Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink without knowing why, when he came stealing up behind them? As he glided1 on, had no child in its sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its bed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to break its rattling2 chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing3 rat, scenting4 the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw5 a passage after him, that it might hold a greedy revel6 at the feast of his providing? When he looked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and clogged7 with the red mire8 that stained the naked feet of Cain!
He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it; riding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He travelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach, which came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his road, bribed9 the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on with him; and then made across the country at a run, and saved a mile or two before he struck again into the road. At last, as his plan was, he came up with a certain lumbering10, slow, night-coach, which stopped wherever it could, and was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman ate and drank within.
He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted it no more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but occupied the same place all night.
All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It is a false fancy, as who should know better than he?
The fishes slumbered11 in the cold, bright, glistening12 streams and rivers, perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in their stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept. But what of that, when the solemn night was watching, when it never winked13, when its darkness watched no less than its light! The stately trees, the moon and shining stars, the softly stirring wind, the over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch. There was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but watched; and the quieter it was, the more intent and fixed14 its watch upon him seemed to be.
And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept, and did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his troubled dreams, it came up steadily15, and woke him. But it never woke him to remorse16, or to abandonment of his design.
He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of a moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put his head in at the door, and beckoned17 him. At this signal he arose immediately—being already dressed in the clothes he actually wore at that time—and accompanied him into a strange city, where the names of the streets were written on the walls in characters quite new to him; which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream to have been there before. Although these streets were very precipitous, insomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to descend19 great heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep bells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him little emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being concentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival that was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take a part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in one direction myriads20 of people came rushing down an interminable perspective, strewing21 flowers and making way for others on white horses, when a terrible figure started from the throng22, and cried out that it was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a wild hurrying on to Judgment23; and the press became so great that he and his companion (who was constantly changing, and was never the same man two minutes together, though he never saw one man come or another go), stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the multitude; in which there were many faces that he knew, and many that he did not know, but dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling head rose up among the rest—livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it—and denounced him as having appointed that direful day to happen. They closed together. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and strike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge of his waking purpose and the rising of the sun.
The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world astir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night—of wakeful, watchful24, silent, and attentive25 Night, with so much leisure for the observation of his wicked thoughts—that he dreaded27 most. There is no glare in the night. Even Glory shows to small advantage in the night, upon a crowded battle-field. How then shows Glory’s blood-relation, bastard28 Murder!
Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder. He had come to do it.
‘Let me get down here’ he said
‘Short of the town, eh!’ observed the coachman.
‘I may get down where I please, I suppose?’
‘You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It won’t break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn’t have broken ‘em if we’d never found you. Be a little quicker. That’s all.’
The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money. In the jealousy29 and distrust of what he contemplated30, he thought this man looked at him with more than common curiosity.
‘What are you staring at?’ said Jonas.
‘Not at a handsome man,’ returned the guard. ‘If you want your fortune told, I’ll tell you a bit of it. You won’t be drowned. That’s a consolation31 for you.’
Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the dialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and bidding him get out for a surly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they drove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist at them. He was not displeased32 though, on second thoughts, to have been taken for an ill-conditioned common country fellow; but rather congratulated himself upon it as a proof that he was well disguised.
Wandering into a copse by the road-side—but not in that place; two or three miles off—he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake; and, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in peeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged head with his knife.
The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.
At that serene33 and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out of the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr Pecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment, and was now going home. His host was riding with him for a short distance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr Pecksniff had engaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had hung about the inn-yard while they were at dinner and had heard their orders given.
They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been heard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage wheels or horses’ hoofs34. They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath35 indicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.
‘It’s too soon. Much too soon,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘But this is the place, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little wood you’ll come to. The path is narrower there, but you can’t miss it. When shall I see you again? Soon I hope?’
‘I hope so,’ replied Montague.
‘Good night!’
‘Good night. And a pleasant ride!’
So long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals36 to salute37 him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand. But when his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer necessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might have grown ten years older in the meantime.
He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before his late companion had fatigued38 him, perhaps, or it may be that the evening whispered to his conscience, or it may be (as it has been) that a shadowy veil was dropping round him, closing out all thoughts but the presentiment39 and vague foreknowledge of impending40 doom41.
If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming wind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in their glass arteries42; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive, by properties within itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill it; and in the veins43 of men run cold and dull as his did, in that hour!
So cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky was bright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed his walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether to pursue the footpath, which was lonely and retired44, or to go back by the road.
He took the footpath.
The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds was in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of poor men’s homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire45, surmounted46 by a Cross, rose up between him and the coming night.
He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow place, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect47, sorrowfully. Then he went down, down, down, into the dell.
It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which the path went winding48 on, dwindling49 away into a slender sheep-track. He paused before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted50 him.
The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant51, making a path of golden light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as he looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight52 that came creeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss53 about the trunks of some old trees, seemed to have grown out of the silence, and to be its proper offspring. Those other trees which were subdued54 by blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite tumbled down, but being caught by others, lay all bare and scathed55 across their leafy arms, as if unwilling56 to disturb the general repose57 by the crash of their fall. Vistas58 of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost recesses59 of the wood; beginning with the likeness60 of an aisle61, a cloister62, or a ruin open to the sky; then tangling63 off into a deep green rustling64 mystery, through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs66, and ivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old trees stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.
As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered it. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping67 bough65 which stretched across his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch denoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no more.
Never more beheld68 by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man excepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side, near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.
What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were a hell!
The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary69 spot, it lay among the last year’s leaves of oak and beech70, just as it had fallen headlong down. Sopping71 and soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow; oozing72 down into the boggy73 ground, as if to cover itself from human sight; forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, as if those senseless things rejected and forswore it and were coiled up in abhorrence74; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole summer night from earth to heaven.
The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he cast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away in his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly gained his feet again, and keeping underneath75 a hedge with his body bent76, went running on towards the road. The road once reached, he fell into a rapid walk, and set on toward London.
And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he thought of it—when did he not think of it!—but he was not sorry. He had had a terror and dread26 of the wood when he was in it; but being out of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were now diverted, strangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at home. He had a greater horror, infinitely77 greater, of that room than of the wood. Now that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond comparison more dismal78 and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous79 secret was shut up in the room, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not in the wood at all.
He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a coach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before long; and which he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by, for it came from another place. He sat down outside the door here, on a bench, beside a man who was smoking his pipe. Having called for some beer, and drunk, he offered it to this companion, who thanked him, and took a draught80. He could not help thinking that, if the man had known all, he might scarcely have relished81 drinking out of the same cup with him.
‘A fine night, master!’ said this person. ‘And a rare sunset.’
‘I didn’t see it,’ was his hasty answer.
‘Didn’t see it?’ returned the man.
‘How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?’
‘Asleep! Aye, aye.’ The man appeared surprised by his unexpected irritability82, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had not sat very long, when there was a knocking within.
‘What’s that?’ cried Jonas.
‘Can’t say, I’m sure,’ replied the man.
He made no further inquiry83, for the last question had escaped him in spite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up room; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on some special occasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their bursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their fastening the door into the court, and rendering84 it impossible for him to get into the house without showing himself in the garb85 he wore, which would lead to rumour86, rumour to detection, detection to death. At that instant, as if by some design and order of circumstances, the knocking had come.
It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had conjured87 up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and walked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all day; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he stopped more than once to look about him, hoping he might be in a dream.
Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been bent, too desperately88 and too long, on setting himself free. If the thing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His malignant89 and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no more penitence90 or remorse within him now than there had been while the deed was brewing91.
Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way, not only fearful for himself, but of himself; for being, as it were, a part of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it: he invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber92, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the dark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though believed to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom93, and was at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.
When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and was carried briskly onward94 towards home. Now, in taking his seat among the people behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear that they knew of the murder, and would tell him that the body had been found; which, considering the time and place of the commission of the crime, were events almost impossible to have happened yet, as he very well knew. But although he did know it, and had therefore no reason to regard their ignorance as anything but the natural sequence to the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So far encouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found, and began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point, and measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and what had gone before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and disordered images of which he was the constant prey95; he came by daylight to regard the murder as an old murder, and to think himself comparatively safe because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the sun which looked into the wood, and gilded96 with its rising light a dead man’s lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought of Heaven, on its going down last night!
It was but five o’clock. He had time enough to reach his own house unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing had happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from the coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying across the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay near his course, at length approached his own dwelling98. He used additional caution in his immediate18 neighbourhood; halting first to look all down the street before him; then gliding99 swiftly through that one, and stopping to survey the next, and so on.
The passage-way was empty when his murderer’s face looked into it. He stole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own imaginary rest.
He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand, and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous100 fear beset101 his mind.
What if the murdered man were there before him!
He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.
He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old. He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.
The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the clothes, the augmented102 horror of the room when they shut it out from his view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude103 to that knocking which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!
The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds drawn104 up, and shutters105 opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried:
‘Who’s there?’
It was his wife.
He asked her what it was o’clock? Nine.
‘Did—did no one knock at my door yesterday?’ he faltered106. ‘Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no notice from me.’
‘No one,’ she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.
‘Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,’ she said, ‘but I told him you were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn’t been again.’
Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak107 on unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.
He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go upstairs; attiring108 himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts109 that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster110 courage for a long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening to the murmur111 of their distant conversation.
He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.
And whatsoever112 guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely113 counted the dull tickings of a hoarse114 clock at his back, he always lapsed115, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and distraction116, were, to listen for its coming.
Hush!
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1
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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2
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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3
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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4
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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5
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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7
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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9
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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13
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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14
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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26
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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27
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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34
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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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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37
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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38
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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42
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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43
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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44
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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45
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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46
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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47
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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48
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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49
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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50
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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52
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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53
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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54
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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57
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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58
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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59
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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60
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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61
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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62
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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63
tangling
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的现在分词 ) | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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65
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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67
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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68
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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69
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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70
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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71
sopping
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| adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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72
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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73
boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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74
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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75
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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76
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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78
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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80
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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81
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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82
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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83
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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84
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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85
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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86
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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87
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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88
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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89
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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90
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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91
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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92
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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93
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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94
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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95
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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96
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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97
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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98
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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99
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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100
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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101
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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102
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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103
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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104
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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105
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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106
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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107
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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108
attiring
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| v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的现在分词 ) | |
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109
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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110
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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111
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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112
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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113
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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114
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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115
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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116
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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