‘By rights,’ remarked the turnkey when she was first shown to him, ‘I ought to be her godfather.’
The debtor3 irresolutely4 thought of it for a minute, and said, ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t object to really being her godfather?’
‘Oh! I don’t object,’ replied the turnkey, ‘if you don’t.’
Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed5 and renounced6 on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like a good ‘un.’
This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary8 share in the child, over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the high fender of the lodge9 fire-place; liked to have her company when he was on the lock; and used to bribe10 her with cheap toys to come and talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing11 and undressing a doll which soon came to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible family resemblance to Mrs Bangham—he would contemplate12 her from the top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other people’s children there.’
At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow yards surrounded by high walls with spikes13 at the top, would be a difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge that her clasp of her father’s hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it, his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive14 look, with which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young, was perhaps a part of this discovery.
With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything, indeed, but with something in it for only him that was like protection, this Child of the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea, sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept the family room, or wandered about the prison-yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the prison children as they whooped15 and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway16 ‘Home.’
Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.
‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, ‘ain’t you?’
‘Where are they?’ she inquired.
‘Why, they’re—over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’
‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’
The turnkey was discomfited17. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’
‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.
‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral nomenclature—‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’
‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’
‘Prime,’ said the turnkey.
‘Was father ever there?’
‘Hem!’ coughed the turnkey. ‘O yes, he was there, sometimes.’
‘Is he sorry not to be there now?’
‘N-not particular,’ said the turnkey.
‘Nor any of the people?’ she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. ‘O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?’
At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the subject to hard-bake: always his last resource when he found his little friend getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But this was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curious companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in the course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards, there were tea-gardens, shrimps19, ale, and other delicacies20; and then they would come back hand in hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
In those early days, the turnkey first began profoundly to consider a question which cost him so much mental labour, that it remained undetermined on the day of his death. He decided21 to will and bequeath his little property of savings22 to his godchild, and the point arose how could it be so ‘tied up’ as that only she should have the benefit of it? His experience on the lock gave him such an acute perception of the enormous difficulty of ‘tying up’ money with any approach to tightness, and contrariwise of the remarkable23 ease with which it got loose, that through a series of years he regularly propounded24 this knotty25 point to every new insolvent26 agent and other professional gentleman who passed in and out.
‘Supposing,’ he would say, stating the case with his key on the professional gentleman’s waistcoat; ‘supposing a man wanted to leave his property to a young female, and wanted to tie it up so that nobody else should ever be able to make a grab at it; how would you tie up that property?’
‘But look here,’ quoth the turnkey. ‘Supposing she had, say a brother, say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that property when she came into it—how about that?’
‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim on it than you,’ would be the professional answer.
‘Stop a bit,’ said the turnkey. ‘Supposing she was tender-hearted, and they came over her. Where’s your law for tying it up then?’
The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to produce his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it all his life, and died intestate after all.
But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen. The first half of that space of her life was only just accomplished29, when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a widower30. From that time the protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards him, became embodied31 in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon herself a new relation towards the Father.
At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.
What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious32, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled33 by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life!
With no earthly friend to help her, or so much as to see her, but the one so strangely assorted34; with no knowledge even of the common daily tone and habits of the common members of the free community who are not shut up in prisons; born and bred in a social condition, false even with a reference to the falsest condition outside the walls; drinking from infancy35 of a well whose waters had their own peculiar36 stain, their own unwholesome and unnatural37 taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her womanly life.
No matter through what mistakes and discouragements, what ridicule38 (not unkindly meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little figure, what humble39 consciousness of her own babyhood and want of strength, even in the matter of lifting and carrying; through how much weariness and hopelessness, and how many secret tears; she drudged on, until recognised as useful, even indispensable. That time came. She took the place of eldest41 of the three, in all things but precedence; was the head of the fallen family; and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and shames.
At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts, that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools by desultory42 starts, during three or four years. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew well—no one better—that a man so broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.
To these scanty43 means of improvement, she added another of her own contriving44. Once, among the heterogeneous45 crowd of inmates46 there appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the dancing-master’s art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and preferred her humble petition.
‘If you please, I was born here, sir.’
‘Oh! You are the young lady, are you?’ said the dancing-master, surveying the small figure and uplifted face.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what can I do for you?’ said the dancing-master.
‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ anxiously undrawing the strings47 of the little bag; ‘but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap—’
‘My child, I’ll teach her for nothing,’ said the dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant leisure to bestow48 upon her (for it took him a matter of ten weeks to set to his creditors49, lead off, turn the Commissioners50, and right and left back to his professional pursuits), that wonderful progress was made. Indeed the dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to display it before he left to a few select friends among the collegians, that at six o’clock on a certain fine morning, a minuet de la cour came off in the yard—the college-rooms being of too confined proportions for the purpose—in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so conscientiously51 executed, that the dancing-master, having to play the kit52 besides, was thoroughly53 blown.
The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master’s continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened54 the poor child to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own behalf.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, looking timidly round the door of the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: ‘but I was born here.’
Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master had said:
‘Oh! You are the child, are you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I am sorry I haven’t got anything for you,’ said the milliner, shaking her head.
‘It’s not that, ma’am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.’
‘Why should you do that,’ returned the milliner, ‘with me before you? It has not done me much good.’
‘Nothing—whatever it is—seems to have done anybody much good who comes here,’ she returned in all simplicity55; ‘but I want to learn just the same.’
‘I am afraid you are so weak, you see,’ the milliner objected.
‘I don’t think I am weak, ma’am.’
‘And you are so very, very little, you see,’ the milliner objected.
‘Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,’ returned the Child of the Marshalsea; and so began to sob56 over that unfortunate defect of hers, which came so often in her way. The milliner—who was not morose57 or hard-hearted, only newly insolvent—was touched, took her in hand with goodwill58, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a cunning work-woman in course of time.
In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed a collegian’s half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his daughters’ earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares, the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together.
The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family group—ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable59 certainty—on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired60 and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time when that calamity61 fell upon him, further than that he left off washing himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days; and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture62 there a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her escort and guardian63, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy64, a feast, starvation—anything but soap.
To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with the Father.
‘Fanny is not going to live with us just now, father. She will be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle.’
‘You surprise me. Why?’
‘I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to, and looked after.’
‘A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend to him and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much.’
This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence65 of his having no idea that Amy herself went out by the day to work.
‘But we are always glad to come home, father; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here, always. She was not born here as I was, you know, father.’
‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t quite follow you, but it’s natural I suppose that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. Good, good. I’ll not meddle66; don’t mind me.’
To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange with very doubtful companions consequent upon both; was her hardest task. At eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom he derived67 anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him but her old friend and godfather.
‘Dear Bob,’ said she, ‘what is to become of poor Tip?’ His name was Edward, and Ted7 had been transformed into Tip, within the walls.
The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting68 their fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency69 of running away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn’t seem to care for his country.
‘Well, my dear,’ said the turnkey, ‘something ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?’
‘That would be so good of you, Bob!’
The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly70 that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace Court; at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting71 bulwarks72 to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more.
Tip languished73 in Clifford’s Inns for six months, and at the expiration74 of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back again.
‘Not going back again?’ said the poor little anxious Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her charges.
‘I am so tired of it,’ said Tip, ‘that I have cut it.’
Tip tired of everything. With intervals75 of Marshalsea lounging, and Mrs Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a warehouse77, into a market garden, into the hop40 trade, into the law again, into an auctioneers, into a brewery79, into a stockbroker’s, into the law again, into a coach office, into a waggon80 office, into the law again, into a general dealer81’s, into a distillery, into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the Billingsgate trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slip-shod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their fascination82 over him, and brought him back.
Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her brother’s rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom83 over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight course at last.
‘God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us, when you have made your fortune.’
‘All right!’ said Tip, and went.
But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so strongly impelled to cut the vessel84, that he resolved to walk back again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than ever.
At length, after another interval76 of successorship to Mrs Bangham, he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it.
‘Amy, I have got a situation.’
‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’
‘All right. I shall do now. You needn’t look anxious about me any more, old girl.’
‘What is it, Tip?’
‘Why, you know Slingo by sight?’
‘Not the man they call the dealer?’
‘What is he a dealer in, Tip?’
‘Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy.’
She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder collegians that he had been seen at a mock auction78 in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for massive silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work—standing up at the window, to save the twilight86 lingering above the wall—when he opened the door and walked in.
She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any questions. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
‘I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?’
‘Why—yes.’
‘Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip.’
‘Ah! But that’s not the worst of it.’
‘Not the worst of it?’
‘Don’t look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, you see; but—don’t look so startled—I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as one of the regulars.’
‘Oh! Don’t say you are a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’
‘Well, I don’t want to say it,’ he returned in a reluctant tone; ‘but if you can’t understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in for forty pound odd.’
For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip’s graceless feet.
It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring him to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip, and altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only, when he submitted to her entreaties88, backed by those of his uncle and sister. There was no want of precedent89 for his return; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better comprehension of the pious90 fraud than Tip, supported it loyally.
This was the life, and this the history, of the child of the Marshalsea at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment91 to the one miserable92 yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed18 out to every one. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had found it necessary to conceal93 where she lived, and to come and go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with this concealment94, and her light step and her little figure shunned95 the thronged96 streets while they passed along them.
Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, and the prison, and the turbid97 living river that flowed through it and flowed on.
This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; now going home upon a dull September evening, observed at a distance by Arthur Clennam. This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; turning at the end of London Bridge, recrossing it, going back again, passing on to Saint George’s Church, turning back suddenly once more, and flitting in at the open outer gate and little court-yard of the Marshalsea.
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1
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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6
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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whooped
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| 叫喊( whoop的过去式和过去分词 )； 高声说； 唤起 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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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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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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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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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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43
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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77
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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78
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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80
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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82
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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83
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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85
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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92
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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95
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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