he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite to do likewise.
“La! that's better now! Eh! little woman?” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Heigh-ho! but this is a queer rig-up for Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., to be found in by his lady, and no mistake. Begad!” he added, passing his hand over his chin, “I haven't been shaved for nearly twenty hours: I must look a disgusting object. As for these curls . . .”
And laughingly he took off the disfiguring wig43 and curls, and stretched out his long limbs, which were cramped44 from many hours' stooping. Then he bent45 forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife's blue eyes.
“Percy,” she whispered, while a deep blush suffused46 her delicate cheeks and neck, “if you only knew . . .”
“I do know, dear . . . everything,” he said with infinite gentleness.
“And can you ever forgive?”
“I have naught47 to forgive, sweetheart; your heroism48, your devotion, which I, alas! so little deserved, have more than atoned49 for that unfortunate episode at the ball.”
“Then you knew? . . .” she whispered, “all the time . . .”
“Yes!” he replied tenderly, “I knew . . . all the time. . . . But, begad! had I but known what a noble heart yours was, my Margot, I should have trusted you, as you deserved to be trusted, and you would not have had to undergo the terrible sufferings of the past few hours, in order to run after a husband, who has done so much that needs forgiveness.”
They were sitting side by side, leaning up against a rock, and he had rested his aching head on her shoulder. She certainly now deserved the name of “the happiest woman in Europe.”
“It is a case of the blind leading the lame50, sweetheart, is it not?” he said with his good-natured smile of old. “Odd's life! but I do not know which are the more sore, my shoulders or your little feet.”
He bent forward to kiss them, for they peeped out through her torn stockings, and bore pathetic witness to her endurance and devotion.
“But Armand . . .” she said, with sudden terror and remorse52, as in the midst of her happiness the image of the beloved brother, for whose sake she had so deeply sinned, rose now before her mind.
“Oh! have no fear for Armand, sweetheart,” he said tenderly, “did I not pledge you my word that he should be safe? He with de Tournay and the others are even now on board the Day Dream.”
“But how?” she gasped, “I do not understand.”
“Yet, 'tis simple enough, m'dear,” he said with that funny, half-shy, half-inane53 laugh of his, “you see! when I found that that brute54 Chauvelin meant to stick to me like a leech55, I thought the best thing I could do, as I could not shake him off, was to take him along with me. I had to get to Armand and the others somehow, and all the roads were patrolled, and everyone on the look-out for your humble56 servant. I knew that when I slipped through Chauvelin's fingers at the 'Chat Gris,' that he would lie in wait for me here, whichever way I took. I wanted to keep an eye on him and his doings, and a British head is as good as a French one any day.”
Indeed it had proved to be infinitely57 better, and Marguerite's heart was filled with joy and marvel, as he continued to recount to her the daring manner in which he had snatched the fugitives58 away, right from under Chauvelin's very nose.
“Dressed as the dirty old Jew,” he said gaily59, “I knew I should not be recognised. I had met Reuben Goldstein in Calais earlier in the evening. For a few gold pieces he supplied me with this rig-out, and undertook to bury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me his cart and nag.”
“But if Chauvelin had discovered you,” she gasped excitedly, “your disguise was good . . . but he is so sharp.”
“Odd's fish!” he rejoined quietly, “then certainly the game would have been up. I could but take the risk. I know human nature pretty well by now,” he added, with a note of sadness in his cheery, young voice, “and I know these Frenchmen out and out. They so loathe60 a Jew, that they never come nearer than a couple of yards of him, and begad! I fancy that I contrived61 to make myself look about as loathsome62 an object as it is possible to conceive.”
“Yes!—and then?” she asked eagerly.
“Zooks!—then I carried out my little plan: that is to say, at first I only determined63 to leave everything to chance, but when I heard Chauvelin giving his orders to the soldiers, I thought that Fate and I were going to work together after all. I reckoned on the blind obedience64 of the soldiers. Chauvelin had ordered them on pain of death not to stir until the tall Englishman came. Desgas had thrown me down in a heap quite close to the hut; the soldiers took no notice of the Jew, who had driven Citoyen Chauvelin to this spot. I managed to free my hands from the ropes, with which the brute had trussed me; I always carry pencil and paper with me wherever I go, and I hastily scrawled65 a few important instructions on a scrap66 of paper; then I looked about me. I crawled up to the hut, under the very noses of the soldiers, who lay under cover without stirring, just as Chauvelin had ordered them to do, then I dropped my little note into the hut, through a chink in the wall, and waited. In this note I told the fugitives to walk noiselessly out of the hut, creep down the cliffs, keep to the left until they came to the first creek67, to give a certain signal, when the boat of the Day Dream, which lay in wait not far out to sea, would pick them up. They obeyed implicitly68, fortunately for them and for me. The soldiers who saw them were equally obedient to Chauvelin's orders. They did not stir! I waited for nearly half an hour; when I knew that the fugitives were safe I gave the signal, which caused so much stir.”
And that was the whole story. It seemed so simple! and Marguerite could but marvel at the wonderful ingenuity69, the boundless70 pluck and audacity71 which had evolved and helped to carry out this daring plan.
“But those brutes72 struck you!” she gasped in horror, at the bare recollection of the fearful indignity73.
“Well! that could not be helped,” he said gently, “whilst my little wife's fate was so uncertain, I had to remain here by her side. Odd's life!” he added merrily, “never fear! Chauvelin will lose nothing by waiting, I warrant! Wait till I get him back to England!—La! he shall pay for the thrashing he gave me with compound interest, I promise you.”
Marguerite laughed. It was so good to be beside him, to hear his cheery voice, to watch that good-humoured twinkle in his blue eyes, as he stretched out his strong arms, in longing for that foe74, and anticipation75 of his well-deserved punishment.
Suddenly, however, she started: the happy blush left her cheek, the light of joy died out of her eyes: she had heard a stealthy footfall overhead, and a stone had rolled down from the top of the cliffs right down to the beach below.
“What's that?” she whispered in horror and alarm.
“Oh! nothing, m'dear,” he muttered with a pleasant laugh, “only a trifle you happened to have forgotten . . . my friend, Ffoulkes . . .”
“Sir Andrew!” she gasped.
Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted76 friend and companion, who had trusted and stood by her during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She remembered him now, tardily77 and with a pang78 of remorse.
“Aye! you had forgotten him, hadn't you, m'dear?” said Sir Percy, merrily. “Fortunately, I met him, not far from the 'Chat Gris,' before I had that interesting supper party, with my friend Chauvelin. . . . Odd's life! but I have a score to settle with that young reprobate79!—but in the meanwhile, I told him of a very long, very roundabout road, that would bring him here by a very circuitous80 road which Chauvelin's men would never suspect, just about the time when we are ready for him, eh, little woman?”
“And he obeyed?” asked Marguerite, in utter astonishment.
“Without word or question. See, here he comes. He was not in the way when I did not want him, and now he arrives in the nick of time. Ah! he will make pretty little Suzanne a most admirable and methodical husband.”
In the meanwhile Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had cautiously worked his way down the cliffs: he stopped once or twice, pausing to listen for the whispered words, which would guide him to Blakeney's hiding-place.
“Blakeney!” he ventured to say at last cautiously, “Blakeney! are you there?”
The next moment he rounded the rock against which Sir Percy and Marguerite were leaning, and seeing the weird figure still clad in the long Jew's gaberdine, he paused in sudden, complete bewilderment.
But already Blakeney had struggled to his feet.
“Here I am, friend,” he said with his funny, inane laugh, “all alive! though I do look a begad scarecrow in these demmed things.”
“Zooks!” ejaculated Sir Andrew in boundless astonishment as he recognised his leader, “of all the . . .”
The young man had seen Marguerite, and happily checked the forcible language that rose to his lips, at sight of the exquisite81 Sir Percy in this weird and dirty garb82.
“Yes!” said Blakeney, calmly, “of all the . . . hem51! . . . My friend!—I have not yet had time to ask you what you were doing in France, when I ordered you to remain in London? Insubordination? What? Wait till my shoulders are less sore, and, by Gad42, see the punishment you'll get.”
“Odd's fish! I'll bear it,” said Sir Andrew, with a merry laugh, “seeing that you are alive to give it. . . . Would you have had me allow Lady Blakeney to do the journey alone? But, in the name of heaven, man, where did you get these extraordinary clothes?”
“Lud! they are a bit quaint83, ain't they?” laughed Sir Percy, jovially84. “But, odd's fish!” he added, with sudden earnestness and authority, “now you are here, Ffoulkes, we must lose no more time: that brute Chauvelin may send some one to look after us.”
Marguerite was so happy, she could have stayed here for ever, hearing his voice, asking a hundred questions. But at mention of Chauvelin's name she started in quick alarm, afraid for the dear life she would have died to save.
“But how can we get back?” she gasped; “the roads are full of soldiers between here and Calais, and . . .”
“We are not going back to Calais, sweetheart,” he said, “but just the other side of Gris Nez, not half a league from here. The boat of the Day Dream will meet us there.”
“The boat of the Day Dream?”
“Yes!” he said, with a merry laugh; “another little trick of mine. I should have told you before that when I slipped that note into the hut, I also added another for Armand, which I directed him to leave behind, and which has sent Chauvelin and his men running full tilt85 back to the 'Chat Gris' after me; but the first little note contained my real instructions, including those to old Briggs. He had my orders to go out further to sea, and then towards the west. When well out of sight of Calais, he will send the galley86 to a little creek he and I know of, just beyond Gris Nez. The men will look out for me—we have a preconcerted signal, and we will all be safely aboard, whilst Chauvelin and his men solemnly sit and watch the creek which is 'just opposite the “Chat Gris.”'”
“The other side of Gris Nez? But I . . . I cannot walk, Percy,” she moaned helplessly as, trying to struggle to her tired feet, she found herself unable even to stand.
“I will carry you, dear,” he said simply; “the blind leading the lame, you know.”
Sir Andrew was ready, too, to help with the precious burden, but Sir Percy would not entrust87 his beloved to any arms but his own.
“When you and she are both safely on board the Day Dream,” he said to his young comrade, “and I feel that Mlle. Suzanne's eyes will not greet me in England with reproachful looks, then it will be my turn to rest.”
And his arms, still vigorous in spite of fatigue88 and suffering, closed round Marguerite's poor, weary body, and lifted her as gently as if she had been a feather.
Then, as Sir Andrew discreetly89 kept out of earshot, there were many things said—or rather whispered—which even the autumn breeze did not catch, for it had gone to rest.
All his fatigue was forgotten; his shoulders must have been very sore, for the soldiers had hit hard, but the man's muscles seemed made of steel, and his energy was almost supernatural. It was a weary tramp, half a league along the stony side of the cliffs, but never for a moment did his courage give way or his muscles yield to fatigue. On he tramped, with firm footstep, his vigorous arms encircling the precious burden, and . . . no doubt, as she lay, quiet and happy, at times lulled90 to momentary91 drowsiness92, at others watching, through the slowly gathering93 morning light, the pleasant face with the lazy, drooping94 blue eyes, ever cheerful, ever illumined with a good-humoured smile, she whispered many things, which helped to shorten the weary road, and acted as a soothing95 balsam to his aching sinews.
The many-hued light of dawn was breaking in the east, when at last they reached the creek beyond Gris Nez. The galley lay in wait: in answer to a signal from Sir Percy, she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors had the honour of carrying my lady into the boat.
Half an hour later, they were on board the Day Dream. The crew, who of necessity were in their master's secrets, and who were devoted to him heart and soul, were not surprised to see him arriving in so extraordinary a disguise.
Armand St. Just and the other fugitives were eagerly awaiting the advent96 of their brave rescuer; he would not stay to hear the expressions of their gratitude97, but found his way to his private cabin as quickly as he could, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of her brother.
Everything on board the Day Dream was fitted with that exquisite luxury, so dear to Sir Percy Blakeney's heart, and by the time they all landed at Dover he had found time to get into some of the sumptuous98 clothes which he loved, and of which he always kept a supply on board his yacht.
The difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair of shoes, and great was the little middy's joy when my lady found that she could put foot on English shore in his best pair.
The rest is silence!—silence and joy for those who had endured so much suffering, yet found at last a great and lasting99 happiness.
But it is on record that at the brilliant wedding of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart., with Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive, a function at which H.R.H. the Prince of Wales and all the élite of fashionable society were present, the most beautiful woman there was unquestionably Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes Sir Percy Blakeney wore were the talk of the jeunesse dorée of London for many days.
It is also a fact that M. Chauvelin, the accredited100 agent of the French Republican Government, was not present at that or any other social function in London, after that memorable101 evening at Lord Grenville's ball.
The End
The End
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收听单词发音
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1
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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6
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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8
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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10
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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11
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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13
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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39
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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41
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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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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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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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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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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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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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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