Every Tuesday Helene had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbe Jouve to dine with her. It was they who, during the early days of her bereavement1, had broken in on her solitude2, and drawn3 up their chairs to her table with friendly freedom; their object being to extricate4 her, at least once a week, from the solitude in which she lived. The Tuesday dinners became established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts appeared punctually at seven o'clock, serenely5 happy in discharging what they deemed a duty.
That Tuesday Helene was seated at the window, profiting by the last gleams of the twilight6 to finish some needle work, pending7 the arrival of her guests. She here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. The noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. She loved this large, quiet chamber8, with its substantial luxury, its rosewood furniture and blue velvet9 curtains. When her friends had attended to her installation, she not having to trouble about anything, she had at first somewhat suffered from all this sombre luxury, in preparing which Monsieur Rambaud had realized his ideal of comfort, much to the admiration10 of his brother, who had declined the task. She was not long, however, in feeling happy in a home in which, as in her heart, all was sound and simple. Her only enjoyment12 during her long hours of work was to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the huge pile of Paris, stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the eye could reach. Her solitary13 corner overlooked all that immensity.
"Mamma, I can no longer see," said Jeanne, seated near her on a low chair. And then, dropping her work, the child gazed at Paris, which was darkening over with the shadows of night. She rarely romped14 about, and her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. In accordance with Doctor Bodin's strict injunction, Helene made her stroll with her two hours each day in the Bois de Boulogne, and this was their only promenade15; in eighteen months they had not gone three times into Paris.[*] Nowhere was Jeanne so evidently happy as in their large blue room. Her mother had been obliged to renounce17 her intention of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. Her favorite occupation was to assist her mother in sewing linen18 for the children of the Abbe's poor.
[*] Passy and the Trocadero are now well inside Paris, but at the time fixed19 for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_.
Night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by Rosalie, who, fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. Tuesday's dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy.
"Aren't the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?" she inquired.
Helene looked at the timepiece: "It's a quarter to seven; they will be here soon," she replied.
Rosalie was a gift from Abbe Jouve, who had met her at the station on the day she arrived from Orleans, so that she did not know a single street in Paris. A village priest, an old schoolmate of Abbe Jouve's, had sent her to him. She was dumpy and plump, with a round face under her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and she was expert in preparing savory20 dishes, having been brought up at the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest.
"Here is Monsieur Rambaud at last!" she exclaimed, rushing to open the door before there was even a ring.
Full and broad-shouldered, Monsieur Rambaud entered, displaying an expansive countenance21 like that of a country notary22. His forty-five years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained a wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin23 to a child's.
"And here's his reverence24; everybody has come now!" resumed Rosalie, as she opened the door once more.
Whilst Monsieur Rambaud pressed Helene's hand and sat down without speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, Jeanne threw her arms round the Abbe's neck.
"Good-evening, dear friend," said she. "I've been so ill!"
"So ill, my darling?"
The two men at once showed their anxiety, the Abbe especially. He was a short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed in the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now opened to their full extent, all aglow25 with exquisite26 tenderness. Jeanne relinquished27 one of her hands to him, while she gave the other to Monsieur Rambaud. Both held her and gazed at her with troubled looks. Helene was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the Abbe was on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned him of it. And then they each questioned her. "The attack was quite over now? She had not had another, had she?" The mother smiled as she listened.
"You are even fonder of her than I am, and I think you'll frighten me in the end," she replied. "No, she hasn't been troubled again, except that she has felt some pains in her limbs and had some headaches. But we shall get rid of these very soon."
The maid then entered to announce that dinner was ready.
The table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were of mahogany. The curtains of red reps had been drawn close by Rosalie, and a hanging lamp of white porcelain28 within a plain brass29 ring lighted up the tablecloth30, the carefully-arranged plates, and the tureen of steaming soup. Each Tuesday's dinner brought round the same remarks, but on this particular day Dr. Deberle served naturally as a subject of conversation. Abbe Jouve lauded31 him to the skies, though he knew that he was no church-goer. He spoke32 of him, however, as a man of upright character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good husband--in fact, one who gave the best of examples to others. As for Madame Deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat flighty ways, which were doubtless due to her Parisian education. In a word, he dubbed33 the couple charming. Helene seemed happy to hear this; it confirmed her own opinions; and the Abbe's remarks determined34 her to continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened her.
"You shut yourself up too much!" declared the priest.
"No doubt," echoed his brother.
Helene beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded35 new acquaintances. However, ten o'clock struck at last, and the Abbe and his brother took up their hats. Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent36 over her, raising their heads with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly37 she slumbered38. They stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their good-byes:
"Till next Tuesday!"
"O, by the way," said the Abbe, returning a step or two, "I was forgetting: Mother Fetu is ill. You should go to see her."
"I will go to-morrow," answered Helene.
The Abbe had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor. They engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject, private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together, and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons.
On the morrow Helene went out alone. She decided39 to leave Jeanne in the house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed. Once out of doors, she followed the Rue40 Vineuse, turned down the Rue Raynouard, and soon found herself in the Passage des Eaux, a strange, steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and conducting from the heights of Passy to the quay41. At the bottom of this descent was a dilapidated house, where Mother Fetu lived in an attic42 lighted by a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a rickety table, and a seatless chair.
"Oh! my good lady, my good lady!" she moaned out, directly she saw Helene enter.
The old woman was in bed. In spite of her wretchedness, her body was plump, swollen43 out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her hands seemed numbed44 as she drew the tattered45 sheet over her. She had small, keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy humility46 in a rush of words.
"Ah! my good lady, how I thank you! Ah, ah! oh, how I suffer! It's just as if dogs were tearing at my side. I'm sure I have a beast inside me--see, just there! The skin isn't broken; the complaint is internal. But, oh! oh! the pain hasn't ceased for two days past. Good Lord, how is it possible to suffer so much? Ah, my good lady, thank you! You don't forget the poor. It will be taken into account up above; yes, yes, it will be taken into account!"
Helene had sat down. Noticing on the table a jug47 of warm _tisane_, she filled a cup which was near at hand, and gave it to the sufferer. Near the jug were placed a packet of sugar, two oranges, and some other comfits.
"Has any one been to see you?" Helene asked.
"Yes, yes,--a little lady. But she doesn't know. That isn't the sort of stuff I need. Oh, if I could get a little meat! My next-door neighbor would cook it for me. Oh! oh! this pain is something dreadful! A dog is tearing at me--oh, if only I had some broth11!"
In spite of the pains which were racking her limbs, she kept her sharp eyes fixed on Helene, who was now busy fumbling48 in her pocket, and on seeing her visitor place a ten-franc piece on the table, she whimpered all the more, and tried to rise to a sitting posture49. Whilst struggling, she extended her arm, and the money vanished, as she repeated:
"Gracious Heaven! this is another frightful50 attack. Oh! oh! I cannot stand such agony any longer! God will requite51 you, my good lady; I will pray to Him to requite you. Bless my soul, how these pains shoot through my whole body! His reverence Abbe Jouve promised me you would come. It's only you who know what I want. I am going to buy some meat. But now the pain's going down into my legs. Help me; I have no strength left--none left at all!"
The old woman wished to turn over, and Helene, drawing off her gloves, gently took hold of her and placed her as she desired. As she was still bending over her the door opened, and a flush of surprise mounted to her cheeks as she saw Dr. Deberle entering. Did he also make visits to which he never referred?
The doctor bowed respectfully to Helene. Mother Fetu had ceased whining53 on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze54, like that of a child in pain. She had understood at once that the doctor and her benefactress were known to one another; and her eyes never left them, but travelled from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed that her mind was covertly55 working. The doctor put some questions to her, and sounded her right side; then, turning to Helene, who had just sat down, he said:
"She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in a few days."
And, tearing from his memorandum56 book a leaf on which he had written some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fetu:
"Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy, and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught57 he will give you."
The old woman burst out anew into blessings58. Helene remained seated. The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he bowed and discreetly59 took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere Mother Fetu's lamentations were renewed.
"Ah! he's such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning hot. He has a wife, hasn't he? He deserves to have a good wife and beautiful children. Indeed, it's a pleasure to see kind-hearted people good acquaintances."
Helene had risen to give her a drink.
"I must go now, Mother Fetu," she said. "Good-bye till to-morrow."
"Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my chemise --it's torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn't matter. God will requite you, my good lady!"
Next day, on Helene's entering Mother Fetu's room, she found Dr. Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a prescription60, while the old woman rattled61 on with whimpering volubility.
"Oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side--yes, just like lead! It's as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning round."
Then, having caught sight of Helene, she went on without a pause: "Ah! here's the good lady! I told the kind doctor you would come. Though the heavens might fall, said I, you would come all the same. You're a very saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people might fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass! Dear lady, I am no better; just now I have a heavy feeling here. Oh, I have told the doctor what you did for me! The emperor could have done no more. Yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you--a great sin."
These broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed, she rolled her head on the bolster62, the doctor meantime smiling at Helene, who felt very ill at ease.
"Mother Fetu," she said softly, "I have brought you a little linen."
"Oh, thank you, thank you; God will requite you! You're just like this kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of those who declare it their special work. You don't know what great care he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with medicine and broth and wine. One rarely finds a rich person so kind to a poor soul! Oh, he's another of God's angels! Dear, dear, I seem to have quite a house in my stomach!"
In his turn the doctor now seemed to be embarrassed. He rose and offered his chair to Helene; but although she had come with the intention of remaining a quarter of an hour, she declined to sit down, on the plea that she was in a great hurry.
Meanwhile, Mother Fetu, still rolling her head to and fro, had stretched out her hand, and the parcel of linen had vanished in the bed. Then she resumed:
"Oh, what a couple of good souls you are! I don't wish to offend you; I only say it because it's true. When you have seen one, you have seen the other. Oh, dear Lord! give me a hand and help me to turn round. Kind-hearted people understand one another. Yes, yes, they understand one another."
"Good-bye, Mother Fetu," said Helene, leaving the doctor in sole possession. "I don't think I shall call to-morrow."
The next day, however, found her in the attic again. The old woman was sound asleep, but scarcely had she opened her eyes and recognized Helene in her black dress sitting on the chair than she exclaimed:
"He has been here--oh, I really don't know what he gave me to take, but I am as stiff as a stick. We were talking about you. He asked me all kinds of questions; whether you were generally sad, and whether your look was always the same. Oh, he's such a good man!"
Her words came more slowly, and she seemed to be waiting to see by the expression of Helene's face what effect her remarks might have on her, with that wheedling63, anxious air of the poor who are desirous of pleasing people. No doubt she fancied she could detect a flush of displeasure mounting to her benefactress's brow, for her huge, puffed-up face, all eagerness and excitement, suddenly clouded over; and she resumed, in stammering64 accents:
"I am always asleep. Perhaps I have been poisoned. A woman in the Rue de l'Annonciation was killed by a drug which the chemist gave her in mistake for another."
That day Helene lingered for nearly half an hour in Mother Fetu's room, hearing her talk of Normandy, where she had been born, and where the milk was so good. During a silence she asked the old woman carelessly: "Have you known the doctor a long time?"
Mother Fetu, lying on her back, half-opened her eyes and again closed them.
"Oh, yes!" she answered, almost in a whisper. "For instance, his father attended to me before '48, and he accompanied him then."
"I have been told the father was a very good man."
"Yes, but a little cracked. The son is much his superior. When he touches you you would think his hands were of velvet."
Silence again fell.
"I advise you to do everything he tells you," at last said Helene. "He is very clever; he saved my daughter."
"To be sure!" exclaimed Mother Fetu, again all excitement. "People ought to have confidence in him. Why, he brought a boy to life again when he was going to be buried! Oh, there aren't two persons like him; you won't stop me from saying that! I am very lucky; I fall in with the pick of good-hearted people. I thank the gracious Lord for it every night. I don't forget either of you. You are mingled65 together in my prayers. May God in His goodness shield you and grant your every wish! May He load you with His gifts! May He keep you a place in Paradise!"
She was now sitting up in bed with hands clasped, seemingly entreating66 Heaven with devout67 fervor68. Helene allowed her to go on thus for a considerable time, and even smiled. The old woman's chatter69, in fact, ended by lulling70 her into a pleasant drowsiness71, and when she went off she promised to give her a bonnet72 and gown, as soon as she should be able to get about again.
Throughout that week Helene busied herself with Mother Fetu. Her afternoon visit became an item in her daily life. She felt a strange fondness for the Passage des Eaux. She liked that steep lane for its coolness and quietness and its ever-clean pavement, washed on rainy days by the water rushing down from the heights. A strange sensation thrilled her as she stood at the top and looked at the narrow alley73 with its steep declivity74, usually deserted75, and only known to the few inhabitants of the neighboring streets. Then she would venture through an archway dividing a house fronting the Rue Raynouard, and trip down the seven flights of broad steps, in which lay the bed of a pebbly76 stream occupying half of the narrow way. The walls of the gardens on each side bulged77 out, coated with a grey, leprous growth; umbrageous78 trees drooped79 over, foliage80 rained down, here and there an ivy81 plant thickly mantled82 the stonework, and the chequered verdure, which only left glimpses of the blue sky above, made the light very soft and greeny. Halfway83 down Helene would stop to take breath, gazing at the street-lamp which hung there, and listening to the merry laughter in the gardens, whose doors she had never seen open. At times an old woman panted up with the aid of the black, shiny, iron handrail fixed in the wall to the right; a lady would come, leaning on her parasol as on a walking-stick; or a band of urchins84 would run down, with a great stamping of feet. But almost always Helene found herself alone, and this steep, secluded85, shady descent was to her a veritable delight --like a path in the depths of a forest. At the bottom she would raise her eyes, and the sight of the narrow, precipitous alley she had just descended86 made her feel somewhat frightened.
She glided87 into the old woman's room with the quiet and coolness of the Passage des Eaux clinging to her garments. This woefully wretched den16 no longer affected88 her painfully. She moved about there as if in her own rooms, opening the round attic window to admit the fresh air, and pushing the table into a corner if it came in her way. The garret's bareness, its whitewashed89 walls and rickety furniture, realized to her mind an existence whose simplicity90 she had sometimes dreamt of in her girlhood. But what especially charmed her was the kindly91 emotion she experienced there. Playing the part of sick nurse, hearing the constant bewailing of the old woman, all she saw and felt within the four walls left her quivering with deep pity. In the end she awaited with evident impatience92 Doctor Deberle's customary visit. She questioned him as to Mother Fetu's condition; but from this they glided to other subjects, as they stood near each other, face to face. A closer acquaintance was springing up between them, and they were surprised to find they possessed93 similar tastes. They understood one another without speaking a word, each heart engulfed94 in the same overflowing95 charity. Nothing to Helene seemed sweeter than this mutual96 feeling, which arose in such an unusual way, and to which she yielded without resistance, filled as she was with divine pity. At first she had felt somewhat afraid of the doctor; in her own drawing-room she would have been cold and distrustful, in harmony with her nature. Here, however, in this garret they were far from the world, sharing the one chair, and almost happy in the midst of the wretchedness and poverty which filled their souls with emotion. A week passed, and they knew one another as though they had been intimate for years. Mother Fetu's miserable97 abode98 was filled with sunshine, streaming from this fellowship of kindliness99.
The old woman grew better very slowly. The doctor was surprised, and charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a dreadful weight in her legs. She always kept up her monotonous100 moaning, lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she closed her eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for unrestrained talk. One day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but beneath their lids her little black eyes continued watching. At last, however, she had to rise from her bed; and next day Helene presented her with the promised bonnet and gown. When the doctor made his appearance that afternoon the old woman's laggard101 memory seemed suddenly stirred. "Gracious goodness!" said she, "I've forgotten my neighbor's soup-pot; I promised to attend to it!"
Then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the couple alone. They did not notice that they were shut in, but continued their conversation. The doctor urged Helene to spend the afternoon occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse.
"My wife," said he, "must return your visit, and she will in person repeat my invitation. It would do your daughter good."
"But I don't refuse," she replied, laughing. "I do not require to be fetched with ceremony. Only--only--I am afraid of being indiscreet. At any rate, we will see."
Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of surprise: "Where on earth can Mother Fetu have gone? It must be a quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor's soup-pot."
Helene then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the moment. She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable.
"It's very strange that she does not come back!" she remarked in her turn.
Their conversation then dropped. Helene, not knowing what to do, opened the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at one another. The laughter of children came in through the circular window, which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round moon. They could not have been more alone--concealed from all inquisitive102 looks, with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them. The voices of the children died away in the distance; and a quivering silence fell. No one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of the world. Their confusion grew apace, and in the end Helene, displeased103 with herself, gave the doctor a steady glance.
"I have a great many visits to pay yet," he at once exclaimed. "As she doesn't return, I must leave."
He quitted the room, and Helene then sat down. Immediately afterwards Mother Fetu returned with many protestations:
"Oh! oh! I can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! Has the dear good doctor gone? Well, to be sure, there's not much comfort here! Oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time with one so unfortunate as myself! But God in His goodness will requite you. The pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and I had to sit down on a step. Oh, I should like to have some chairs! If I only had an easy-chair! My mattress104 is so vile105 too that I am quite ashamed when you come. The whole place is at your disposal, and I would throw myself into the fire if you required it. Yes. Heaven knows it; I always repeat it in my prayers! Oh, kind Lord, grant their utmost desires to these good friends of mine--in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"
As Helene listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort106. Mother Fetu's bloated face filled her with disgust. Never before in this stifling107 attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid108 misery109 seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. So she made all haste to leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which Mother Fetu poured after her.
In the Passage des Eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. Halfway up, on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and here there was an excavation110, some disused well, enclosed by a railing. During the last two days when passing she had heard the wailings of a cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly climbed the path, these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that they seemed instinct with the agony of death. The thought that the poor brute111, thrown into the disused well, was slowly dying there of hunger, quite rent Helene's heart. She hastened her steps, resolving that she would not venture down this lane again for a long time, lest the cat's death-call should reach her ears.
The day was a Tuesday. In the evening, on the stroke of seven, as Helene was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell were heard, and Rosalie opened the door.
"His reverence is first to-night!" she exclaimed. "Oh, here comes Monsieur Rambaud too!"
They were very merry at dinner. Jeanne was nearly well again now, and the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring112 her permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond, notwithstanding Doctor Bodin's formal prohibition113. When she was going to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother's neck and pleaded:
"Oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman you nurse!"
But the Abbe and Monsieur Rambaud were the first to scold her for thinking of such a thing. They would not hear of her going amongst the poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. The last time she had been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her sleep.
"Oh! I will be good!" she pleaded. "I won't cry, I promise."
"It is quite useless, my darling," said her mother, caressing114 her. "The old woman is well now. I shall not go out any more; I'll stay all day with you!"
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1
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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4
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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7
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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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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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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25
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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27
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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28
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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29
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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30
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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31
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
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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33
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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34
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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35
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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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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38
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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39
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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40
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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41
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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42
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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43
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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44
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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46
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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47
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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48
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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49
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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50
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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51
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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52
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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54
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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55
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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56
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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57
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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58
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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61
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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62
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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63
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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65
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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69
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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70
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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71
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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72
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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73
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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74
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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75
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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77
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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78
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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79
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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81
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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82
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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83
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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84
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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85
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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86
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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87
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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88
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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89
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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91
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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92
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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93
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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94
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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96
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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97
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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98
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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99
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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100
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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101
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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102
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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103
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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104
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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105
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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106
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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107
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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108
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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109
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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110
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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111
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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112
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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113
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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114
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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