She had often pictured to her fancy what the house might have been made, if there had but been money to make it anything with, money to do anything with; if only they had not always been so helpless, so burdened with the especially painful load of genteel poverty. She had exercised her womanly ingenuity9, put forth10 her womanly tastes, so far as she could, and the house was better than might have been expected under all the circumstances; but ingenuity and taste, which double the effect of money when united to that useful agency, are not of much avail without it, and will not supply curtains and carpet, paint, varnishing11, and general upholstery. There was not a superfluous12 ornament13, and there were many in the drawing-rooms at Woolgreaves very offensive to her instinctively14 correct taste,--whose price would not have materially altered the aspect of Marian Ashurst's home, as she had recognised with much secret bitterness of spirit, on her first visit to the Creswells. She would have made the old house pretty and pleasant, if she could, especially while he lived, to whom its prettiness and pleasantness might have brought refreshment15 of spirit, and a little cheerfulness in the surroundings of his toilsome life; but she loved it, notwithstanding its dulness and its frigid16 shabbiness, and the prospect17 of being obliged to leave it gave her exquisite18 pain. Marian was surprised when she discovered that her feelings on this point were keener than those of her mother. She had anticipated, with shrinking and reluctance19 of whose intensity20 she felt ashamed, the difficulty she should experience when that last worst necessity must arise, when her mother must leave the home of so many years, and the scene of her tranquil21 happiness. Mrs. Ashurst had been a very happy woman, notwithstanding her delicate health, and the difficulties it had brought upon the little household. In the first place, she was naturally of a placid22 temperament23. In the second, her husband told her as little as possible of the constantly pressing, hopelessly inextricable trouble of his life. And lastly, Mrs. Ashurst's inexperience prevented her realising danger in the future from any source except that one whence it had actually come, fallen in its fullest, fatalmost might--the sickness and death of her husband.
When that tremendous blow fell upon her, it stunned24 the widow. She could not grieve, she could not care about anything else. She was not a woman of an imaginative turn of mind; feeling had always been powerful and deep in her; but fancy had ever been active, so that when the one awful and overwhelming fact existed, it was quite enough for her, it swamped everything else, it needed not to bring up any reinforcements to her discomfiture25. She was ready to go anywhere with Marian, to do anything which Marian advised or directed. The old house was to be left, a new home was to be sought for. A stranger was coming to be the master where her husband's firm but gentle rule had made itself loved, respected, and obeyed for so long; a stranger was to sit in her husband's seat, and move about the house where his step and his voice were heard no more, listened for no longer, not even now, in the first confused moments of waking after the blessed oblivion of sleep.
And in that awful fact all was included. Poor Mrs. Ashurst cared little for the linen26 and the china now. Whether they should be packed up and removed to the humble27 lodgings29 which were to be the next home of herself and her daughter, or whether Mr. Ashurst's successor should be asked to take them at a valuation, were points which she left to Marian's decision. She had not any interest in anything of the kind now. It was time that Marian's mind should be made up on these and other matters; and the girl, notwithstanding her premature30 gravity and her habit of decision, found her task difficult in fact and sentiment. Her mother was painfully quiescent31, hopelessly resigned. In every word and look she expressed plainly that life had come to a standstill for her, that she could no longer feel any interest or take any active part in its conduct; and thus she depressed32 Marian very much, who had her own sense of impending33 disappointment and imperative34 effort, in addition to their common sorrow, to struggle against.
Mrs. Ashurst and her daughter had seen a good deal of the family at Woolgreaves since the day on which Marian's cherished belief in the value and delight of wealth had been strengthened by that visit to the splendid dwelling35 of her father's old friend. The young ladies had quite "taken to" Mrs. Ashurst, and Mrs. Ashurst had almost "taken to" them. They came into Helmingham frequently, and never without bringing welcome contributions from the large and lavishly36 kept gardens at Woolgreaves. They tried, in many girlish and unskilful ways, to be intimate with Marian; but they felt they did not succeed, and only their perception of their uncle's wishes prevented their giving up the effort. Marian was very civil, very much obliged for their kindness and attention; but uncordial, "un-getatable," Maude Creswell aptly described it.
The condition of Mr. Ashurst's affairs had not proved to be quite so deplorable as had been supposed. There was a small insurance on his life; there were a few trifling37 sums due to him, which the debtors38 made haste to pay, owing, indeed, to the immediate39 application made to them by Mr. Creswell, who interfered40 as actively41 as unostentatiously on behalf of the bereaved42 woman; altogether a little sum remained, which would keep them above want, or the almost equally painful effort of immediate exertion43 to earn their own living, with management. Yes, that was the qualification which Marian understood thoroughly, understood to mean daily and hourly self-denial, watchfulness44, and calculation, and more and worse than that--the termination on her part of the hope of preventing her mother's missing the material comforts which had been procured45 and preserved for her by a struggle whose weariness she had never been permitted to comprehend.
The old house had been shabby and poor, but it had been comfortable. It had given them space and cleanliness, and there was no vulgarity in its meagreness. But the only order of lodgings to which her mother and she could venture to aspire46 was that which invariably combines the absence of space and of cleanliness with the presence of tawdriness and discomfort47. And this must last until Walter should be able to rescue them from it. She could not suffice to that rescue herself, but he would. He must succeed! Had he not every quality, every facility, and the strongest of motives49? She felt this--that, in her case, the strongest motive48 would have been the desire for success, per se;but in his the strongest was his love of her. She recognised this, she knew this, she admired it in an odd abstract kind of way; when her heart was sufficiently50 disengaged from pressing care to find a moment for any kind of joy, she rejoiced in it; but she knew she could not imitate it--that was not in her. She had not much experience of herself yet, and the process of self-analysis was not habitual51 to her; but she felt instinctively that the more selfish instincts of love were hers, its noble influences, its profounder motives her lover's.
It was, then, to him she had to look, in him she had to trust, for the rescue that was to come in time. In how much time? in how little? Ah, there was the ever-present, ever-pressing question, and Marian brought to its perpetual repetition all the importance, all the unreasonable52 measurement of time, all the ignorance of its exceeding brevity and insignificance53 inseparable from her youth.
She had nearly completed the preparations for departure from the old home; the few possessions left her and her mother were ready for removal; a lodging28 in the village had been engaged, and the last few days were dragging themselves heavily over the heads of Mrs. Ashurst and Marian, when Mr. Creswell, having returned to Woolgreaves after a short absence, came to see them.
Mrs. Ashurst was walking in the neglected garden, and had reached the far end of the little extent when Mr. Creswell arrived at the open door of the house. A woman-servant, stolid54 and sturdy, was passing through the red-tiled square hall.
"Is Mrs. Ashurst in?" asked the visitor. "Mrs. Ashurst is in the garden, I see--don't disturb her."
Marian, who had heard the voice, answered Mr. Creswell's question by appearing on the threshold of the room which had been her father's study, and which, since his death, her mother and she had made their sitting-room55. She looked weary; the too bright colour which fatigue56 brings to some faces was on hers, and her eyelids57 were red and heavy; her black dress, which had the limp, ungraceful, lustreless58 look of mourning attire59 too long unrenewed, hung on her fine upright figure after a fashion which told how little the girl cared how she looked; and the hand she first held out to Mr. Creswell, and then drew back with a faint smile, was covered with dust.
"I can't shake hands," she said; "I have been tying up the last bundles of books and papers, and my hands are disgraceful. Come in here, Mr. Creswell; I believe there is one unoccupied chair."
He followed her into the study, and took the seat she pointed60 out, while she placed herself on a pile of folios which lay on the floor in front of the low wide window. Marian laid her arm upon the window-sill, and leaned her head back against one of the scanty61 frayed62 curtains. Her eyes closed for a moment, and a slight shudder63 passed over her.
"You are very tired, Miss Ashurst, quite worn out," said Mr. Creswell; "you have been doing too much--packing all those books, I suppose."
"Yes," said Marian, "I looked to that myself, and, indeed, there was nobody else to do it. But it is tiring work, and dirty,"--she struck her hands together, and shook her dress, so that a shower of dust fell from it--"and sad work besides. You know, Mr. Creswell"--here her face softened64 suddenly, and her voice fell--"how much my father loved his books. It is not easy to say good-bye to them; it is like a faint echo, strong enough to pain one, though, of the good-bye to himself."
"But why are you obliged to say good-bye to them?" asked Mr. Creswell, with genuine anxiety and compassion65.
"What could we do with them?" said Marian; "there's no place to keep them. We must have taken another room specially8 for them if we took them to our lodgings, and there is no one to buy them here, so we are going to send them to London to be sold. I suppose they will bring a very small sum indeed--nothing, perhaps, when the expenses are paid. But it is our only means of disposing of them; so I have been dusting and sorting and arranging them all day, and I am tired and dusty and sick--sick at heart."
Marian leaned her head on the arm which lay on the window-sill, and looked very forlorn. She also looked very pretty, and Mr. Creswell thought so. This softened mood, so unusual to her, became her, and the little touch of confidence in her manner, equally unusual, flattered him. He felt an odd sort of difficulty in speaking to her--to this young girl, his old friend's orphan66 child, one to whom he intended so kindly67, towards whom his position was so entirely68 one of patronage69, not in any offensive sense, of course, but still of patronage.
"I--I never thought of this," he said hesitatingly; "I ought to have remembered it, of course; no doubt the books must be a difficulty to you--a difficulty to keep and a harder one to part with. But bless me, my dear Miss Ashurst, you say there is no one here to buy them--you did not remember me? Why did you not remember me? Of course I will buy them. I shall be only too delighted to buy them, to have the books my good friend loved so much--of course I shall."
"I had seen your library at Woolgreaves," said Marian, replying to Mr. Creswell's first impetuous question, "and I could not suppose you wanted more books, or such shabby ones as these."
"You judge of books like a lady, then, though you were your father's companion as well as his pet," said Mr. Creswell, smiling. "Those shabby books are, many of them, much more valuable than my well-dressed shelf-fillers. And even if they were not, I should prize them for the same reason that you do, and almost as much--yes, Miss Ashurst, almost as much. Men are awkward about saying such things, but I may tell his daughter that but for James Ashurst I never should have known the value of books--in other than a commercial sense, I mean."
"I don't know what they are worth," said Marian, "but if you will find out, and buy them, my mother and I will be very thankful. I know it will be a great relief to her to think of them at Woolgreaves, and all together. She has fretted70 more about my father's books being dispersed71, and going into the hands of strangers, than about any other secondary cause of sorrow. The other things she takes quietly enough."
The widow could be seen from the window by them both as she pursued her monotonous72 walk in the garden, with her head bowed down and her figure so expressive73 of feebleness.
"Does she?" said Mr. Creswell. "I am very glad to hear that. Then"--and here Mr. Creswell gave a little sigh of relief--"we will look upon the matter of the books as arranged, and to-morrow I will send for them. Give yourself no further trouble about them. Fletcher shall settle it all."
"You will have them valued?" Marian asked with business-like seriousness.
"Certainly," returned Mr. Creswell. "And now tell me what your plans are, and where these lodgings are to which you alluded74 just now. Maude and Gertrude have not seen you, they tell me, since you took them?"
"No," said Marian, without the least tone of regret in her voice; "we have not met since your visit to Manchester. Miss Creswell's cold has kept her at home, and I have been much too busy to get so far as Woolgreaves."
"Your mother has seen my nieces?"
"Yes; Miss Gertrude Creswell called, and took her for a drive, and she remained to lunch at Woolgreaves. But that was one day when I was lodging-hunting--nothing had then been settled."
"The girls are very fond of Mrs. Ashurst."
"They are very kind," said Marian absently. The Misses Creswell were absolutely uninteresting to her, and as yet Marian Ashurst had never pretended to entertain a feeling she did not experience. The threshold of that particular school of life in which the art of feigning75 is learned lay very near her feet now, but they had not yet crossed it.
Marian and Mr. Creswell remained a long time together before Mrs. Ashurst came in. The girl spoke76 to the old gentleman with more freedom and with more feeling than on any previous occasion of their meeting; and Mr. Creswell began to think how interesting she was, in comparison with Maude and Gertrude, for instance; how much sense she had, how little frivolity77. How very good-looking she was also; he had no idea she ever would have been so handsome--yes, positively78 handsome--he used the word in his thoughts--she certainly had not possessed79 anything like it when he had seen her formerly--a dark, prim80, old-fashioned kind of girl, going about her father's study with an air of quiet appreciative81 sharpness and shrewdness which he did not altogether like. But she really had become quite handsome then, in her poor dress, with her grieved, tired face, her hair carelessly pushed off it any way, and her hands rough and soiled; she had made him recognise and feel that she had the gift of beauty also.
Mr. Creswell thought about this when he had taken leave of Mrs. Ashurst and Marian, having secured their promise to come to Woolgreaves on the day but one after, when he hoped Marian would assist him in assigning places to the books, which she felt almost reconciled to part with under these new conditions. He thought about them a good deal, and tried to make out, among the dregs of his memory, who it was who had said within his hearing, when Marian was a child, "Yes, she's a smart little girl, sure enough, and a dead hand at a bargain."
Marian Ashurst thought about Mr. Creswell after he left her and her mother. Mrs. Ashurst was very much relieved and gratified by his kindness about the books, as was Marian also. But the mother and daughter regarded the incident from different points of view. Mrs. Ashurst dwelt on the kindness of heart which dictated82 the purchase of the dead friend's books as at once a tribute to the old friendship and a true and delicate kindness to the survivors83. Marian saw all that, but she dwelt rather on the felicitous84 condition which rendered it easy to indulge such impulses. Here was another instance, and in her favour, of the value of money.
"It has made more than one difference to me," she thought that night, when she was alone, and looked round the dismantled85 study; "it has made me like old Mr. Creswell, and hitherto I have only envied him."
"Do be persuaded, dear Mrs. Ashurst," said Maude Creswell, in a tone of sincere and earnest entreaty86. She had made her appearance at the widow's house early on the day which succeeded her uncle's visit, and had presented, in her own and in her sister's name, as well as in that of Mr. Creswell, a petition, which she was now backing up with much energy. "Do come and stay with us. We are not going to have any company; there shall be nothing that you can possibly dislike. And Gerty and I will not tease you or Miss Ashurst; and you shall not be worried by Tom or anything. Do come, dear, dear Mrs. Ashurst; never mind the nasty lodgings; they can go on getting properly aired, and cleaned, and so on, until you are tired of Woolgreaves, and then you can go to them at any time. But not from your own house, where you have been so long, into that little place, in a street, too. Say you will come, now do."
Mrs. Ashurst was surprised and pleased. She recognised the girl's frank affection for her; she knew the generous kindness of heart which made her so eager to do her uncle's bidding, and secure to those desolate87 women a long visit to the splendid home he had given his nieces. Nothing but a base mean order of pride could have revolted against the offer so made and so pressed. Mrs. Ashurst yielded, and Maude Creswell returned to her uncle in high delight to announce that she had been successful in the object of her embassy.
"How delightful88 it will be to have the dear old lady here, Gerty!" said Maude to her sister. "The more I see of her the better I like her; and I mean to be so kind and attentive89 to her. I think Miss Ashurst is too grave, and she always seems so busy and preoccupied90: I don't think she can rouse her mother's spirits much."
"No, I think not," said Gertrude. "I like the old lady very much too; but I don't quite know about Miss Ashurst; I think the more I see of her, the less I seem to know her. You must not leave her altogether to me, Maude. I wonder why one feels so strange with her? Heigh-ho!" said the girl, with a comical look, and a shake of her pretty head, "I suppose it's because she's so superior."
On the following day, Mrs. Ashurst and Marian took leave of their old home, and were conveyed in one of Mr. Creswell's carriages to Woolgreaves.
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1
essentially
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adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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renovating
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翻新,修复,整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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adorning
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修饰,装饰物 | |
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thoroughly
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adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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6
shrine
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n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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laborious
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adj.吃力的,努力的,不流畅 | |
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specially
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adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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ingenuity
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n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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varnishing
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在(某物)上涂清漆( varnish的现在分词 ) | |
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12
superfluous
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adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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13
ornament
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v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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14
instinctively
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adv.本能地 | |
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15
refreshment
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n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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16
frigid
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adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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prospect
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n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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exquisite
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adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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reluctance
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n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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20
intensity
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n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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21
tranquil
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adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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22
placid
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adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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temperament
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n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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stunned
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adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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discomfiture
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n.崩溃;大败;挫败;困惑 | |
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linen
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n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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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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lodging
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n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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premature
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adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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31
quiescent
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adj.静止的,不活动的,寂静的 | |
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depressed
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adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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impending
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a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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imperative
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n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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dwelling
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n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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lavishly
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adv.慷慨地,大方地 | |
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trifling
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adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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debtors
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n.债务人,借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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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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interfered
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v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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actively
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adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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bereaved
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adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去(希望、生命等)( bereave的过去式和过去分词);(尤指死亡)使丧失(亲人、朋友等);使孤寂;抢走(财物) | |
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exertion
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n.尽力,努力 | |
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watchfulness
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警惕,留心; 警觉(性) | |
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45
procured
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v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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aspire
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vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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discomfort
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n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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motives
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n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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50
sufficiently
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adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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51
habitual
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adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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52
unreasonable
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adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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53
insignificance
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n.不重要;无价值;无意义 | |
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54
stolid
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adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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55
sitting-room
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n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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fatigue
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n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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eyelids
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n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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58
lustreless
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adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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59
attire
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v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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60
pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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61
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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62
frayed
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adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
shudder
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v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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64
softened
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(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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compassion
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n.同情,怜悯 | |
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orphan
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n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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67
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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entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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patronage
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n.赞助,支援,援助;光顾,捧场 | |
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fretted
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焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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71
dispersed
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adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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monotonous
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adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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expressive
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adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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alluded
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提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feigning
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假装,伪装( feign的现在分词 ); 捏造(借口、理由等) | |
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76
spoke
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n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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frivolity
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n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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positively
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adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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prim
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adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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81
appreciative
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adj.有鉴赏力的,有眼力的;感激的 | |
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82
dictated
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v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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survivors
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幸存者,残存者,生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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84
felicitous
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adj.恰当的,巧妙的;n.恰当,贴切 | |
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85
dismantled
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拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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86
entreaty
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n.恳求,哀求 | |
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87
desolate
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adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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delightful
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adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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89
attentive
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adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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preoccupied
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adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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