It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when her worthy2 papa returned home on the night of the small tea-party, he was what the initiated3 term ‘too far gone’ to observe the numerous tokens of extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly visible in her countenance4. Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrelsome mood in his cups, it is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her, either on this or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with a foresight5 and prudence6 highly commendable7, kept a boy up, on purpose, to bear the first brunt of the good gentleman’s anger; which, having vented8 itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs9, subsided10 sufficiently11 to admit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots on, and an umbrella under his arm.
The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according to custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little offices of her toilet, and administer as much flattery as she could get up, for the purpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain and frivolous13 withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only the arbitrary distinctions of rank and station which prevented her from being one.
‘How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!’ said the handmaiden. ‘I declare if it isn’t a pity and a shame to brush it out!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.
Some considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers. Having a half-perception of what had occurred in the course of the evening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable, and proceeded on the indirect tack14.
‘Well, I couldn’t help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,’ said the attendant, ‘that I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price this night.’
Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.
‘I know it’s very wrong in me to say so, miss,’ continued the girl, delighted to see the impression she was making, ‘Miss Price being a friend of your’n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and go on in such a manner to get noticed, that—oh—well, if people only saw themselves!’
‘What do you mean, Phib?’ asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own little glass, where, like most of us, she saw—not herself, but the reflection of some pleasant image in her own brain. ‘How you talk!’
‘Talk, miss! It’s enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar, only to see how she tosses her head,’ replied the handmaid.
‘She does toss her head,’ observed Miss Squeers, with an air of abstraction.
‘So vain, and so very—very plain,’ said the girl.
‘Poor ‘Tilda!’ sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately16.
‘And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,’ pursued the servant. ‘Oh, dear! It’s positive indelicate.’
‘I can’t allow you to talk in that way, Phib,’ said Miss Squeers. ‘’Tilda’s friends are low people, and if she don’t know any better, it’s their fault, and not hers.’
‘Well, but you know, miss,’ said Phoebe, for which name ‘Phib’ was used as a patronising abbreviation, ‘if she was only to take copy by a friend—oh! if she only knew how wrong she was, and would but set herself right by you, what a nice young woman she might be in time!’
‘Phib,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, ‘it’s not proper for me to hear these comparisons drawn19; they make ‘Tilda look a coarse improper20 sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me to listen to them. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at the same time, I must say, that if ‘Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody—not me particularly—’
‘Oh yes; you, miss,’ interposed Phib.
‘Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,’ said Miss Squeers. ‘I must say, that if she would, she would be all the better for it.’
‘So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,’ said the girl mysteriously.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Miss Squeers.
‘Never mind, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘I know what I know; that’s all.’
‘Phib,’ said Miss Squeers dramatically, ‘I insist upon your explaining yourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.’
‘Why, if you will have it, miss, it’s this,’ said the servant girl. ‘Mr John Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn’t too far gone to do it creditable, he’d be very glad to be off with Miss Price, and on with Miss Squeers.’
‘Gracious heavens!’ exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with great dignity. ‘What is this?’
‘Truth, ma’am, and nothing but truth,’ replied the artful Phib.
‘What a situation!’ cried Miss Squeers; ‘on the brink21 of unconsciously destroying the peace and happiness of my own ‘Tilda. What is the reason that men fall in love with me, whether I like it or not, and desert their chosen intendeds for my sake?’
‘Because they can’t help it, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘the reason’s plain.’ (If Miss Squeers were the reason, it was very plain.)
‘Never let me hear of it again,’ retorted Miss Squeers. ‘Never! Do you hear? ‘Tilda Price has faults—many faults—but I wish her well, and above all I wish her married; for I think it highly desirable—most desirable from the very nature of her failings—that she should be married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have Mr. Browdie. I may pity him, poor fellow; but I have a great regard for ‘Tilda, and only hope she may make a better wife than I think she will.’
With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.
Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble22 of feelings, and compound of discords23, as any polysyllable in the language. Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts that what the miserable24 serving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying flattery, as did the girl herself; yet the mere25 opportunity of venting26 a little ill-nature against the offending Miss Price, and affecting to compassionate15 her weaknesses and foibles, though only in the presence of a solitary27 dependant28, was almost as great a relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel truth. Nay29, more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion30 when they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high-minded and great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie’s hand, and looked down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness and tranquillity31, that had a mighty32 effect in soothing33 her ruffled34 feelings.
This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a reconciliation35; for, when a knock came at the front-door next day, and the miller36’s daughter was announced, Miss Squeers betook herself to the parlour in a Christian37 frame of spirit, perfectly38 beautiful to behold39.
‘Well, Fanny,’ said the miller’s daughter, ‘you see I have come to see you, although we had some words last night.’
‘Don’t be cross, Fanny,’ said Miss Price. ‘I have come to tell you something that I know will please you.’
‘What may that be, ‘Tilda?’ demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her lips, and looking as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could afford her the slightest gleam of satisfaction.
‘This,’ rejoined Miss Price. ‘After we left here last night John and I had a dreadful quarrel.’
‘That doesn’t please me,’ said Miss Squeers—relaxing into a smile though.
‘Lor! I wouldn’t think so bad of you as to suppose it did,’ rejoined her companion. ‘That’s not it.’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy41. ‘Go on.’
‘After a great deal of wrangling42, and saying we would never see each other any more,’ continued Miss Price, ‘we made it up, and this morning John went and wrote our names down to be put up, for the first time, next Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and I give you notice to get your frock made.’
There was mingled43 gall44 and honey in this intelligence. The prospect45 of the friend’s being married so soon was the gall, and the certainty of her not entertaining serious designs upon Nicholas was the honey. Upon the whole, the sweet greatly preponderated46 over the bitter, so Miss Squeers said she would get the frock made, and that she hoped ‘Tilda might be happy, though at the same time she didn’t know, and would not have her build too much upon it, for men were strange creatures, and a great many married women were very miserable, and wished themselves single again with all their hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers added others equally calculated to raise her friend’s spirits and promote her cheerfulness of mind.
‘But come now, Fanny,’ said Miss Price, ‘I want to have a word or two with you about young Mr. Nickleby.’
‘He is nothing to me,’ interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical47 symptoms. ‘I despise him too much!’
‘Oh, you don’t mean that, I am sure?’ replied her friend. ‘Confess, Fanny; don’t you like him now?’
Without returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell into a paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a wretched, neglected, miserable castaway.
‘I hate everybody,’ said Miss Squeers, ‘and I wish that everybody was dead—that I do.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal48 of misanthropical49 sentiments. ‘You are not serious, I am sure.’
‘Yes, I am,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her pocket-handkerchief and clenching50 her teeth. ‘And I wish I was dead too. There!’
‘Oh! you’ll think very differently in another five minutes,’ said Matilda. ‘How much better to take him into favour again, than to hurt yourself by going on in that way. Wouldn’t it be much nicer, now, to have him all to yourself on good terms, in a company-keeping, love-making, pleasant sort of manner?’
‘I don’t know but what it would,’ sobbed51 Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! ‘Tilda, how could you have acted so mean and dishonourable! I wouldn’t have believed it of you, if anybody had told me.’
‘Heyday!’ exclaimed Miss Price, giggling52. ‘One would suppose I had been murdering somebody at least.’
‘Very nigh as bad,’ said Miss Squeers passionately18.
‘And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make people civil to me,’ cried Miss Price. ‘Persons don’t make their own faces, and it’s no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other people’s fault if theirs is a bad one.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ shrieked53 Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone; ‘or you’ll make me slap you, ‘Tilda, and afterwards I should be sorry for it!’
It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young lady was in some slight degree affected54 by the tone of her conversation, and that a dash of personality was infused into the altercation55, in consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a considerable height, and was assuming a very violent complexion56, when both parties, falling into a great passion of tears, exclaimed simultaneously57, that they had never thought of being spoken to in that way: which exclamation58, leading to a remonstrance59, gradually brought on an explanation: and the upshot was, that they fell into each other’s arms and vowed60 eternal friendship; the occasion in question making the fifty-second time of repeating the same impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth.
Perfect amicability61 being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued upon the number and nature of the garments which would be indispensable for Miss Price’s entrance into the holy state of matrimony, when Miss Squeers clearly showed that a great many more than the miller could, or would, afford, were absolutely necessary, and could not decently be dispensed62 with. The young lady then, by an easy digression, led the discourse64 to her own wardrobe, and after recounting its principal beauties at some length, took her friend upstairs to make inspection65 thereof. The treasures of two drawers and a closet having been displayed, and all the smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss Price to return home; and as she had been in raptures66 with all the frocks, and had been stricken quite dumb with admiration68 of a new pink scarf, Miss Squeers said in high good humour, that she would walk part of the way with her, for the pleasure of her company; and off they went together: Miss Squeers dilating69, as they walked along, upon her father’s accomplishments70: and multiplying his income by ten, to give her friend some faint notion of the vast importance and superiority of her family.
It happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily interval71 which was suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly called the dinner of Mr. Squeers’s pupils, and their return to the pursuit of useful knowledge, was precisely72 the hour when Nicholas was accustomed to issue forth73 for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered listlessly through the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this perfectly well, but had perhaps forgotten it, for when she caught sight of that young gentleman advancing towards them, she evinced many symptoms of surprise and consternation74, and assured her friend that she ‘felt fit to drop into the earth.’
‘Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?’ asked Miss Price. ‘He don’t see us yet.’
‘No, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, ‘it is my duty to go through with it, and I will!’
As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high moral resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and catchings of breath, indicative of feelings at a high pressure, her friend made no further remark, and they bore straight down upon Nicholas, who, walking with his eyes bent75 upon the ground, was not aware of their approach until they were close upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken shelter himself.
‘Good-morning,’ said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.
‘He is going,’ murmured Miss Squeers. ‘I shall choke, ‘Tilda.’
‘Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do!’ cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at her friend’s threat, but really actuated by a malicious76 wish to hear what Nicholas would say; ‘come back, Mr. Nickleby!’
Mr. Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he inquired whether the ladies had any commands for him.
‘Don’t stop to talk,’ urged Miss Price, hastily; ‘but support her on the other side. How do you feel now, dear?’
‘Better,’ sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver77 bonnet78 of a reddish brown with a green veil attached, on Mr. Nickleby’s shoulder. ‘This foolish faintness!’
‘Don’t call it foolish, dear,’ said Miss Price: her bright eye dancing with merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; ‘you have no reason to be ashamed of it. It’s those who are too proud to come round again, without all this to-do, that ought to be ashamed.’
‘You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,’ said Nicholas, smiling, ‘although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.’
‘There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,’ remarked the wicked Miss Price. ‘Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it was not his fault. You hear; I think that’s apology enough.’
‘You will not understand me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Pray dispense63 with this jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination79, to be the subject or promoter of mirth just now.’
‘Don’t ask him, ‘Tilda,’ cried Miss Squeers; ‘I forgive him.’
‘Dear me,’ said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder again, ‘this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have the goodness to hear me speak?’
Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned astonishment81 a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden, and went on to say:
‘I am very sorry—truly and sincerely sorry—for having been the cause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself, most bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the dissension that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and heedlessly.’
‘Well; that’s not all you have got to say surely,’ exclaimed Miss Price as Nicholas paused.
‘I fear there is something more,’ stammered82 Nicholas with a half-smile, and looking towards Miss Squeers, ‘it is a most awkward thing to say—but—the very mention of such a supposition makes one look like a puppy—still—may I ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any—in short, does she think that I am in love with her?’
‘Delightful embarrassment,’ thought Miss Squeers, ‘I have brought him to it, at last. Answer for me, dear,’ she whispered to her friend.
‘Does she think so?’ rejoined Miss Price; ‘of course she does.’
‘She does!’ exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance83 as might have been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture67.
‘Certainly,’ replied Miss Price
‘If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, ‘Tilda,’ said the blushing Miss Squeers in soft accents, ‘he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments are recipro—’
‘Stop,’ cried Nicholas hurriedly; ‘pray hear me. This is the grossest and wildest delusion84, the completest and most signal mistake, that ever human being laboured under, or committed. I have scarcely seen the young lady half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am destined85 to see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely the same. I have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her, unless it be—and I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the real state of my own—unless it be the one object, dear to my heart as life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon this accursed place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it—even think of it—but with loathing86 and disgust.’
With this particularly plain and straightforward87 declaration, which he made with all the vehemence88 that his indignant and excited feelings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more, retreated.
But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid succession of bitter and passionate17 feelings that whirled through her mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked up by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable89 at indefinite periods, and ‘found’ in food and lodging90 like the very boys themselves; and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller’s daughter of eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks’ time, to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have choked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled91.
But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification93; and that was, that she hated and detested94 Nicholas with all the narrowness of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in every day she could wound his pride, and goad95 him with the infliction96 of some slight, or insult, or deprivation97, which could not but have some effect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so sensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind, Miss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing that Mr. Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper, that she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from her.
And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed98 her affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything better, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously contemplated99 the possibility of his being of a different opinion from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and beautiful, and that her father was master, and Nicholas man, and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had none, all of which seemed to her conclusive100 arguments why the young man should feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed to recollect101, either, how much more agreeable she could render his situation if she were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she were his enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous102 young gentlemen than Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only for this very obvious and intelligible103 reason. However, he had thought proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous104.
‘Let him see,’ said the irritated young lady, when she had regained105 her own room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, ‘if I don’t set mother against him a little more when she comes back!’
It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as her word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging, and the being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid misery106, was treated with every special indignity107 that malice could suggest, or the most grasping cupidity108 put upon him.
Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance109 which made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice110 and cruelty.
The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken kindly111 to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little wants as his humble92 ability could supply, and content only to be near him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face; and a word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an object now; and that object was, to show his attachment112 to the only person—that person a stranger—who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but like a human creature.
Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery113 would have been nothing—Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted114 without cause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also he had served a long and weary apprenticeship115; but it was no sooner observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage116 and cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as he paced up and down the dismal117 schoolroom, his swollen118 heart almost bursting to think that his protection and countenance should have increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar119 destitution120 had awakened121 his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of his thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered122 book, with the traces of recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some task which a child of nine years old, possessed123 of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled124 brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently conning125 the page again and again, stimulated126 by no boyish ambition, for he was the common jest and scoff127 even of the uncouth128 objects that congregated129 about him, but inspired by the one eager desire to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
‘I can’t do it,’ said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter disappointment in every feature. ‘No, no.’
‘Do not try,’ replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
‘They are more hard with me than ever,’ sobbed the boy.
‘I know it,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘They are.’
‘But for you,’ said the outcast, ‘I should die. They would kill me; they would; I know they would.’
‘You will do better, poor fellow,’ replied Nicholas, shaking his head mournfully, ‘when I am gone.’
‘Gone!’ cried the other, looking intently in his face.
‘Softly!’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you going?’ demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
‘I cannot say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I was speaking more to my own thoughts, than to you.’
‘Tell me,’ said the boy imploringly131, ‘oh do tell me, will you go—will you?’
‘I shall be driven to that at last!’ said Nicholas. ‘The world is before me, after all.’
‘Tell me,’ urged Smike, ‘is the world as bad and dismal as this place?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own thoughts; ‘its hardest, coarsest toil12, were happiness to this.’
‘Should I ever meet you there?’ demanded the boy, speaking with unusual wildness and volubility.
‘No, no!’ said the other, clasping him by the hand. ‘Should I—should I—tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.’
‘You would,’ replied Nicholas, with the same humane133 intention, ‘and I would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done here.’
The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately in his, and, hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were unintelligible134. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his old corner.
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1
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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32
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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34
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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35
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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36
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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37
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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38
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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39
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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40
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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41
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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42
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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43
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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44
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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45
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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46
preponderated
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| v.超过，胜过( preponderate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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48
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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49
misanthropical
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50
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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51
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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52
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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53
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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56
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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57
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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58
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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59
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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60
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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61
amicability
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| n.友善，亲善 | |
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62
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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63
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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65
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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66
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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67
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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68
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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69
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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71
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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72
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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73
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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74
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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75
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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76
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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77
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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78
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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79
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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80
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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81
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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82
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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84
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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85
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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86
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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87
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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88
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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89
payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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90
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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91
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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92
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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93
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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94
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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96
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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97
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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98
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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100
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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101
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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102
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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103
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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104
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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105
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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106
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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107
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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108
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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109
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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110
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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111
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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112
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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113
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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114
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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116
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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117
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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118
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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119
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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120
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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121
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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122
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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123
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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124
addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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125
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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126
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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127
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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128
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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129
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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131
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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132
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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133
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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134
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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