There was but one remedy to be applied1 to my unbearable2 malady3— that remedy which had already been successful in the case of my suspicions of my mother. I must at once proceed to place the real in opposition4 to the suggestions of imagination. I must seek the presence of the man whom I suspected, look him straight in the face, and see him as he was, not as my fancy, growing more feverish5 day by day, represented him. Then I should discern whether I had or had not been the sport of a delusion6; and the sooner I resorted to this test the better, for my sufferings were terribly increased by solitude7.
My head became confused; at last I ceased even to doubt. That which ought to have been only a faint indication, assumed to my mind the importance of an overwhelming proof. In the interest of my inquiry8 itself it was full time to resist this, if I were ever to pursue my inquiry farther, or else I should fall into the nervous state which I knew so well, and which rendered any kind of action in cold blood impossible to me.
I made up my mind to leave Compiegne, see my stepfather, and form my judgment9 of whether there was or was not anything in my suspicions upon the first effect produced on him by my sudden and unexpected appearance before him. I founded this hope on an argument which I had already used in the case of my mother, namely, that if M. Termonde had really been concerned in the assassination10 of my father, he had dreaded11 my aunt's penetration13 beyond all things. Their relations had been formal, with an undercurrent of enmity on her part which had assuredly not escaped a man so astute14 as he. If he were guilty, would he not have feared that my aunt would have confided16 her thoughts to me on her death-bed? The attitude that he should assume towards me, at and after our first interview, would be a proof, complete in proportion to its suddenness, and he must have no time for preparation.
I returned to Paris, therefore, without having informed even my valet of my intention, and proceeded almost immediately to my mother's hotel.
I rang the bell.
The door was opened, and the narrow court, the glass porch, the red carpet of the staircase, were before me. The concierge17, who saluted18 me, was not he by whom I had fancied myself slighted in my childhood; but the old valet de chambre who opened the door to me was the same. His close-shaven face wore its former impassive expression, the look that used to convey to me such an impression of insult and insolence19 when I came home from school. What childish absurdity20!
To my question the man replied that my mother was in, also H. Termonde, and Madame Bernard, a friend of theirs. The latter name brought me back at once to the reality of the situation. Madame Bernard was a prettyish woman, very slight and very dark, with a "tip-tilted" nose, frizzy hair worn low upon her forehead, very white teeth which were continually shown by a constant smile, a short upper lip, and all the manners and ways of a woman of society well up to its latest gossip. I fell at once from my fancied height as an imaginary Grand Judiciary into the shallows of Parisian frivolity21. I felt about to hear chatter22 upon the last new play, the latest suit for separation, the latest love affairs, and the newest bonnet23. It was for this that I had eaten my heart out all these days!
The servant preceded me to the hall I knew so well, with its Oriental divan24, its green plants, its strange furniture, its slightly faded carpet, its Meissonier on a draped easel, in the place formerly25 occupied by my father's portrait, its crowd of ornamental26 trifles, and the wide-spreading Japanese parasol open in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were hung with large pieces of Chinese stuff embroidered27 in black and white silk. My mother was half-reclining in an American rocking-chair, and shading her face from the fire with a hand-screen; Madame Bernard, who sat opposite to her, was holding her muff with one hand and gesticulating with the other; M. Termonde, in walking-dress, was standing28 with his back to the chimney, smoking a cigar, and warming the sole of one of his boots.
On my appearance, my mother uttered a little cry of glad surprise, and rose to welcome me. Madame Bernard instantly assumed the air with which a well-bred woman prepares to condole29 with a person of her acquaintance upon a bereavement30. All these little details I perceived in a moment, and also the shrug31 of M. Termonde's shoulders, the quick flutter of his eyelids32, the rapidly-dismissed expression of disagreeable surprise which my sudden appearance called forth33. But what then? Was it not the same with myself? I could have sworn that at the same moment he experienced sensations exactly similar to those which were catching34 me at the chest and by the throat. What did this prove but that a current of antipathy35 existed between him and me? Was it a reason for the man's being a murderer? He was simply my stepfather, and a stepfather who did not like his stepson.
Matters had stood thus for years, and yet, after the week of miserable36 suspicion I had lived through, the quick look and shrug struck me strangely, even while I took his hand after I had kissed my mother and saluted Madame Bernard. His hand? No, only his finger tips as usual, and they trembled a little as I touched them. How often had my own hand shrunk with unconquerable repugnance37 from that contact! I listened while he repeated the same phrases of sympathy with my sorrow which he had already written to me while I was at Compiegne. I listened while Madame Bernard uttered other phrases to the same effect; and then the conversation resumed its course, and, during the half-hour that ensued, I looked on, speaking hardly at all, but mentally comparing the physiognomy of my stepfather with that of the visitor, and that of my mother. The contemplation of those three faces produced a curious impression upon me; it was that of their difference, not only of age, but of intensity38, of depth. There was no mystery in my mother's face, it was as easy to read as a page in dear handwriting! The mind of Madame Bernard, a worldly, trumpery39, poor mind, but harmless enough, was readily to be discerned in her features which were at once refined and commonplace. How little there was of reflection, of decision, of exercise of will, in short of individuality, behind the poetic40 grace of the one and the pretty affectations of the other! What a face, on the contrary, was that of my stepfather, with its strong individuality, and its vivid expression! In this man of the world, as he stood there talking with two women of the world, in his blue, furtive41 eyes, too wide apart, and always seeming to shun42 observation, in his prematurely43 gray hair, his mouth set round with deep wrinkles, in his dark, blotched, bilious44 complexion45, there seemed to be a creature of another race. What passions had worn those furrows46? what vigils had hollowed those eyeballs? Was this the face of a happy man, with whom everything had succeeded, who, having been born to wealth and of an excellent family, had married the woman he loved; who had known neither the wearing cares of ambition, the toil47 of money-getting, nor the stings of wounded self-love? It is true, he suffered from liver complaint; but why was it that, although I had hitherto been satisfied with this answer, it now appeared to me childish and even foolish? Why did all these marks of trouble and exhaustion48 suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was I astonished that I had not sooner sought for it? Why was it that in his presence, contrary to my expectations, contrary to what had happened about my mother, I was plunged49 more deeply into the gulf50 of suspicion from which I had hoped to emerge with a free mind? Why, when our eyes met for just one second, was I afraid that he might read my thoughts in my glance, and why did I shift them with a pang51 of shame and terror? Ah! coward that I was, triple coward! Either I was wrong to think thus, and at any price I must know that I was wrong; or, I was right and I must know that too. The sole resource henceforth remaining to me for the preservation52 of my self-respect was ardent53 and ceaseless search after certainty.
That such a search was beset54 with difficulty I was well aware. How was I to get at facts? The very position of the problem which I had before me forbade all hope of discovering anything whatsoever55 by a formal inquiry. What, in fact, was the matter in question? It was to make myself certain whether M. Termonde was or was not the accomplice56 of the man who had led my father into the trap in which he had lost his life. But I did not know that man himself; I had no data to go upon except the particulars of his disguise and the vague speculations57 of a Judge of Instruction. If I could only have consulted that Judge, and availed myself of his experience? How often since have I taken out the packet containing the denunciatory letters, with the intention of showing them to him and imploring58 advice, support, suggestions, from him. But I have always stopped short before the door of his house; the thought of my mother barred its entrance against me. What if he, the Judge of Instruction in the case, were to suspect her as my aunt had done? Then I would go back to my own abode59, and shut myself up for hours, lying on the divan in my smoking-room and drugging my senses with tobacco. During that time I read and re-read the fatal letters, although I knew them by heart, in order to verify my first impression with the hope of dispelling60 it. It was, on the contrary, deepened. The only gain I obtained from my repeated perusals was the knowledge that this certainty, of which I had made a point of honor to myself, could only be psychological. In short, all my fancies started from the moral data of the crime, apart from physical data which I could not obtain. I was therefore obliged to rely entirely61, absolutely, upon those moral data, and I began again to reason as I had done at Compiegne. "Supposing," said I to myself, "that M. Termonde is guilty, what state of mind must he be in? This state of mind being once ascertained62, how can I act so as to wrest63 some sign of his guilt15 from him?" As to his state of mind I had no doubt. Ill and depressed64 as I knew him to be, his mind troubled to the point of torment65, if that suffering, that gloom, that misery66 were accompanied by the recollection of a murder committed in the past, the man was the victim of secret remorse67. The point was then to invent a plan which should give, as it were, a form to his remorse, to raise the specter of the deed he had done roughly and suddenly before him. If guilty, it was impossible but that he would tremble; if innocent, he would not even be aware of the experiment. But how was this sudden summoning-up of his crime before the man whom I suspected to be accomplished68? On the stage and in novels one confronts an assassin with the spectacle of his crime, and keeps watch upon his face for the one second during which he loses his self-possession; but in reality there is no instrument except unwieldy, unmanageable speech wherewith to probe a human conscience. I could not, however, go straight to M. Termonde and say to his face: "You had my father killed!" Innocent or guilty, he would have had me turned from the door as a madman!
After several hours of reflection, I came to the conclusion that only one plan was reasonable, and available: this was to have a private talk with my stepfather at a moment when he would least expect it, an interview in which all should be hints, shades, double meanings, in which each word should be like the laying of a finger upon the sorest spots in his breast, if indeed his reflections were those of a murderer.
Every sentence of mine must be so contrived69 as to force him to ask himself: "Why does he say this to me if he knows nothing? He does know something. How much does he know?"
So well acquainted was I with every physical trait of his, the slightest variations of his countenance70, his simplest gestures, that no sign of disturbance71 on his part, however slight, could escape me. If I did not succeed in discovering the seat of the malady by this process, I should be convinced of the baselessness of those suspicions which were constantly springing up afresh in my mind since the death of my aunt. I would then admit the simple and probable explanation—nothing in my father's letters discredited72 it—that M. Termonde had loved my mother without hope in the lifetime of her first husband, and had then profited by her widowhood, of which he had not even ventured to think.
If, on the contrary, I observed during our interview that he was alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and anxiously followed my words; if I surprised that swift gleam in his eye which reveals the instinctive73 terror of an animal, attacked at the moment of its fancied security, if the experiment succeeded, then—then—I dared not think of what then?
But should I have the strength to carry on such a conversation? At the mere thought of it my heart-beats were quickened, and my nerves thrilled. What! this was the first opportunity that had been offered to me of action, of devoting myself to the task of vengeance75, so coveted76, so fully77 accepted during all my early years, and I could hesitate?
Happily, or unhappily, I had near me a counsellor stronger than my doubts, my father's portrait, which was hung in my smoking-room. When I awoke in the night and plunged into those thoughts, I would light my candle and go to look at the picture. How like we were to each other, my father and I, although I was more slightly built! How exactly the same we were! How near to me I felt him, and how dearly I loved him! With what emotion I studied those features, the lofty forehead, the brown eyes, the rather large mouth, the rather long chin, the mouth especially half-hidden by a black moustache cut like my own; it had no need to open, and cry out: "Andre, Andre, remember me!" Ah, no, my dear dead father, I could not leave you thus, without having done my utmost to avenge78 you, and it was only an interview to be faced, only an interview!
My nervousness gave way to determination at once feverish and fixed79—yes, it was both—and it was in a mood of perfect self- mastery, that, after a long period of mental conflict, I repaired to the hotel on the boulevard, with the plan of my discourse80 clearly laid out. I felt almost sure of finding my stepfather alone; for my mother was to breakfast on that day with Madame Bernard. M. Termonde was at home, and, as I expected, alone in his study.
When I entered the room, he was sitting in a low chair, close to the fire, looking chilly81, and smoking. Like myself in my dark hours, he drugged himself with tobacco. The room was a large one, and both luxurious82 and ordinary. A handsome bookcase lined one of the walls. Its contents were various, ranging from grave works on history and political economy, to the lightest novels of the day. A large, flat writing-table, on which every kind of writing- material was carefully arranged, occupied the middle of the room, and was adorned83 with photographs in plain leather cases. These were portraits of my mother and M. Termonde's father and mother. At least one prominent trait of its owner's character, his scrupulous84 attention to order and correctness of detail, was revealed by the aspect of my stepfather's study; but this quality, which is common to so many persons of his position in the world, may belong to the most commonplace character as well as to the most refined hypocrite. It was not only in the external order and bearing of his life that my stepfather was impenetrable, none could tell whether profound thoughts were or were not hidden behind his politeness and elegance85 of manner. I had often reflected on this, at a period when as yet I had no stronger motive86 for examining into the recesses87 of the man's character than curiosity, and the impression came to me with extreme intensity at the moment when I entered his presence with a firm resolve to read in the book of his past life.
We shook hands, I took a seat opposite to his on the other side of the hearth88, lighted a cigar, and said, as if to explain my unaccustomed presence:
"Mamma is not here?"
"Did she not tell you, the other day, that she was to breakfast with Madame Bernard? There's an expedition to Lozano's studio" (Lozano was a Spanish painter much in vogue89 just then), "to see a portrait he is painting of Madame Bernard. Is there anything you want to have told to your mother?" he added, simply.
These few words were sufficient to show me that he had remarked the singularity of my visit. Ought I to regret or to rejoice at this? He was, then, already aware that I had some particular motive for coming; but this very fact would give all their intended weight to my words. I began by turning the conversation on an indifferent matter, talking of the painter Lozano and a good picture of his which I knew, "A Gipsy-dance in a Tavern-yard at Grenada." I described the bold attitudes, the pale complexions90, the Moorish91 faces of the "gitanas," and the red carnations92 stuck into the heavy braids of their black hair, and I questioned him about Spain.
He answered me, but evidently out of mere politeness.
While continuing to smoke his cigar, he raked the fire with the tongs93, taking up one small piece of charred94 wood after another between their points. By the quivering of his fingers, the only sign of his nervous sensitiveness which he was unable entirely to keep down, I could observe that my presence was then, as it always was, disagreeable to him. Nevertheless he talked on with his habitual95 courtesy, in his low voice, almost without tone or accent, as though he had trained himself to talk thus. His eyes were fixed on the flame, and his face, which I saw in profile, wore the expression of infinite weariness that I knew well, in indescribable stillness and sadness, with long deep lines, and the mouth was contracted as though by some bitter thought ever present. Suddenly, I looked straight at that detested96 profile, concentrating all the attention I had in me upon it, and, passing from one subject to another without transition, I said:
"I paid a very interesting visit this morning."
"In that you are agreeably distinguished97 from me," was his reply, made in a tone of utter indifference98, "for I wasted my morning in putting my correspondence in order."
"Yes," I continued, "very interesting. I passed two hours with M.
Massol."
I had reckoned a good deal on the effect of this name, which must have instantly recalled the inquiry into the mystery of the Imperial Hotel to his memory. The muscles of his face did not move. He laid down the tongs, leaned back in his chair, and said in an absent manner:
"The former Judge of Instruction? What is he doing now?"
Was it possible that he really did not know where the man, whom, if he were guilty, he ought to have dreaded most of all men, was then living? How was I to know whether this indifference was feigned99? The trap I had set appeared to me all at once a childish notion. Admitting that my stepfather's pulses were even now throbbing100 with fever, and that he was saying to himself with dread12: "What is he coming to? What does he mean?" why, this was a reason why he should conceal101 his emotion all the more carefully. No matter. I had begun; I was bound to go on, and to hit hard.
"M. Massol is Counsellor to the Court," I replied, and I added— although this was not true—"I see him often. We were talking this morning of criminals who have escaped punishment. Only fancy his being convinced that Troppman had an accomplice. He founds his belief on the details of the crime, which presuppose two men, he says. If this be true it must be admitted that 'Messieurs les assassins' have a kind of honor of their own, however odd that may appear, since the child-killing monster let his own head be cut off without denouncing the other. Nevertheless, the accomplice must have put some bad time over him, after the discovery of the bodies and the arrest of his comrade. I, for my part, would not trust to that honor, and if the humor took me to commit a crime, I should do it by myself. Would you?" I asked jestingly.
These two little words meant nothing, were merely an insignificant102 jest, if the man to whom I put my odd question was innocent. But, if he were guilty, those two little words were enough to freeze the marrow103 in his bones. He surrounded himself with smoke while listening to me, his eye-lids half veiled his eyes; I could no longer see his left hand, which hung over the far side of his chair, and he had put the right into the pocket of his morning- coat. There was a short pause before he answered me—very short— but the interval104, perhaps a minute, that divided his reply from my question, was a burning one for me. But what of this? It was not his way to speak in a hurry; and besides, my question had nothing interesting in it if he were not guilty, and if he were, would he not have to calculate the bearing of the phrase which he was about to utter with the quickness of thought? He closed his eyes completely—his constant habit—and said, in the unconcerned tone of a man who is talking generalities:
"It is a fact that scraps105 of conscience do remain intact in very depraved individuals. One sees instances of this especially in countries where habits and morals are more genuine and true to nature than ours. There's Spain, for instance, the country that interests you so much; when I lived in Spain, it was still infested106 by brigands107. One had to make treaties with them in order to cross the Sierras in safety; there was no case known in which they broke the contract. The history of celebrated108 criminal cases swarms109 with scoundrels who have been excellent friends, devoted110 sons, and constant lovers. But I am of your opinion, and I think it is best not to count too much upon them."
He smiled as he uttered the last words, and now he looked full at me with those light blue eyes which were so mysterious and impassible. No, I was not of stature111 to cope with him, to read his heart by force. It needed capacity of another kind than mine to play in the case of this personage the part of the magnate of police who magnetizes a criminal. And yet, why did my suspicions gather force as I felt the masked, dissimulating112, guarded nature of the man in all its strength? Are there not natures so constituted that they shut themselves up without cause, just as others reveal themselves; are there not souls that love darkness as others love daylight? Courage, then, let me strike again.
"M. Massol and I," I resumed, "have been talking about what kind of life Troppmann's accomplice must be leading; and also Rochdale's; for neither of us has relinquished113 the intention of finding him. Before M. Massol's retirement114 he took the precaution to bar the limitation by a formal notice, and we have several years before us in which to search for the man. Do these criminals sleep in peace? Are they punished by remorse, or by the apprehension115 of danger, even in their momentary116 security? It would be strange if they were both at this moment good, quiet citizens, smoking their cigars like you and me, loved and loving. Do you believe in remorse?"
"Yes, I do believe in remorse," he answered.
Was it the contrast between the affected117 levity118 of my speech, and the seriousness with which he had spoken, that caused his voice to sound grave and deep to my ears? No, no; I was deceiving myself, for without a thrill he had heard the news that the limitation had been barred, that the case might be reopened any day—terrible news for him if he were mixed up with the murder—and he added, calmly, referring to the philosophic119 side of my question only:
"And does M. Massol believe in remorse?"
"M. Massol," said I, "is a cynic. He has seen too much wickedness, known too many terrible stories. He says that remorse is a question of stomach and religious education, and that a man with a sound digestion120, who had never heard anything about hell in his childhood, might rob and kill from morning to night without feeling any other remorse than fear of the police. He also maintains, being a sceptic, that we do not know what part that question of the other life plays in solitude; and I think he is right, for I often begin to think of death, at night, and I am afraid;— yes, I, who don't believe in anything very much, am afraid. And you," I continued, "do you believe in another world?"
"Yes." This time I was sure that there was an alteration121 in his voice.
"And in the justice of God?"
"In His justice and His mercy," he answered, in a strange tone.
"Singular justice," I said vehemently122, "which is able to do everything, and yet delays to punish! My poor aunt used always to say to me when I talked to her about avenging123 my father: 'I leave it to God to punish,' but, for my part, if I had got hold of the murderer, and he was there before me—if I were sure—no, I would not wait for the hour of that tardy124 justice of God."
I had risen while uttering these words, carried away by involuntary excitement which I knew to be unwise. M. Termonde had bent125 over the fire again, and once more taken up the tongs. He made no answer to my outburst. Had he really felt some slight disturbance, as I believed for an instant, at hearing me speak of that inevitable126 and dreadful morrow of the grave which fills myself with such fear now that there is blood upon my hands?
I could not tell. His profile was, as usual, calm and sad.
The restlessness of his hands—recalling to my mind the gesture with which he turned and returned his cane127 while my mother was telling him of the disappearance128 of my father—yes, the restlessness of his hands was extreme; but he had been working at the fire with the same feverish eagerness just before. Silence had fallen between us suddenly; but how often had the same thing happened? Did it ever fail to happen when he and I were in each other's company? And then, what could he have to say against the outburst of my grief and wrath129, orphan130 that I was? Guilty or innocent, it was for him to be silent, and he held his peace. My heart sank; but, at the same time, a senseless rage seized upon me. At that moment I would have given my remaining life for the power of forcing their secret from those shut lips, by any mode of torture.
My stepfather looked at the clock—he, too, had risen now—and said: "Shall I put you down anywhere? I have ordered the carriage for three o'clock, as I have to be at the club at half-past. There's a ballot131 coming off tomorrow." Instead of the down- stricken criminal I had dreamed of, there stood before me a man of society thinking about the affairs of his club. He came with me so far as the hall, and took leave of me with a smile.
Why, then, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when we passed each other on the quay132, I going homeward on foot, he in his coupe—yes— why was his face so transformed, so dark and tragic133? He did not see me. He was sitting back in the corner, and his clay-colored face was thrown out by the green leather behind his head. His eyes were looking—where, and at what? The vision of distress134 that passed before me was so different from the smiling countenance of a while ago that it shook me from head to foot with an extraordinary emotion, and forced me to exclaim, as though frightened at my own success:
"Have I struck home?"
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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opposition
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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inquiry
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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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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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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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dread
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penetration
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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concierge
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saluted
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insolence
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absurdity
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frivolity
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chatter
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bonnet
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divan
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formerly
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ornamental
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embroidered
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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30
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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31
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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32
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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33
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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34
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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35
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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36
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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37
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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38
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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39
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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40
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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41
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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42
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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43
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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44
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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45
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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46
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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48
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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49
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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50
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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51
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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52
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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53
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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54
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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55
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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56
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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57
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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58
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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59
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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60
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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64
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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65
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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66
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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67
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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68
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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69
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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70
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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71
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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72
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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73
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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76
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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79
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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80
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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81
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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82
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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83
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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84
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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85
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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86
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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87
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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88
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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89
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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90
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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91
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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92
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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93
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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94
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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95
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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96
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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98
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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99
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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100
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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101
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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102
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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103
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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104
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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105
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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106
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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107
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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108
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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109
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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110
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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111
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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112
dissimulating
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| v.掩饰（感情），假装（镇静）( dissimulate的现在分词 ) | |
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113
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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114
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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115
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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116
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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117
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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118
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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119
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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120
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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121
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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122
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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123
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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124
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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125
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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126
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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127
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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128
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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129
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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130
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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131
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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132
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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133
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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134
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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