Those letters were not mine, I never ought to have appropriated them. I ought now to destroy them unopened; all the more that the excitement of the first moment, the sudden rush of ideas which had prevented me from obeying the agonized7 supplication8 of my poor aunt, had subsided9. I asked myself once more what was the cause of her misery10, while I gazed at the inscription11 upon the cover, in my aunt's hand: "Justin's Letters, 1864." The very room which I occupied was an evil counsellor to me in this strife12 between an indisputable duty and my ardent13 desire to know; for it had formerly14 been my father's room, and the furniture had not been changed since his time. The color of the hangings was faded, that was all. He had warmed himself by a fire which burned upon that self-same hearth15, and he had used the same low, wide chair in which I now sat, thinking many somber16 thoughts. He had slept in the bed from which I had just risen, he had written at the table on which I rested my arms. No, that room deprived me of free will to act, it made my father too living. It was as though the phantom17 of the murdered man had come out of his grave to entreat18 me to keep the oft-sworn vow19 of vengeance20. Had these letters offered me no more than one single chance, one against a thousand, of obtaining one single indication of the secrets of my father's private life, I could not have hesitated. With such sacrilegious reasoning as this did I dispel21 the last scruples22 of pious23 respect; but I had no need of arguments for yielding to the desire which increased with every moment.
I had there before me those letters, the last his hand had traced; those letters which would lay bare to me the recesses24 of his life, and I was not to read them! What an absurdity25! Enough of such childish hesitation26. I tore off the cover which hid the papers; the yellow sheets with their faded characters shook in my hands. I recognized the compact, square, clear writing, with spaces between the words. The dates had been omitted by my father in several instances, and then my aunt had repaired the omission27 by writing in the day of the month herself. My poor aunt! this pious carefulness was a fresh testimony28 to her constant tenderness; and yet, in my wild excitement I no longer thought of her who lay dead within a few yards of me.
Presently Julie came to consult me upon all the material details which accompany death; but I told her I was too much overwhelmed, that she must do as she thought fit, and leave me quite alone for the whole of the morning. Then I plunged29 so deeply into the reading of the letters, that I forgot the hour, the events taking place around me, forgot to dress myself, to eat, even to go and look upon her whom I had lost while yet I could behold30 her face. Traitor31 and ingrate32 that I was! I had devoured33 only a few lines before I understood only too well why she had been desirous to prevent me from drinking the poison which entered with each sentence into my heart, as it had entered into hers. Terrible, terrible letters! Now it was as though the phantom had spoken, and a hidden drama of which I had never dreamed unfolded itself before me.
I was quite a child when the thousand little scenes which this correspondence recorded in detail took place. I was too young then to solve the enigma35 of the situation; and, since, the only person who could have initiated36 me into that dark history was she who had concealed37 the existence of the too-eloquent papers from me all her life long, and on her deathbed had been more anxious for their destruction than for her eternal salvation—she, who had no doubt accused herself of having deferred38 the burning of them from day to day as of a crime. When at last she had brought herself to do this, it was too late.
The first letter, written in January, 1864, began with thanks to my aunt for her New Year's gift to me—a fortress39 with tin soldiers— with which I was delighted, said the letter, because the cavalry40 were in two pieces, the man detaching himself from his horse. Then, suddenly, the commonplace sentences changed into utterances41 of mournful tenderness. An anxious mind, a heart longing43 for affection, and discontent with the existing state of things, might be discerned in the tone of regret with which the brother dwelt upon his childhood, and the days when his own and his sister's life were passed together. There was a repressed repining in that first letter that immediately astonished and impressed me, for I had always believed my father and mother to have been perfectly45 happy with each other. Alas46! that repining did but grow and also take definite form as I read on. My father wrote to his sister every Sunday, even when he had seen her in the course of the week. As it frequently happens in cases of regular and constant correspondence, the smallest events were recorded in minute detail, so that all our former daily life was resuscitated47 in my thoughts as I perused48 the lines, but accompanied by a commentary of melancholy49 which revealed irreparable division between those whom I had believed to be so closely united. Again I saw my father in his dressing-gown, as he greeted me in the morning at seven o'clock, on coming out of his room to breakfast with me before I started for school at eight. He would go over my lessons with me briefly50, and then we would seat ourselves at the table (without a tablecloth) in the dining-room, and Julie would bring us two cups of chocolate, deliciously sweetened to my childish taste. My mother rose much later, and, after my school days, my father occupied a separate room in order to avoid waking her so early. How I enjoyed that morning meal, during which I prattled51 at my ease, talking of my lessons, my exercises, and my schoolmates! What a delightful52 recollection I retained of those happy, careless, cordial hours! In his letters my father also spoke34 of our early breakfasts, but in a way that showed how often he was wounded by finding out from my talk that my mother took too little care of me, according to his notions—that I filled too small a place in her dreamy, wilfully53 frivolous54 life. There were passages which the then future had since turned into prophecies. "Were I to be taken from him, what would become of him?" was one of these. At ten I came back from school; by that time my father would be occupied with his business. I had lessons to prepare, and I did not see him again until half-past eleven, at the second breakfast. Then mamma would appear in one of those tasteful morning costumes which suited her slender and supple55 figure so well. From afar, and beyond the cold years of my boyhood, that family table came before me like a mirage56 of warm homelife; how often had it become a sort of nostalgia57 to me when I sat between my mother and M. Termonde on my horrid58 half-holidays.
And now I found proof in my father's letters that a divorce of the heart already existed between the two persons who, to my filial tenderness, were but one. My father loved his wife passionately59, and he felt that his wife did not love him. This was the feeling continually expressed in his letters—not in words so plain and positive, indeed; but how should I, whose boyhood had been strangely analogous61 with this drama of a man's life, have failed to perceive the secret signification of all he wrote? My father was taciturn, like me—even more so than I—and he allowed irreparable misunderstandings to grow up between my mother and himself. Like me afterwards, he was passionate60, awkward, hopelessly timid in the presence of that proud, aristocratic woman, so different from him, the self-made man of almost peasant origin, who had risen to professional prosperity by the force of his genius. Like me—ah! not more than I—he had known the torture of false positions, which cannot be explained except by words that one will never have courage to utter. And, oh, the pity of it, that destiny should thus repeat itself; the same tendencies of the mind developing themselves in the son after they had developed themselves in the father, so that the misery of both should be identical!
My father's letters breathed sighs that my mother had never suspected—vain sighs for a complete blending of their two hearts; tender sighs for the fond dream of fully-shared happiness; despairing sighs for the ending of a moral separation, all the more complete because its origin was not to be sought in their respective faults (mutual love pardons everything), but in a complete, almost animal, contrast between the two natures. Not one of his qualities was pleasing to her; all his defects were displeasing62 to her. And he adored her. I had seen enough of many kinds of ill-assorted unions since I had been going about in society, to understand in full what a silent hell that one must have been, and the two figures rose up before me in perfect distinctness. I saw my mother with her gestures—a little affectation was, so to speak, natural to her—the delicacy63 of her hands, her fair, pale complexion64, the graceful65 turn of her head, her studiously low-pitched voice, the something un-material that pervaded66 her whole person, her eyes, whose glance could be so cold, so disdainful; and, on the other hand, I saw my father with his robust67, workingman's frame, his hearty68 laugh when he allowed himself to be merry, the professional, utilitarian69, in fact, plebeian70, aspect of him, in his ideas and ways, his gestures and his discourse71. But the plebeian was so noble, so lofty in his generosity72, in his deep feeling. He did not know how to show that feeling; therein lay his crime. On what wretched trifles, when we think of it, does absolute felicity or irremediable misfortune depend!
The name of M. Termonde occurred several times in the earlier letters, and, when I came to the eleventh, I found it mentioned in a way which brought tears to my eyes, set my hands shaking, and made my heart leap as at the sound of a cry of sharp agony. In the pages which he had written during the night—the writing showed how deeply he was moved—the husband, hitherto so self-restrained, acknowledged to his sister, his kind and faithful confidante, that he was jealous. He was jealous, and of whom? Of that very man who was destined73 to fill his place at our fireside, to give a new name to her who had been Madame Cornelis; of the man with cat-like ways, with pale eyes, whom my childish instinct had taught me to regard with so precocious74 and so fixed75 a hate. He was jealous of Jacques Termonde. In his sudden confession76 he related the growth of this jealousy77, with the bitterness of tone that relieves the heart of misery too long suppressed. In that letter, the first of a series which death only was destined to interrupt, he told how far back was the date of his jealousy, and how it awoke to life with his detection of one look cast at my mother by Termonde. He told how he had at once suspected a dawning passion on the part of this man, then that Termonde had gone away on a long journey, and that he, my father, had attributed his absence to the loyalty of a sincere friend, to a noble effort to fight from the first against a criminal feeling. Termonde came back; his visits to us were soon resumed, and they became more frequent than before. There was every reason for this; my father had been his chum at the Ecole de Droit, and would have chosen him to be his best man at his marriage had not Termonde's diplomatic functions kept him out of France at the time. In this letter and the following ones my father acknowledged that he had been strongly attached to Termonde, so much so, indeed, that he had considered his own jealousy as an unworthy feeling and a sort of treachery. But it is all very well to reproach one's self for a passion; it is there in our hearts all the same, tearing and devouring78 them. After Termonde's return, my father's jealousy increased, with the certainty that the man's love for the wife of his friend was also growing; and yet, the unhappy husband did not think himself entitled to forbid him the house. Was not his wife the most pure and upright of women? Her very inclination79 to mysticism and exaggerated devotion, although he sometimes found fault with her for it, was a pledge that she would never yield to anything by which her conscience could be stained. Besides, Termonde's assiduity was accompanied by such evident, such absolute respect, that it afforded no ground for reproach. What was he to do? Have an explanation with his wife—he who could not bring himself to enter upon the slightest discussion with her? Require her to decline to receive his own friend? But, if she yielded, he would have deprived her of a real pleasure, and for that he should be unable to forgive himself. If she did not yield? So, my poor father had preferred to toss about in that Gehenna of weakness and indecision wherein dwell timid and taciturn souls. All this misery he revealed to my aunt, dwelling80 upon the morbid81 nature of his feelings, imploring82 advice and pity, deciding and blaming the puerility83 of his jealousy, but jealous all the same, unable to refrain from recurring84 again and again to the open wound in his heart, and incapable85 of the energy and decision that would have cured it.
The letters became more and more gloomy, as it always happens when one has not at once put an end to a false position; my father suffered from the consequences of his weakness, and allowed them to develop without taking action, because he could not now have checked them without painful scenes. After having tolerated the increased frequency of his friend's visits, it was torture to him to observe that his wife was sensibly influenced by this encroaching intimacy86. He perceived that she took Termonde's advice on all little matters of daily life—upon a question of dress, the purchase of a present, the choice of a book. He came upon the traces of the man in the change of my mother's tastes, in music for instance. When we were alone in the evenings, he liked her to go to the piano and play to him, for hours together, at haphazard87; now she would play nothing but pieces selected by Termonde, who had acquired an extensive knowledge of the German masters during his residence abroad. My father, on the contrary, having been brought up in the country with his sister, who was herself taught by a provincial88 music-master, retained his old-fashioned taste for Italian music.
My mother belonged, by her own family, to a totally different sphere of society from that into which her marriage with my father had introduced her. At first she did not feel any regret for her former circle, because her extreme beauty secured her a triumphant89 success in the new one; but it was another thing when her intimacy with Termonde, who moved in the most worldly and elegant of the Parisian "world," was perpetually reminding her of all its pleasures and habits. My father saw that she was bored and weary while doing the honors of her own salon90 with an absent mind. He even found the political opinions of his friend echoed by his wife, who laughed at him for what she called his Utopian liberalism. Her mockery had no malice91 in it; but still it was mockery, and behind it was Termonde, always Termonde. Nevertheless, he said nothing, and the shyness, which he had always felt in my mother's presence increased with his jealousy. The more unhappy he was, the more incapable of expressing his pain he became. There are minds so constituted that suffering paralzes them into inaction. And then there was the ever-present question, what was he to do? How was he to approach an explanation, when he had no positive accusation92 to bring? He remained perfectly convinced of the fidelity93 of his wife, and he again and again affirmed this, entreating94 my aunt not to withdraw a particle of her esteem95 from his dear Marie, and imploring her never to make an allusion96 to the sufferings of which he was ashamed, before their innocent cause. And then he dwelt upon his own faults; he accused himself of lack of tenderness, of failing to win love, and would draw pictures of his sorrowful home, in a few words, with heart-rending humility97.
Rough, commonplace minds know nothing of the scruples that rent and tortured my father's soul. They say, "I am jealous," without troubling themselves as to whether the words convey an insult or not. They forbid the house to the person to whom they object, and shut their wives mouths with, "Am I master here?" taking heed98 of their own feelings merely. Are they in the right? I know not; I only know that such rough methods were impossible to my poor father. He had sufficient strength to assume an icy mien99 towards Termonde, to address him as seldom as possible, to give him his hand with the insulting politeness that makes a gulf100 between two sincere friends; but Termonde affected101 unconsciousness of all this. My father, who did not want to have a scene with him, because the immediate44 consequence would have been another scene with my mother, multiplied these small affronts102, and then Termonde simply changed the time of his visits, and came during my father's business hours. How vividly103 my father depicted104 his stormy rage at the idea that his wife and the man of whom he was jealous were talking together, undisturbed, in the flower-decked salon, while he was toiling105 to procure106 all the luxury that money could purchase for that wife who could never, never love him, although he believed her faithful. But, oh, that cold fidelity was not what he longed for—he who ended his letter by these words—how often have I repeated them to myself:
"It is so sad to feel that one is in the way in one's own house, that one possesses a woman by every right, that she gives one all that her duty obliges her to give, all, except her heart, which is another's unknown to herself, perhaps, unless, indeed, that— My sister, there are terrible hours in which I say to myself that I am a fool, a coward, that they laugh together at me, at my blindness, my stupid trust. Do not scold me, dear Louise. This idea is infamous107, and I drive it away by taking refuge with you, to whom, at least, I am all the world."
"Unless, indeed, that—" This letter was written on the first Sunday in June, 1864; and on the following Thursday, four days later, he who had written it, and had suffered all it revealed, went out to the appointment at which he met with his mysterious death, that death by which his wife was set free to marry his felon108 friend. What was the idea, as dreadful, as infamous as the idea of which my father accused himself in his terrible last letter, that flashed across me now? I placed the packet of papers upon the mantelpiece, and pressed my two hands to my head, as though to still the tempest of cruel fancies which made it throb110 with fever.
But, had not my aunt also been assailed112 by the same monstrous113 suspicion? A number of small facts rose up in my memory, and convinced me that my father's faithful sister had been a prey114 to the same idea which had just laid hold of me so strongly. How many strange things I now understood, all in a moment! On that day when she told me of my mother's second marriage, and I spontaneously uttered the accursed name of Termonde, why had she asked me, in a trembling voice: "What do you know?"
What was it she feared that I had guessed? What dreaded115 information did she expect to receive from my childish observation of things?
Afterwards, and when she implored116 me to abandon the task of avenging117 our beloved dead, when she quoted to me the sacred words, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," who were the guilty ones whom she foresaw I must meet on my path? When she entreated118 me to bear with my stepfather, even to conciliate him, not to make an enemy of him, had her advice any object except the greater ease of my daily life, or did she think danger might come to me from that quarter? When she became more afraid for me, owing to the weakening of her brain by illness, and again and again enjoined119 upon me to beware of going out alone in the evening, was the vision of terror that came to her that of a hand which would fain strike me in the dark—the same hand that had struck my father? When she summoned up all her strength in her last moments, that she might destroy this correspondence, what was the clue which she supposed the letters would furnish? A terrific light shone upon me; what my aunt had perceived beyond the plain purport120 of the letters, I too perceived. Ah! I dared to entertain this idea, yet now I am ashamed to write it down. But could I have escaped from the hard logic121 of the situation? If my aunt had handed over those letters to the Judge of Instruction in the matter, would he not have arrived at the same conclusion that I drew from them? No, I could not. A man who has no known enemies is assassinated122; it is alleged123 that robbery is not the motive124 of the murder; his wife has a lover, and shortly after the death of her husband she marries that lover. "But it is they— it is they who are guilty, they have killed the husband," the judge would say, and so would the first-comer. Why did not my aunt place those letters of my father's in the hands of justice? I understood the reason too well; she would not have me think of my mother what I was now in a fit of distraction125 thinking.
To conceive of this as merely possible was to be guilty of moral parricide126, to commit the inexpiable sin against her who had borne me. I had always loved my mother so tenderly, so mournfully; never, never had I judged her. How many times—happening to be alone with her, and not knowing how to tell her what was weighing on my heart—how many times I had dreamed that the barrier between us would not for ever divide us. Some day I might, perhaps, become her only support, then she should see how precious she still was to me. My sufferings had not lessened127 my love for her; wretched as I was because she refused me a certain sort of affection, I did not condemn128 her for lavishing129 that affection upon another. As a matter of fact, until those fatal letters had done their work of disenchantment, of what was she guilty in my eyes? Of having married again? Of having chosen, being left a widow at thirty, to construct a new life for herself? What could be more legitimate130? Of having failed to understand the relations of the child who remained to her with the man whom she had chosen? What was more natural? She was more wife than mother, and besides, fanciful and fragile beings such as she was recoil131 from daily contests; they shrink from facing realities which would demand sustained courage and energy on their part. I had admitted all these explanations of my mother's attitude towards me, at first from instinct and afterwards on reflection. But now, the inexhaustible spring of indulgence for those who really hold our heart-strings was dried up in a moment, and a flood of odious132, abominable133 suspicion overwhelmed me instead.
This sudden invasion of a horrible, torturing idea was not lasting134. I could not have borne it. Had it implanted itself in me then and there, definite, overwhelming in evidence, impossible of rejection135, I must have taken a pistol and shot myself, to escape from agony such as I endured in the few minutes which followed my reading of the letters. But the tension was relaxed, I reflected, and my love for my mother began to strive against the horrible suggestion. To the onslaught of these execrable fancies I opposed the facts, in their certainty and completeness. I recalled the smallest particulars of that last occasion on which I saw my father and mother in each other's presence. It was at the table from which he rose to go forth136 and meet his murderer. But was not my mother cheerful and smiling that morning, as usual? Was not Jacques Termonde with us at breakfast, and did he not stay on, after my father had gone out, talking with my mother while I played with my toys in the room? It was at that very time, between one and two o'clock, that the mysterious Rochdale committed the crime.
Termonde could not be, at one and the same moment, in our salon and at the Imperial Hotel, any more than my mother, impressionable and emotional as I knew her to be, could have gone on talking quietly and happily, if she had known that her husband was being murdered at that very hour. Why, I must have been mad to allow such a notion to present its monstrous image before my eyes for a single moment, and it was infamous of me to have gone so far beyond the most insulting of my father's suspicions.
Already, and without any proof except the expression of jealousy acknowledged by himself to be unreasonable137, I had reached a point to which the unhappy but still loving man had not dared to go, even to the extreme outrage138 against my mother. What if, during the lifetime of her first husband, she had inspired him whom she was one day to marry with too strong a sentiment, did this prove that she had shared it? If she had shared it, would that have proved her to be a fallen woman? Why should she not have entertained an affection for Termonde, which, while it in no wise interfered139 with her fidelity to her wifely duties, made my father not unnaturally140 jealous?
Thus did I justify her, not only from any participation141 in the crime, but from any failure in her duty. And then again my ideas changed; I remembered the cry that she had uttered in presence of my father's dead body: "I am punished by God!" I was not sufficiently142 charitable to her to admit that those words might be merely the utterance42 of a refined and scrupulous143 mind which reproached itself even with its thoughts. I also recalled the gleaming eyes and shaking hands of Termonde, when he was talking with my mother about my father's mysterious disappearance144. If they were accomplices145, this was a piece of acting146 performed before me, an innocent witness, so that they might invoke147 my childish testimony on occasion. These recollections once more drove me upon my fated way. The idea of a guilty tie between her and him now took possession of me, and then came swiftly the thought that they had profited by the murder, that they alone had an engrossing148 interest in it. So violent was the assault of suspicion that it overthrew149 all the barriers I had raised against it. I accumulated all the objections founded upon a physical alibi150 and a moral improbability, and thence I forced myself to say it was, strictly151 speaking, impossible they could have anything to do with the murder; impossible, impossible! I repeated this frantically152; but even as it passed my lips, the hallucination returned, and struck me down. There are moments when the disordered mind is unable to quell153 visions which it knows to be false, when the imaginary and the real mingle154 in a nightmare-panic, and the judgment155 is powerless to distinguish between them. Who is there that, having been jealous, does not know this condition of mind? What did I not suffer from it during the day after I had read those letters! I wandered about the house, incapable of attending to any duty, struck stupid by emotions which all around me attributed to grief for my aunt's death. Several times I tried to sit for a while beside her bed; but the sight of her pale face, with its pinched nostrils156, and its deepening expression of sadness, was unbearable157 to me. It renewed my miserable158 doubts.
At four o'clock I received a telegram. It was from my mother, and announced her arrival by evening train. When the slip of blue paper was in my hand my wretchedness was for a moment relieved. She was coming. She had thought of my trouble; she was coming. That assurance [error in text—line missing] criminal thoughts in my face?
But those absurd and infamous notions took possession of me once more. Perhaps she thinks, so ran my thoughts, that the correspondence between my father and my aunt had not been destroyed, and she is coming in order to get hold of those letters before I see them, and to find out what my aunt said to me when she was dying. If she and Termonde are guilty, they must have lived in constant dread109 of the old maid's penetration159. Ah! I had been very unhappy in my childhood, but how gladly would I have gone back to be the school-boy, meditating160 during the dull and interminable evening hours of study, and not the young man who walked to and fro that night in the station at Compiegne, awaiting the arrival of a mother, suspected as mine was. Just God! Did not I expiate161 everything in anticipation162 by that one hour?
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
expenditure
|
|
| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
agonized
|
|
| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
supplication
|
|
| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
subsided
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
inscription
|
|
| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
strife
|
|
| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
somber
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
entreat
|
|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
vow
|
|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
dispel
|
|
| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
scruples
|
|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
recesses
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
testimony
|
|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
traitor
|
|
| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
ingrate
|
|
| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
devoured
|
|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
enigma
|
|
| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
initiated
|
|
| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
fortress
|
|
| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
cavalry
|
|
| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
utterances
|
|
| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
resuscitated
|
|
| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
perused
|
|
| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
prattled
|
|
| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
wilfully
|
|
| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
frivolous
|
|
| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
supple
|
|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
mirage
|
|
| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
nostalgia
|
|
| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
analogous
|
|
| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
displeasing
|
|
| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
pervaded
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
utilitarian
|
|
| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
plebeian
|
|
| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
discourse
|
|
| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
precocious
|
|
| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
devouring
|
|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
inclination
|
|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
morbid
|
|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
imploring
|
|
| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
puerility
|
|
| n.幼稚，愚蠢；幼稚、愚蠢的行为、想法等 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
recurring
|
|
| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
haphazard
|
|
| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
accusation
|
|
| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
entreating
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
esteem
|
|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
humility
|
|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
mien
|
|
| n.风采；态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
affronts
|
|
| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
depicted
|
|
| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
toiling
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
procure
|
|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
infamous
|
|
| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
felon
|
|
| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
throb
|
|
| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
assailed
|
|
| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
dreaded
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
implored
|
|
| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
avenging
|
|
| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
enjoined
|
|
| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
purport
|
|
| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
assassinated
|
|
| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
alleged
|
|
| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
distraction
|
|
| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
parricide
|
|
| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
lessened
|
|
| 减少的，减弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
condemn
|
|
| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
lavishing
|
|
| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
legitimate
|
|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
recoil
|
|
| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
abominable
|
|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
rejection
|
|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
outrage
|
|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
interfered
|
|
| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
unnaturally
|
|
| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
participation
|
|
| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
scrupulous
|
|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
accomplices
|
|
| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
invoke
|
|
| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
engrossing
|
|
| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
overthrew
|
|
| overthrow的过去式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
alibi
|
|
| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
frantically
|
|
| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
quell
|
|
| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
mingle
|
|
| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
nostrils
|
|
| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
unbearable
|
|
| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
penetration
|
|
| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
meditating
|
|
| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
expiate
|
|
| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
anticipation
|
|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |