I was too well used to these mental tempests not to know that the only safety consisted in clinging to the positive facts, as though to immovable rocks.
In the present instance, the positive facts reduced themselves to two: first, I had just learned that a brother of M. Termonde, who passed for dead, and of whom my stepfather never spoke6, existed; secondly7, that this man, disgraced, proscribed8, ruined, an outlaw9 in fact, exercised a dictatorship of terror over his rich, honored, and irreproachable10 brother. The first of these two facts explained itself. It was quite natural that Jacques Termonde should not dispel11 the legend of the suicide, which was of his own invention, and had saved the other from the galleys12. It is never pleasant to have to own a thief, a forger13, or a deserter, for one's nearest relation; but this, after all, is only an excessively disagreeable matter.
The second fact was of a different kind. The disproportion between the cause assigned by my stepfather and its result in the terror from which he was suffering was too great. The dominion14 which Edmond Termonde exercised over his brother was not to be justified15 by the threat of his return, if that return were not to have any other consequence than a transient scandal. My mother, who regarded her husband as a noble-minded, high-souled, great-hearted man, might be satisfied with the alleged16 reason; but not I. It occurred to me to consult the Code of Military Justice, and I ascertained17, by the 184th clause, that a deserter cannot claim immunity18 from punishment until after he has attained19 his forty- seventh year, so that it was most likely Edmond Termonde was still within the reach of the law.
Was it possible that his desire to shield his brother from the punishment of the offense21 of desertion should throw my stepfather into such a state of illness and agitation22? I discerned another reason for this dominion—some dark and terrible bond of complicity between the two men. What if Jacques Termonde had employed his brother to kill my father, and proof of the transaction was still in the murderer's possession? No doubt his hands would be tied so far as the magistrates24 were concerned; he had it in his power to enlighten my mother, and the mere25 threat of doing this would suffice to make a loving husband tremble, and tame his fierce pride.
"I must be cool," I repeated, "I must be cool;" and I put all my strength to recalling the physical and moral particulars respecting the crime which were in my possession. It was my business now to try whether one single point remained obscure when tested by the theory of the identity of Rochdale with Edmond Termonde. The witnesses were agreed in representing Rochdale as tall and stout26, my mother had described Edmond Termonde as a big, heavy man. Fifteen years lay between the assassin of 1864, and the elderly rake of 1879; but nothing prevented the two from being identical. My mother had dwelt upon the color of Edmond Termonde's eyes, pale blue like those of his brother; the concierge27 of the Imperial Hotel had mentioned the pale blue color and the brightness of Rochdale's eyes in his deposition28, which I knew by heart. He had noticed this peculiarity29 on account of the contrast of the eyes with the man's bronzed complexion30. Edmond Termonde had taken refuge in America after his alleged suicide, and what had M. Massol said? I could hear him repeat, with his well-modulated voice, and methodical movement of the hand: "A foreigner, American or English, or, perhaps, a Frenchman settled in America." Physical impossibility there existed none.
And moral impossibility? That was equally absent. In order to convince myself more fully31 of this, I took up the history of the crime from the moment at which my father's correspondence concerning Jacques Termonde became explicit32, that is to say, in January, 1864.
So as to rid my judgment33 of every trace of personal enmity, I suppressed the names in my thoughts, reducing the dreadful occurrence by which I had suffered to the bareness of an abstract narrative34. A man is desperately35 in love with the wife of one of his intimate friends, a woman whom he knows to be absolutely, spotlessly virtuous36; he knows, he feels, that if she were free she would love him; but that, not being free, she will never, never be his. This man is of the temperament37 which makes criminals, his passions are violent in the extreme, he has no scruples38 and a despotic will; he is accustomed to see everything give way to his desires. He perceives that his friend is growing jealous; a little later and the house will no longer be open to him.
Would not the thought come to him—if the husband could be got rid of? And yet—?
This dream of the death of him, who forms the sole obstacle to his happiness, troubles the man's head, it recurs39 once, twice, many times, and he turns the fatal idea over and over again in his brain until he becomes used to it. He arrives at the "If I dared," which is the starting point of the blackest villainies. The idea takes a precise form; he conceives that he might have the man whom he now hates, and by whom he feels that he is hated, killed. Has he not, far away, a wretch2 of a brother, whose actual existence, to say nothing of his present abode40, is absolutely unknown? What an admirable instrument of murder he should find in this infamous41, depraved, and needy42 brother, whom he holds at his beck and call by the aid in money that he sends him! And the temptation grows and grows. An hour comes when it is stronger than all besides, and the man, resolved to play this desperate game, summons his brother to Paris. How? By one or two letters in which he excites the rascal's hopes of a large sum of money to be gained, at the same time that he imposes the condition of absolute secrecy43 as to his voyage. The other accepts; he is a social failure, a bankrupt in life, he has neither relations nor ties, he has been leading an anonymous44 and haphazard45 existence for years. The two brothers are face to face. Up to that point all is logical, all is in conformity46 with the possible stages of a project of this order.
I arrived at the execution of it; and I continued to reason in the same way, impersonally47. The rich brother proposes the blood- bargain to the poor brother. He offers him money; a hundred thousand francs, two hundred thousand, three hundred thousand.
Moral ideas? What is the morality of a rake who has gone from libertinism49 to theft? Under the influence of my vengeful thoughts I had read the criminal news of the day in the journals, and the reports of criminal trials, too assiduously for years past, not to know how a man becomes a murderer. How many cases of stabbing, shooting, and poisoning have there not been, in which the gain was entirely50 uncertain, and the conditions of danger extreme, merely to enable the perpetrators to go, presently, and expend51 the murder- money in some low haunt of depravity?
Fear of the scaffold? Then nobody would kill. Besides, debauchees, whether they stop short at vice53 or roll down the descent into crime, have no foresight55 of the future. Present sensation is too strong for them; its image abolishes all other images, and absorbs all the vital forces of the temperament and the soul. An old dying mother, children perishing of hunger, a despairing wife; have these pictures of their deeds ever arrested drunkards, gamblers, or profligates? No more have the tragic56 phantoms57 of the tribunal, the prison, and the guillotine, when, thirsting for gold, they kill to procure58 it. The scaffold is far off, the brothel is at the street corner, and the being sunk in vice kills a man, just as a butcher would kill a beast, that he may go thither59, or to the tavern60, or to the low gaming-house, with a pocket full of money. This is the daily mode of procedure in crime.
Why should not the desire of a more elevated kind of debauch52 possess the same wicked attraction for men who are indeed more refined, but are quite as incapable61 of moral goodness as the rascally62 frequenters of the lowest dens63 of iniquity64?
Ah! the thought that my father's blood might have paid for suppers in a New York night-house was too cruel and unendurable. I lost courage to pursue my cold, calm, reasonable deductions65, a kind of hallucination came upon me—a mental picture of the hideous66 scene— and I felt my reason reel. With a great effort I turned to the portrait of my father, gazed at it long, and spoke to him as if he could have heard me, aloud, in abject67 entreaty68. "Help me, help me!"
And then, I once more became strong enough to resume the dreadful hypothesis, and to criticise69 it point by point. Against it was its utter unlikelihood; it resembled nothing but the nightmare of a diseased imagination. A brother who employs his brother as the assassin of a man whose wife he wants to marry! Still, although the conception of such a devilish plot belonged to the domain70 of the wildest fantasies, I said to myself: "This may be so, but in the way of crime, there is no such thing as unlikelihood. The assassin ceases to move in the habitual71 grooves72 of social life by the mere fact that he makes up his mind to murder." And then a score of examples of crimes committed under circumstances as strange and exceptional as those whose greater or less probability I was then discussing with myself recurred73 to my memory.
One objection arose at once. Admitting this complicated crime to be possible only, how came I to be the first to form a suspicion of it? Why had not the keen, subtle, experienced old magistrate23, M. Massol, looked in that direction for an explanation of the mystery in whose presence he confessed himself powerless? The answer came ready. M. Massol did not think of it, that was all. The important thing is to know, not whether the Judge of Instruction suspected the fact, or did not suspect it; but whether the fact itself is, or is not, real.
Again, what indications had reached M. Massol to put him on this scent54? If he had thoroughly74 studied my father's home and his domestic life, he had acquired the certainty that my mother was a faithful wife and a good woman. He had witnessed her sincere grief, and he had not seen, as I had, letters written by my father in which he acknowledged his jealousy75, and revealed the passion of his false friend.
But, even supposing the judge had from the first suspected the villainy of my future stepfather, the discovery of his accomplices76 would have been the first thing to be done, since, in any case, the presence of M. Termonde in our house at the time of the murder was an ascertained fact.
Supposing M. Massol had been led to think of the brother who had disappeared, what then? Where were the traces of that brother to be found? Where and how? If Edmond and Jacques had been accomplices in the crime, would not their chief care be to contrive77 a means of correspondence which should defy the vigilance of the police? Did they not cease for a time to communicate with each other by letters? What had they to communicate, indeed? Edmond was in possession of the price of the murder, and Jacques was occupied in completing his conquest of my mother's heart.
I resumed my argument; all this granted again, but, although M. Massol was ignorant of the essential factor in the case, although he was unaware78 of Jacques Termonde's passion for the wife of the murdered man, my aunt knew it well, she had in her hands indisputable proofs of my father's suspicions; how came she not to have thought as I was now thinking. And how did I know that she had NOT thought just as I was thinking? She had been tormented79 by suspicions, even she, too; she had lived and died haunted by them. The only difference was that she had included my mother in them, being incapable of forgiving her the sufferings of the brother whom she loved so deeply. To act against my mother was to act against me, so she had forsworn that idea forever. But if she would have acted against my mother, how could she have gone beyond the domain of vague inductions80, since she, no more than I, could have divined my stepfather's alibi81, or known of the actual existence of Edmond Termonde? No; that I should be the first to explain the murder of my father as I did, proved only that I had come into possession of additional information respecting the surroundings of the crime, and not that the conjectures82 drawn83 from it were baseless.
Other objections presented themselves. If my stepfather had employed his brother to commit the murder, how came he to reveal the existence of that brother to his wife? An answer to this question was not far to seek. If the crime had been committed under conditions of complicity, only one proof of the fact could remain, namely, the letters written by Jacques Termonde to Edmond, in which the former recalled the latter to Europe and gave him instructions for his journey; these letters Edmond had of course preserved, and it was through them, and by the threat of showing them to my mother, that he kept a hold over his brother. To tell his wife so much as he had told her was to forestall84 and neutralize85 this threat, at least to a certain extent; for, if the doer of the deed should ever resolve on revealing the common secret to the victim's widow, now the wife of him who had inspired it, the latter would be able to deny the authenticity86 of the letters, to plead the former confidence reposed87 in her respecting his brother, and to point out that the denunciation was an atrocious act of revenge achieved by a forgery88. And, besides, if indeed the crime had been committed in the manner that I imagined, was not that revelation to my mother justified by another reason?
The remorseful89 moods by which I believed my stepfather to be tortured were not likely to escape the observant affection of his wife; she could not fail to know that there was a dark shadow on his life which even her love could not dispel. Who knows but she had suffered from the worst of all jealousy, that which is inspired by a constant thought not imparted, a strange emotion hidden from one? And he had revealed a portion of the truth to her so as to spare her uneasiness of that kind, and to protect himself from questions which his conscience rendered intolerable to him. There was then no contradiction between this half-revelation made to my mother, and my own theory of the complicity of the two brothers. It was also clear to me that in making that revelation he had been unable to go beyond a certain point in urging upon her the necessity of silence towards me—silence which would never have been broken but for her unforeseen emotion, but for my affectionate entreaties90, but for the sudden arrival of Edmond Termonde, which had literally91 bewildered the poor woman. But how was my stepfather's imprudence in refusing money to this brother, who was at bay and ready to dare any and every thing, to be explained? This, too, I succeeded in explaining to myself. It had happened before my aunt's death, at a period when my stepfather believed himself to be guaranteed from all risk on my side. He believed himself to be sheltered from justice by the statute92 of limitations. He was ill. What, then, was more natural than that he should wish to recover those papers which might become a means of levying93 blackmail94 upon his widow after his death, and dishonoring his memory in the heart of that woman whom he had loved—even to crime— at any price? Such a negotiation95 could only be conducted in person. My stepfather would have reflected that his brother would not fulfil his threat without making a last attempt; he would come to Paris, and the accomplices would again be face to face after all these years. A fresh but final offer of money would have to be made to Edmond, the price of the relinquishment96 of the sole proof whereby the mystery of the Imperial Hotel could be cleared up. In this calculation my stepfather had omitted to forecast the chance that his brother might come to the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg, that he would be ushered97 into my mother's presence, and that the result of the shock to himself—his health being already undermined by his prolonged mental anguish—would be a fresh attack of his malady98. In events, there is always the unexpected to put to rout99 the skillful calculations of the most astute100 and the most prudent101, and when I reflected that so much cunning, such continual watchfulness102 over himself and others had all come to this—unless indeed these surmises103 of mine were but fallacies of a brain disturbed by fever and the consuming desire for vengeance104—I once more felt the passage of the wind of destiny over us all.
However, whether reality or fancy, there they were, and I could not remain in ignorance or in doubt. At the end of all my various arguments for and against the probability of my new explanation of the mystery, I arrived at a positive fact: rightly or wrongly I had conceived the possibility of a plot in which Edmond Termonde had served as the instrument of murder in his brother's hand. Were there only one single chance, one against a thousand, that my father had been killed in this way, I was bound to follow up the clew to the end, on pain of having to despise myself as the veriest coward that lived. The time of sorrowful dreaming was over; it was now necessary to act, and to act was to know.
Morning dawned upon these thoughts of mine. I opened my window, I saw the faces of the lofty houses livid in the first light of day, and I swore solemnly to myself, in the presence of re-awakening life, that this day should see me begin to do what I ought, and the morrow should see me continue, and the following days should see the same, until I could say to myself: "I am certain."
I resolutely105 repressed the wild feelings which had taken hold of me during the night, and I fixed106 my mind upon the problem: "Does there exist any means of making sure whether Edmond Termonde is, or is not, identical with the man who in 1864 called himself Rochdale?"
For the answer to this question I had only myself, the resources of my own intelligence, and my personal will to rely upon. I must do myself the justice to state that not for one minute, during all those cruel hours, was I tempted107 to rid myself once for all of the difficulties of my tragic task by appealing to justice, as I should have done had I not taken my mother's sufferings into account. I had resolved that the terrible blow of learning that for fifteen years she had been the wife of an assassin should never be dealt to her by me. In order that she might always remain in ignorance of this story of crime, it was necessary for the struggle to be strictly108 confined to my stepfather and myself.
And yet, I thought, what if I find that he is guilty?
At this idea, no longer vague and distant, but liable today, to- morrow, at any time, to become an indisputable truth, a terrible project presented itself to my mind. But I would not look in that direction, I made answer to myself: "I will think of this later on," and I forced myself to concentrate all my reflections upon the actual day and its problem: How to verify the identity of Edmond Termonde with the false Rochdale?
To tear the secret from my stepfather was impossible. I had vainly endeavored for months to find the flaw in his armor of dissimulation109; I had but broken not one dagger110, but twenty against the plates of that cuirass. If I had had all the tormentors of the Middle Ages at my service, I could not have forced his fast-shut lips to open, or extorted111 an admission from his woebegone and yet impenetrable face.
There remained the other; but in order to attack him, I must first discover under what name he was hiding in Paris, and where. No great effort of imagination was required to hit upon a certain means of discovering these particulars. I had only to recall the circumstances under which I had learned the fact of Edmond Termonde's arrival in Paris. For some reason or other—remembrance of a guilty complicity or fear of a scandal—my stepfather trembled with fear at the mere idea of his brother's return. His brother had returned, and my stepfather would undoubtedly112 make every effort to induce him to go away again. He would see him, but not at the house on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg, on account of my mother and the servants. I had, therefore, a sure means of finding out where Edmond Termonde was living; I would have his brother followed.
There were two alternatives: either he would arrange a meeting in some lonely place, or he would go himself to Edmond Termonde's abode. In the latter case, I should have the information I wanted at once; in the former, it would be sufficient to give the description of Edmond Termonde just as I had received it from my mother, and to have him also followed on his return from the place of meeting. The spy-system has always seemed to me to be infamous, and even at that moment I felt all the ignominy of setting this trap for my stepfather; but when one is fighting, one must use the weapons that will avail. To attain20 my end, I would have trodden everything under foot except my mother's grief.
And then? Supposing myself in possession of the false name of Edmond Termonde and his address, WHAT WAS I TO DO? I could not, in imitation of the police, lay my hand upon him and his papers, and get off with profuse113 excuses for the action when the search was finished. I remember to have turned over twenty plans in my mind, all more or less ingenious, and rejected them all in succession, concluding by again fixing my mind on the bare facts.
Supposing the man really had killed my father, it was impossible that the scene of the murder should not be indelibly impressed upon his memory. In his dark hours the face of the dead man, whom I resembled so closely, must have been visible to his mind's eye.
Once more I studied the portrait at which my stepfather had hardly dared to glance, and recalled my own words: "Do you think the likeness114 is sufficiently115 strong for me to have the effect of a specter upon the criminal?"
Why not utilize116 this resemblance? I had only to present myself suddenly before Edmond Termonde, and call him by the name— Rochdale—to his ears its syllables117 would have the sound of a funeral bell. Yes! that was the way to do it; to go into the room he now occupied, just as my father had gone into the room at the Imperial Hotel, and to ask for him by the name under which my father had asked for him, showing him the very face of his victim. If he was not guilty, I should merely have to apologize for having knocked at his door by mistake; if he was guilty, he would be so terrified for some minutes that his fear would amount to an avowal118. It would then be for me to avail myself of that terror to wring119 the whole of his secret from him.
What motives120 would inspire him? Two, manifestly—the fear of punishment, and the love of money. It would then be necessary for me to be provided with a large sum when taking him unawares, and to let him choose between two alternatives, either that he should sell me the letters which had enabled him to blackmail his brother for years past, or that I should shoot him on the spot.
And what if he refused to give up the letters to me? Is it likely that a ruffian of his kind would hesitate?
Well, then, he would accept the bargain, hand me over the papers by which my stepfather is convicted of murder, and take himself off; and I must let him go away just as he had gone away from the Imperial Hotel, smoking a cigar, and paid for his treachery to his brother, even as he had been paid for his treachery to my father! Yes, I must let him go away thus, because to kill him with my own hand would be to place myself under the necessity of revealing the whole of the crime, which I am bound to conceal121 at all hazards.
"Ah, mother! what will you not cost me!" I murmured with tears.
Fixing my eyes again upon the portrait of the dead man, it seemed to me that I read in its eyes and mouth an injunction never to wound the heart of the woman he had so dearly loved—even for the sake of avenging122 him. "I will obey you," I made answer to my father, and bade adieu to that part of my vengeance.
It was very hard, very cruel to myself; nevertheless, it was possible; for, after all, did I hate the wretch himself? He had struck the blow, it is true, but only as a servile tool in the hand of another.
Ah! that other, I would not let HIM escape, when he should be in my grip; he who had conceived, meditated123, arranged, and paid for the deed; he who had stolen all from me, all, all, from my father's life even to my mother's love; he, the real, the only culprit. Yes, I would lay hold of him, and contrive and execute my vengeance, while my mother should never suspect the existence of that duel124 out of which I should come triumphant125. I was intoxicated126 beforehand with the idea of the punishment which I would find means to inflict127 upon the man whom I execrated128. It warmed my heart only to think of how this would repay my long, cruel martyrdom.
"To work! to work!" I cried aloud.
I trembled lest this should be nothing but a delusion129, lest Edmond Termonde should have already left the country, my stepfather having previously130 purchased his silence.
At nine o'clock I was in an abominable131 Private Inquiry132 Office— merely to have passed its threshold would have seemed to me a shameful133 action, only a few hours before. At ten I was with my broker134, giving him instructions to sell out 100,000 francs' worth of shares for me. That day passed, and then a second. How I bore the succession of the hours, I know not. I do know that I had not courage to go to my mother's house, or to see her again. I feared she might detect my wild hope in my eyes, and unconsciously forewarn my stepfather by a sentence or a word, as she had unconsciously informed me.
Towards noon, on the third day, I learned that my stepfather had gone out that morning. It was a Wednesday, and on that day my mother always attended a meeting for some charitable purpose in the Grenelle quarter. M. Termonde had changed his cab twice, and had alighted from the second vehicle at the Grand Hotel. There he had paid a visit to a traveler who occupied a room on the second floor (No. 353); this person's name was entered in the list of arrivals as Stanbury. At noon I was in possession of these particulars, and at two o'clock I ascended135 the staircase of the Grand Hotel, with a loaded revolver and a note-case containing one hundred banknotes, wherewith to purchase the letters, in my pocket.
Was I about to enter on a formidable scene in the drama of my life, or was I about to be convinced that I had been once more made the dupe of my own imagination?
At all events, I should have done my duty.
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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devoured
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| 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 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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secondly
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proscribed
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outlaw
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irreproachable
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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dominion
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justified
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alleged
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ascertained
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immunity
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attained
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attain
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offense
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agitation
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magistrate
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magistrates
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mere
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concierge
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deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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peculiarity
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complexion
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fully
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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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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34
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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36
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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37
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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38
scruples
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| 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 ) | |
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39
recurs
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| 再发生，复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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41
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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42
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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43
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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44
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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45
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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46
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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47
impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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48
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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49
libertinism
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| n.放荡，玩乐，（对宗教事物的）自由思想 | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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52
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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53
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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54
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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55
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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56
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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57
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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58
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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59
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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60
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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61
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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62
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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63
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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64
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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65
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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66
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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67
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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68
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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69
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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72
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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73
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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75
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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76
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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79
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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80
inductions
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| 归纳（法）( induction的名词复数 )； （电或磁的）感应； 就职； 吸入 | |
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81
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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82
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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85
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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86
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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87
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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89
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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90
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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91
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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92
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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93
levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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94
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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95
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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96
relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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97
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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99
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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100
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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101
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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102
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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103
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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104
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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105
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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106
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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107
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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108
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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109
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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110
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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111
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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112
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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113
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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114
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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115
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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116
utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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117
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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118
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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119
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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120
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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121
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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122
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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123
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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124
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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125
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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126
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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127
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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128
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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129
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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130
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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131
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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132
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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133
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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134
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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135
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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