During the severe winter of 1860 the river Oise was frozen over and the plains of Lower Picardy were covered with deep snow. On Christmas Day, especially, a heavy squall from the north-east had almost buried the little city of Beaumont. The snow, which began to fall early in the morning, increased towards evening and accumulated during the night; in the upper town, in the Rue1 des Orfevres, at the end of which, as if enclosed therein, is the northern front of the cathedral transept, this was blown with great force by the wind against the portal of Saint Agnes, the old Romanesque portal, where traces of Early Gothic could be seen, contrasting its florid ornamentation with the bare simplicity2 of the transept gable.
The inhabitants still slept, wearied by the festive3 rejoicings of the previous day. The town-clock struck six. In the darkness, which was slightly lightened by the slow, persistent4 fall of flakes6, a vague living form alone was visible: that of a little girl, nine years of age, who, having taken refuge under the archway of the portal, had passed the night there, shivering, and sheltering herself as well as possible. She wore a thin woollen dress, ragged7 from long use, her head was covered with a torn silk handkerchief, and on her bare feet were heavy shoes much too large for her. Without doubt she had only gone there after having well wandered through the town, for she had fallen down from sheer exhaustion9. For her it was the end of the world; there was no longer anything to interest her. It was the last surrender; the hunger that gnaws10, the cold which kills; and in her weakness, stifled11 by the heavy weight at her heart, she ceased to struggle, and nothing was left to her but the instinctive12 movement of preservation13, the desire of changing place, of sinking still deeper into these old stones, whenever a sudden gust14 made the snow whirl about her.
Hour after hour passed. For a long time, between the divisions of this double door, she leaned her back against the abutting15 pier16, on whose column was a statue of Saint Agnes, the martyr17 of but thirteen years of age, a little girl like herself, who carried a branch of palm, and at whose feet was a lamb. And in the tympanum, above the lintel, the whole legend of the Virgin18 Child betrothed19 to Jesus could be seen in high relief, set forth20 with a charming simplicity of faith. Her hair, which grew long and covered her like a garment when the Governor, whose son she had refused to marry, gave her up to the soldiers; the flames of the funeral pile, destined22 to destroy her, turning aside and burning her executioners as soon as they lighted the wood; the miracles performed by her relics23; Constance, daughter of the Emperor, cured of leprosy; and the quaint24 story of one of her painted images, which, when the priest Paulinus offered it a very valuable emerald ring, held out its finger, then withdrew it, keeping the ring, which can be seen at this present day. At the top of the tympanum, in a halo of glory, Agnes is at last received into heaven, where her betrothed, Jesus, marries her, so young and so little, giving her the kiss of eternal happiness.
But when the wind rushed through the street, the snow was blown in the child's face, and the threshold was almost barred by the white masses; then she moved away to the side, against the virgins25 placed above the base of the arch. These are the companions of Agnes, the saints who served as her escort: three at her right--Dorothea, who was fed in prison by miraculous26 bread; Barbe, who lived in a tower; and Genevieve, whose heroism27 saved Paris: and three at her left--Agatha, whose breast was torn; Christina, who was put to torture by her father; and Cecilia, beloved by the angels. Above these were statues and statues; three close ranks mounting with the curves of the arches, decorating them with chaste28 triumphant29 figures, who, after the suffering and martyrdom of their earthly life, were welcomed by a host of winged cherubim, transported with ecstasy30 into the Celestial31 Kingdom.
There had been no shelter for the little waif for a long time, when at last the clock struck eight and daylight came. The snow, had she not trampled32 it down, would have come up to her shoulders. The old door behind her was covered with it, as if hung with ermine, and it looked as white as an altar, beneath the grey front of the church, so bare and smooth that not even a single flake5 had clung to it. The great saints, those of the sloping surface especially, were clothed in it, and were glistening33 in purity from their feet to their white beards. Still higher, in the scenes of the tympanum, the outlines of the little saints of the arches were designed most clearly on a dark background, and this magic sect34 continued until the final rapture35 at the marriage of Agnes, which the archangels appeared to be celebrating under a shower of white roses. Standing36 upon her pillar, with her white branch of palm and her white lamp, the Virgin Child had such purity in the lines of her body of immaculate snow, that the motionless stiffness of cold seemed to congeal37 around her the mystic transports of victorious38 youth. And at her feet the other child, so miserable39, white with snow--she also grew so stiff and pale that it seemed as if she were turning to stone, and could scarcely be distinguished40 from the great images above her.
At last, in one of the long line of houses in which all seemed to be sleeping, the noise from the drawing up of a blind made her raise her eyes. It was at her right hand, in the second story of a house at the side of the Cathedral. A very handsome woman, a brunette about forty years of age, with a placid41 expression of serenity42, was just looking out from there, and in spite of the terrible frost she kept her uncovered arm in the air for a moment, having seen the child move. Her calm face grew sad with pity and astonishment43. Then, shivering, she hastily closed the window. She carried with her the rapid vision of a fair little creature with violet-coloured eyes under a head-covering of an old silk handkerchief. The face was oval, the neck long and slender as a lily, and the shoulders drooping44; but she was blue from cold, her little hands and feet were half dead, and the only thing about her that still showed life was the slight vapour of her breath.
The child remained with her eyes upturned, looking at the house mechanically. It was a narrow one, two stories in height, very old, and evidently built towards the end of the fifteenth century. It was almost sealed to the side of the Cathedral, between two buttresses45, like a wart46 which had pushed itself between the two toes of a Colossus. And thus supported on each side, it was admirably preserved, with its stone basement, its second story in wooden panels, ornamented47 with bricks, its roof, of which the framework advanced at least three feet beyond the gable, its turret48 for the projecting stairway at the left corner, where could still be seen in the little window the leaden setting of long ago. At times repairs had been made on account of its age. The tile-roofing dated from the reign49 of Louis XIV, for one easily recognised the work of that epoch50; a dormer window pierced in the side of the turret, little wooden frames replacing everywhere those of the primitive51 panes52; the three united openings of the second story had been reduced to two, that of the middle being closed up with bricks, thus giving to the front the symmetry of the other buildings on the street of a more recent date.
In the basement the changes were equally visible, an oaken door with mouldings having taken the place of the old one with iron trimmings that was under the stairway; and the great central arcade53, of which the lower part, the sides, and the point had been plastered over, so as to leave only one rectangular opening, was now a species of large window, instead of the triple-pointed one which formerly54 came out on to the street.
Without thinking, the child still looked at this venerable dwelling55 of a master-builder, so well preserved, and as she read upon a little yellow plate nailed at the left of the door these words, "Hubert, chasuble maker56," printed in black letters, she was again attracted by the sound of the opening of a shutter57. This time it was the blind of the square window of the ground floor. A man in his turn looked out; his face was full, his nose aquiline58, his forehead projecting, and his thick short hair already white, although he was scarcely yet five-and-forty. He, too, forgot the air for a moment as he examined her with a sad wrinkle on his great tender mouth. Then she saw him, as he remained standing behind the little greenish-looking panes. He turned, beckoned59 to someone, and his wife reappeared. How handsome she was! They both stood side by side, looking at her earnestly and sadly.
For four hundred years, the line of Huberts, embroiderers from father to son, had lived in this house. A noted60 maker of chasubles had built it under Louis XI, another had repaired it under Louis XIV, and the Hubert who now occupied it still embroidered61 church vestments, as his ancestors had always done. At twenty years of age he had fallen in love with a young girl of sixteen, Hubertine, and so deep was their affection for each other, that when her mother, widow of a magistrate62, refused to give her consent to their union, they ran away together and were married. She was remarkably63 beautiful, and that was their whole romance, their joy, and their misfortune.
When, a year later, she went to the deathbed of her mother, the latter disinherited her and gave her her curse. So affected64 was she by the terrible scene, that her infant, born soon after, died, and since then it seemed as if, even in her coffin65 in the cemetery66, the willful woman had never pardoned her daughter, for it was, alas67! a childless household. After twenty-four years they still mourned the little one they had lost.
Disturbed by their looks, the stranger tried to hide herself behind the pillar of Saint Agnes. She was also annoyed by the movement which now commenced in the street, as the shops were being opened and people began to go out. The Rue des Orfevres, which terminates at the side front of the church, would be almost impassable, blocked in as it is on one side by the house of the Huberts, if the Rue du Soleil, a narrow lane, did not relieve it on the other side by running the whole length of the Cathedral to the great front on the Place du Cloitre. At this hour there were few passers, excepting one or two persons who were on their way to early service, and they looked with surprise at the poor little girl, whom they did not recognise as ever having seen at Beaumont. The slow, persistent fall of snow continued. The cold seemed to increase with the wan8 daylight, and in the dull thickness of the great white shroud68 which covered the town one heard, as if from a distance, the sound of voices. But timid, ashamed of her abandonment, as if it were a fault, the child drew still farther back, when suddenly she recognised before her Hubertine, who, having no servant, had gone out to buy bread.
"What are you doing there, little one? Who are you?"
She did not answer, but hid her face. Then she was no longer conscious of suffering; her whole being seemed to have faded away, as if her heart, turned to ice, had stopped beating. When the good lady turned away with a pitying look, she sank down upon her knees completely exhausted69, and slipped listlessly into the snow, whose flakes quickly covered her.
And the woman, as she returned with her fresh rolls, seeing that she had fallen, again approached her.
"Look up, my child! You cannot remain here on this doorstep."
Then Hubert, who had also come out, and was standing near the threshold, took the bread from his wife, and said:
"Take her up and bring her into the house."
Hubertine did not reply, but, stooping, lifted her in her strong arms. And the child shrank back no longer, but was carried as if inanimate; her teeth closely set, her eyes shut, chilled through and through, and with the lightness of a little bird that had just fallen from its nest.
They went in. Hubert shut the door, while Hubertine, bearing her burden, passed through the front room, which served as a parlour, and where some embroidered bands were spread out for show before the great square window. Then she went into the kitchen, the old servants' hall, preserved almost intact, with its heavy beams, its flagstone floor mended in a dozen places, and its great fireplace with its stone mantelpiece. On shelves were the utensils70, the pots, kettles, and saucepans, that dated back one or two centuries; and the dishes were of old stone, or earthenware71, and of pewter. But on the middle of the hearth72 was a modern cooking-stove, a large cast-iron one, whose copper73 trimmings were wondrously74 bright. It was red from heat, and the water was bubbling away in its boiler75. A large porringer, filled with coffee-and-milk, was on one corner of it.
"Oh! how much more comfortable it is here than outside," said Hubert, as he put the bread down on a heavy table of the style of Louis XIII, which was in the centre of the room. "Now, seat this poor little creature near the stove that she may be thawed77 out!"
Hubertine had already placed the child close to the fire, and they both looked at her as she slowly regained78 consciousness. As the snow that covered her clothes melted it fell in heavy drops. Through the holes of her great shoes they could see her little bruised79 feet, whilst the thin woollen dress designed the rigidity80 of her limbs and her poor body, worn by misery81 and pain. She had a long attack of nervous trembling, and then opened her frightened eyes with the start of an animal which suddenly awakes from sleep to find itself caught in a snare82. Her face seemed to sink away under the silken rag which was tied under her chin. Her right arm appeared to be helpless, for she pressed it so closely to her breast.
"Do not be alarmed, for we will not hurt you. Where did you come from? Who are you?"
But the more she was spoken to the more frightened she became, turning her head as if someone were behind her who would beat her. She examined the kitchen furtively83, the flaggings, the beams, and the shining utensils; then her glance passed through the irregular windows which were left in the ancient opening, and she saw the garden clear to the trees by the Bishop's house, whose white shadows towered above the wall at the end, while at the left, as if astonished at finding itself there, stretched along the whole length of the alley84 the Cathedral, with its Romanesque windows in the chapels85 of its apses. And again, from the heat of the stove which began to penetrate86 her, she had a long attack of shivering, after which she turned her eyes to the floor and remained quiet.
"Do you belong to Beaumont? Who is your father?"
Instead of questioning her he said: "We would do much better to give her a cup of coffee as hot as she can drink it."
That was so reasonable that Hubertine immediately handed her the cup she herself held. Whilst she cut two large slices of bread and buttered them, the child, still mistrustful, continued to shrink back; but her hunger was too great, and soon she ate and drank ravenously88. That there need not be a restraint upon her, the husband and wife were silent, and were touched to tears on seeing her little hand tremble to such a degree that at times it was difficult for her to reach her mouth. She made use only of her left hand, for her right arm seemed to be fastened to her chest. When she had finished, she almost broke the cup, which she caught again by an awkward movement of her elbow.
"Have you hurt your arm badly?" Hubertine asked. "Do not be afraid, my dear, but show it to me."
But as she was about to touch it the child rose up hastily, trying to prevent her, and as in the struggle she moved her arm, a little pasteboard-covered book, which she had hidden under her dress, slipped through a large tear in her waist. She tried to take it, and when she saw her unknown hosts open and begin to read it, she clenched89 her fist in anger.
It was an official certificate, given by the Administration des Enfants Assistes in the Department of the Seine. On the first page, under a medallion containing a likeness90 of Saint Vincent de Paul, were the printed prescribed forms. For the family name, a simple black line filled the allotted91 space. Then for the Christian92 names were those of Angelique Marie; for the dates, born January 22, 1851, admitted the 23rd of the same month under the registered number of 1,634. So there was neither father nor mother; there were no papers; not even a statement of where she was born; nothing but this little book of official coldness, with its cover of pale red pasteboard. No relative in the world! and even her abandonment numbered and classed!
"Oh! then she is a foundling!" exclaimed Hubertine.
In a paroxysm of rage the child replied: "I am much better than all the others--yes--yes! I am better, better, better. I have never taken anything that did not belong to me, and yet they stole all I had. Give me back, now, that which you also have stolen from me!"
Such powerless passion, such pride to be above the others in goodness, so shook the body of the little girl, that the Huberts were startled. They no longer recognised the blonde creature, with violet eyes and graceful93 figure. Now her eyes were black, her face dark, and her neck seemed swollen94 by a rush of blood to it. Since she had become warm, she raised her head and hissed95 like a serpent that had been picked up on the snow.
"Are you then really so naughty?" asked Hubert gently. "If we wish to know all about you, it is because we wish to help you."
And looking over the shoulders of his wife he read as the latter turned the leaves of the little book. On the second page was the name of the nurse. "The child, Angelique Marie, had been given, on January 25, 1851, to the nurse, Francoise, sister of Mr. Hamelin, a farmer by profession, living in the parish of Soulanges, an arrondissement of Nevers. The aforesaid nurse had received on her departure the pay for the first month of her care, in addition to her clothing." Then there was a certificate of her baptism, signed by the chaplain of the Asylum96 for Abandoned Children; also that of the physician on the arrival and on the departure of the infant. The monthly accounts, paid in quarterly installments97, filled farther on the columns of four pages, and each time there was the illegible98 signature of the receiver or collector.
"What! Nevers!" asked Hubertine. "You were brought up near Nevers?"
Angelique, red with anger that she could not prevent them from reading, had fallen into a sullen99 silence. But at last she opened her mouth to speak of her nurse.
"Ah! you may be sure that Maman Nini would have beaten you. She always took my part against others, she did, although sometimes she struck me herself. Ah! it is true I was not so unhappy over there, with the cattle and all!"
Her voice choked her and she continued, in broken, incoherent sentences, to speak of the meadow where she drove the great red cow, of the broad road where she played, of the cakes they cooked, and of a pet house-dog that had once bitten her.
Hubert interrupted her as he read aloud: "In case of illness, or of bad treatment, the superintendent100 is authorised to change the nurses of the children." Below it was written that the child Angelique Marie had been given on June 20 to the care of Theresa, wife of Louis Franchomme, both of them makers101 of artificial flowers in Paris.
"Ah! I understand," said Hubertine. "You were ill, and so they took you back to Paris."
But no, that was not the case, and the Huberts did not know the whole history until they had drawn102 it, little by little from Angelique. Louis Franchomme, who was a cousin of Maman Nini, went to pass a month in his native village when recovering from a fever. It was then that his wife, Theresa, became very fond of the child, and obtained permission to take her to Paris, where she could be taught the trade of making flowers. Three months later her husband died, and she herself, being delicate in health, was obliged to leave the city and to go to her brother's, the tanner Rabier, who was settled at Beaumont. She, alas! died in the early days of December, and confided103 to her sister-in-law the little girl, who since that time had been injured, beaten, and, in short, suffered martyrdom.
"The Rabiers?" said Hubert. "The Rabiers? Yes, yes! They are tanners on the banks of the Ligneul, in the lower town. The husband is lame21, and the wife is a noted scold."
"They treated me as if I came from the gutter," continued Angelique, revolted and enraged104 in her mortified105 pride. "They said the river was the best place for me. After she had beaten me nearly to death, the woman would put something on the floor for me to eat, as if I were a cat, and many a time I went to bed suffering from hunger. Oh! I could have killed myself, at last!" She made a gesture of furious despair.
"Yesterday, Christmas morning, they had been drinking, and, to amuse themselves, they threatened to put out my eyes. Then, after a while, they began to fight with each other, and dealt such heavy blows that I thought they were dead, as they both fell on the floor of their room. For a long time I had determined106 to run away. But I was anxious to have my book. Maman Nini had often said, in showing it to me: 'Look, this is all that you own, and if you do not keep this you will not even have a name.' And I know that since the death of Maman Theresa they had hid it in one of the bureau drawers. So stepping over them as quietly as possible, while they were lying on the floor, I got the book, hid it under my dress-waist, pressing it against me with my arm. It seemed so large that I fancied everyone must see it, and that it would be taken from me. Oh! I ran, and ran, and ran, and when night came it was so dark! Oh! how cold I was under the poor shelter of that great door! Oh dear! I was so cold, it seemed as if I were dead. But never mind now, for I did not once let go of my book, and here it is." And with a sudden movement, as the Huberts closed it to give it back to her, she snatched it from them. Then, sitting down, she put her head on the table, sobbing107 deeply as she laid her cheek on the light red cover. Her pride seemed conquered by an intense humility108. Her whole being appeared to be softened109 by the sight of these few leaves with their rumpled110 corners--her solitary111 possession, her one treasure, and the only tie which connected her with the life of this world. She could not relieve her heart of her great despair; her tears flowed continually, and under this complete surrender of herself she regained her delicate looks and became again a pretty child. Her slightly oval face was pure in its outlines, her violet eyes were made a little paler from emotion, and the curve of her neck and shoulders made her resemble a little virgin on a church window. At length she seized the hand of Hubertine, pressed it to her lips most caressingly112, and kissed it passionately113.
She was not, then, in reality bad! Perhaps with affectionate care she could be corrected of this violence of temper which had so alarmed them.
In a tone of entreaty115 the poor child exclaimed: "Do not send me back to those dreadful people! Oh, do not send me back again!"
The husband and wife looked at each other for a few moments. In fact, since the autumn they had planned taking as an apprentice116 some young girl who would live with them, and thus bring a little brightness into their house, which seemed so dull without children. And their decision was soon made.
"Would you like it, my dear?" Hubert asked.
Hubertine replied quietly, in her calm voice: "I would indeed."
Immediately they occupied themselves with the necessary formalities. The husband went to the Justice of Peace of the northern district of Beaumont, who was cousin to his wife, the only relative with whom she had kept up an acquaintance, and told him all the facts of the case. He took charge of it, wrote to the Hospice of Abandoned Children--where, thanks to the registered number, Angelique was easily recognised--and obtained permission for her to remain as apprentice with the Huberts, who were well known for their honourable117 position.
The Sub-Inspector of the Hospice, on coming to verify the little book, signed the new contract as witness for Hubert, by which the latter promised to treat the child kindly118, to keep her tidy, to send her to school and to church, and to give her a good bed to herself. On the other side, the Administration agreed to pay him all indemnities119, and to give the child certain stipulated120 articles of clothing, as was their custom.
In ten days all was arranged. Angelique slept upstairs in a room under the roof, by the side of the garret, and the windows of which overlooked the garden. She had already taken her first lessons in embroidery121. The first Sunday morning after she was in her new home, before going to mass, Hubertine opened before her the old chest in the working-room, where she kept the fine gold thread. She held up the little book, then, placing it in that back part of one of the drawers, said: "Look! I have put it here. I will not hide it, but leave it where you can take it if you ever wish to do so. It is best that you should see it, and remember where it is."
On entering the church that day, Angelique found herself again under the doorway122 of Saint Agnes. During the week there had been a partial thaw76, then the cold weather had returned to so intense a degree that the snow which had half melted on the statues had congealed123 itself in large bunches or in icicles. Now, the figures seemed dressed in transparent124 robes of ice, with lace trimmings like spun125 glass. Dorothea was holding a torch, the liquid droppings of which fell upon her hands. Cecilia wore a silver crown, in which glistened126 the most brilliant of pearls. Agatha's nude127 chest was protected by a crystal armour128. And the scenes in the tympanum, the little virgins in the arches, looked as if they had been there for centuries, behind the glass and jewels of the shrine129 of a saint. Agnes herself let trail behind her her court mantle130, threaded with light and embroidered with stars. Her lamb had a fleece of diamonds, and her palm-branch had become the colour of heaven. The whole door was resplendent in the purity of intense cold.
Angelique recollected131 the night she had passed there under the protection of these saints. She raised her head and smiled upon them.
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1
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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2
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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5
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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6
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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7
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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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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10
gnaws
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| 咬( gnaw的第三人称单数 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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11
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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12
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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15
abutting
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| adj.邻接的v.（与…）邻接( abut的现在分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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34
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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35
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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36
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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37
congeal
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| v.凝结，凝固 | |
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38
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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39
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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41
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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42
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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43
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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44
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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45
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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47
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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49
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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50
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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51
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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52
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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53
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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54
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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55
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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56
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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57
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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58
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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59
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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61
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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62
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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63
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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64
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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65
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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66
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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67
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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68
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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70
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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71
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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72
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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73
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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74
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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75
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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76
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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77
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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78
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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79
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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80
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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83
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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84
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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85
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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86
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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87
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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89
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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91
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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93
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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94
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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95
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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96
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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97
installments
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| 部分( installment的名词复数 ) | |
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98
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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99
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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100
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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101
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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102
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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103
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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104
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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105
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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106
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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107
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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108
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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109
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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110
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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112
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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113
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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114
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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116
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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117
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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118
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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119
indemnities
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| n.保障( indemnity的名词复数 )；赔偿；赔款；补偿金 | |
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120
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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121
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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122
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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123
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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124
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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125
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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126
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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128
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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129
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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130
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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131
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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