Three years glided1 by with Richard Shackford as swiftly as those periods of time which are imagined to elapse between the acts of a play. They were eventless, untroubled years, and have no history. Nevertheless, certain changes had taken place. Little by little Mr. Slocum had relinquished2 the supervision3 of the workshops to Richard, until now the affairs of the yard rested chiefly on his shoulders. It was like a dream to him when he looked directly back to his humble4 beginning, though as he reflected upon it, and retraced5 his progress step by step, he saw there was nothing illogical or astonishing in his good fortune. He had won it by downright hard work and the faithful exercise of a sufficing talent.
In his relations with Margaret, Richard's attitude had undergone no appreciable6 change. Her chance visits to the studio through the week and those pleasant, half-idle Saturday afternoons had become to both Richard and Margaret a matter of course, like the sunlight, or the air they breathed.
To Richard, Margaret Slocum at nineteen was simply a charming, frank girl,--a type of gracious young womanhood. He was conscious of her influence; he was very fond of Margaret; but she had not yet taken on for him that magic individuality which makes a woman the one woman in the world to her lover. Though Richard had scant7 experience in such matters, he was not wrong in accepting Margaret as the type of a class of New England girls, which, fortunately for New England, is not a small class. These young women for the most part lead quiet and restricted lives so far as the actualities are concerned, but very deep and full lives in the world of books and imagination, to which they make early escapes. They have the high instincts that come of good blood, the physique that naturally fits fine manners; and when chance takes one of these maidens8 from her island country home or from some sleepy town on the sea-board, and sets her amid the complications of city existence, she is an unabashed and unassuming lady. If in Paris, she differs from the Parisiennes only in the greater delicacy9 of her lithe10 beauty, her innocence11 which is not ignorance, and her French pronunciation; if in London, she differs from English girls only in the matter of rosy12 cheeks and the rising inflection. Should none of these fortunate transplantings befall her, she always merits them by adorning13 with grace and industry and intelligence the narrower sphere to which destiny has assigned her.
Destiny had assigned Margaret Slocum to a very narrow sphere; it had shut her up in an obscure New England manufacturing village, with no society, strictly14 speaking, and no outlets15 whatever to large experiences. To her father's affection, Richard's friendship, and her household duties she was forced to look for her happiness. If life held wider possibilities for her, she had not dreamed of them. She looked up to Richard with respect,--perhaps with a dash of sentiment in the respect; there was something at once gentle and virile16 in his character which she admired and leaned upon; in his presence the small housekeeping troubles always slipped from her; but her heart, to use a pretty French phrase, had not consciously spoken,--possibly it had murmured a little, incoherently, to itself, but it had not spoken out aloud, as perhaps it would have done long ago if an impediment had been placed in the way of their intimacy18. With all her subtler intuitions, Margaret was as far as Richard from suspecting the strength and direction of the current with which they were drifting. Freedom, habit, and the nature of their environment conspired19 to prolong this mutual20 lack of perception. The hour had sounded, however, when these two were to see each other in a different light.
One Monday morning in March, at the close of the three years in question, as Richard mouinted the outside staircase leading to his studio in the extension, the servant-maid beckoned21 to him from the kitchen window.
Margaret had failed to come to the studio the previous Saturday afternoon. Richard had worked at cross-purposes and returned to his boarding-house vaguely23 dissatisfied, as always happened to him on those rare occasions when she missed the appointment; but he had thought little of the circumstance. Nor had he been disturbed on Sunday at seeing the Slocum pew vacant during both services. The heavy snow-storm which had begun the night before accounted for at least Margaret's absence.
"Mr. Slocum told me to tell you that he shouldn't be in the yard to-day," said the girl. "Miss Margaret is very ill."
"Ill!" Richard repeated, and the smile with which he had leaned over the rail towards the window went out instantly on his lip.
"Dr. Weld was up with her until five o'clock this morning," said the girl, fingering the corner of her apron24. "She's that low."
"What is the matter?"
"It's a fever."
"What kind of fever?"
"I don't mind me what the doctor called it. He thinks it come from something wrong with the drains."
"He didn't say typhoid?"
"Yes, that's the name of it."
Richard ascended25 the stairs with a slow step, and a moment afterwards stood stupidly in the middle of the workshop. "Margaret is going to die," he said to himself, giving voice to the dark foreboding that had instantly seized upon him, and in a swift vision he saw the end of all that simple, fortunate existence which he had lived without once reflecting it could ever end. He mechanically picked up a tool from the table, and laid it down again. Then he seated himself on the low bench between the windows. It was Margaret's favorite place; it was not four days since she sat there reading to him. Already it appeared long ago,--years and years ago. He could hardly remember when he did not have this heavy weight on his heart. His life of yesterday abruptly27 presented itself to him as a reminiscence; he saw now how happy that life had been, and how lightly he had accepted it. It took to itself all that precious quality of things irrevocably lost.
The clamor of the bell in the South Church striking noon, and the shrilling28 of the steam-whistle softened29 by the thick-falling snow, roused Richard from his abstraction. He was surprised that it was noon. He rose from the bench and went home through the storm, scarcely heeding30 the sleet31 that snapped in his face like whip-lashes. Margaret was going to die!
For four or five seeks the world was nearly a blank to Richard Shackford. The insidious32 fever that came and went, bringing alternate despair and hope to the watchers in the hushed room, was in his veins33 also. He passed the days between his lonely lodgings34 in Lime Street and the studio, doing nothing, restless and apathetic35 by turns, but with always a poignant36 sense of anxiety. He ceased to take any distinct measurement of time further than to note that an interval37 of months seemed to separate Monday from Monday. Meanwhile, if new patterns had been required by the men, the work in the carving38 departments would have come to a dead lock.
At length the shadow lifted, and there fell a day of soft May weather when Margaret, muffled39 in shawls and as white as death, was seated once more in her accustomed corner by the west window. She had insisted on being brought there the first practicable moment; nowhere else in the house was such sunshine, and Mr. Slocum himself had brought her in his arms. She leaned back against the pillows, smiling faintly. Her fingers lay locked on her lap, and the sunlight showed through the narrow transparent40 palace. It was as if her hands were full of blush-roses.
Richard breathed again, but not with so free a heart as before. What if she had died? He felt an immense pity for himself when he thought of that, and he thought of it continually as the days wore on.
Either a great alteration41 had wrought42 itself in Margaret, or Richard beheld43 her through a clearer medium during the weeks of convalescence44 that followed. Was this the slight, sharp-faced girl he used to know? The eyes and the hair were the same; but the smile was deeper, and the pliant45 figure had lost its extreme slimness without a sacrifice to its delicacy. The spring air was filling her veins with abundant health, and mantling46 her cheeks with a richer duskiness than they had ever worn. Margaret was positively47 handsome. Her beauty had come all in a single morning, like the crocuses. This beauty began to awe48 Richard; it had the effect of seeming to remove her further and further from him. He grew moody49 and restless when they were together, and was wretched alone. His constraint50 did not escape Margaret. She watched him, and wondered at his inexplicable51 depression when every one in the household was rejoicing in her recovery. By and by this depression wounded her, but she was too spirited to show the hurt. She always brought a book with her now, in her visits to the studio; it was less awkward to read than to sit silent and unspoken to over a piece of needle-work.
"How very odd you are!" said Margaret, one afternoon, closing the volume which she had held mutely for several minutes, waiting for Richard to grasp the fact that she was reading aloud.
"I odd!" protested Richard, breaking with a jerk from one of his long reveries. "In what way?"
"I didn't intend to be abrupt26. I was curious to know. And then the charge itself was a trifle unexpected, if you will look at it. But never mind," he added with a smile; "think it over, and tell me to-morrow."
"No, I will tell you now, since you are willing to wait."
"I wasn't really willing to wait, but I knew if I didn't pretend to be I should never get it out of you."
"Very well, then; your duplicity is successful. Richard, I was puzzled whre to begin with your oddities."
"Begin at the beginning."
"No, I will take the nearest. When a young lady is affable enough to read aloud to you, the least you can do is to listen to her. That is a deference53 you owe to the author, when it happens to be Hawthorne, to say nothing of the young lady."
"But I _have_ been listening, Margaret. Every word!"
"Where did I leave off?"
"It was where--where the"--and Richard knitted his brows in the vain effort to remember--"where the young daguerreotypist, what's-his-name, took up his residence in the House of the Seven Gables."
"No, sir! You stand convicted. It was ten pages further on. The last words were,"--and Margaret read from the book,--
"'Good-night, cousin,' said Phoebe, strangely affected54 by Hepsibah's manner. 'If you being to love me, I am glad.'"
"There, sir! what do you say to that?"
Richard did not say anything, but he gave a guilty start, and shot a rapid glance at Margaret coolly enjoying her triumph.
"In the next place," she continued soberly, after a pause, "I think it very odd in you not to reply to me,--oh, not now, for of course you are without a word of justification55; but at other times. Frequently, when I speak to you, you look at me so," making a vacant little face, "and then suddenly disappear,--I don't mean bodily, but mentally."
"I am no great talker at best," said Richard with a helpless air. "I seldom speak unless I have something to say."
"But other people do. I, for instance."
"Oh, you, Margaret; that is different. When you talk I don't much mind what you are talking about."
"I like a neat, delicate compliment like that!"
"What a perverse56 girl you are to-day!" cried Richard. "You won't understand me. I mean that your words and your voice are so pleasant they make anything interesting, whether it's important or not."
"If no one were to speak until he had something important to communicate," observed Margaret, "conversation in this world would come to a general stop." Then she added, with a little ironical57 smile, "Even you, Richard, wouldn't be talking all the time."
Formerly58 Margaret's light sarcasms59, even when the struck him point-blank, used to amuse Richard, but now he winced60 at being merely grazed.
Margaret went on: "But it's not a bit necessary to be circular or instructive--with me. I am interested in trivial matters,--in the weather, in my spring hat, in what you are going to do next, and the like. One must occupy one's self with something. But you, Richard, nowadays you seem interested in nothing, and have nothing whatever to say."
Poor Richard! He had a great deal to say, but he did not know how, nor if it were wise to breathe it. Just three little words, murmured or whispered, and the whole conditions would be changed. With those fateful words uttered, what would be Margaret's probable attitude, and what Mr. Sclocum's? Though the line which formerly drew itself between employer and employee had grown faint with time, it still existed in Richard's mind, and now came to the surface with great distinctness, like a word written in sympathetic ink. If he spoke17, and Margaret was startled or offended, then there was an end to their free, unembarrassed intercourse62,--perhaps an end to all intercourse. By keeping his secret in his breast he at least secured the present. But that was to risk everything. Any day somebody might come and carry Margaret off under his very eyes. As he reflected on this, the shadow of John Dana, the son of the rich iron-manufacturer, etched itself sharply upon Richard's imagination. Within the week young Dana had declared in the presence of Richard that "Margaret Slocum was an awfully63 nice little thing," and the Othello in Richard's blood had been set seething64. Then his thought glanced from John Dana to Mr. Pinkham and the Rev22. Arthur Langly, both of whom were assiduous visitors at the house. The former had lately taken to accompanying Margaret on the piano with his dismal65 little flute66, and the latter was perpetually making a moth67 of himself about her class at Sunday-school.
Richard stood with the edge of his chisel68 resting idly upon the plaster mold in front of him, pondering these things. Presently he heard Margaret's voice, as if somewhere in the distance, saying,--
"I have not finished yet, Richard."
"Go on," said Richard, falling to work again with a kind of galvanic action. "Go on, please."
"I have a serious grievance69. Frankly70, I am hurt by your preoccupation and indifference71, your want of openness or cordiality,--I don't know how to name it. You are the only person who seems to be unaware72 that I escaped a great danger a month ago. I am obliged to remember all the agreeable hours I have spent in the studio to keep off the impression that during my illness you got used to not seeing me, and that now my presence somehow obstructs73 your work and annoys you."
Richard threw his chisel on the bench, and crossed over to the window where Margaret was.
"You are as wrong as you can be," he said, looking down on her half-lifted face, from which a quick wave of color was subsiding74; for the abruptness75 of Richard's movement had startled her.
"I am glad if I am wrong."
"It is nearly an unforgivable thing to be as wide of the mark as you are. Oh, Margaret, if you had died that time!"
"You would have been very sorry?"
"Sorry? No. That doesn't express it; one outlives mere61 sorrow. If anything had happened to you, I should never have got over it. You don't know what those five weeks were to me. It was a kind of death to come to this room day after day, and not find you."
Margaret rested her eyes thoughtfully on the space occupied by Richard rather than on Richard himself, seeming to look through and beyond him, as if he were incorporeal76.
"You missed me like that?" she said slowly.
"I missed you like that."
Margaret meditated77 a moment. "In the first days of my illness I wondered if you didn't miss me a little; afterwards everything was confused in my mind. When I tried to think, I seemed to be somebody else,--I seemed to be _you_ waiting for me here in the studio. Wasn't that singular? But when I recovered, and returned to my old place, I began to suspect I had been bearing your anxiety,--that I had been distressed78 by the absence to which you had grown accustomed."
"I never got used to it, Margaret. It became more and more unendurable. This workshop was full of--of your absence. There wasn't a sketch79 or a cast or an object in the room that didn't remind me of you, and seem to mock at me for having let the most precious moments of my life slip away unheeded. That bit of geranium in the glass yonder seemed to say with its dying breath, 'You have cared for neither of us as you ought to have cared; my scent80 and her goodness have been all one to you,--things to take or to leave. It was for no merit of yours that she was always planning something to make life smoother and brighter for you. What had you done to deserve it? How unselfish and generous and good she has been to you for years and years! What would have become of you without her? She left me here on purpose'--it's the geranium leaf that is speaking all the while, Margaret--'to say this to you, and to tell you that she was not half appreciated; but now you have lost her.'"
As she leaned forward listening, with her lips slightly parted, Margaret gave an unconscious little approbative81 nod of the head. Richard's fanciful accusation82 of himself caused her a singular thrill of pleasure. He had never before spoken to her in just this fashion; the subterfuge83 which his tenderness had employed, the little detour84 it had made in order to get at her, was a novel species of flattery. She recognized the ring of a distinctly new note in his voice; but, strangely enough, the note lost its unfamiliarity85 in an instant. Margaret recognized that fact also, and as she swiftly speculate don the phenomenon her pulse went one or two strokes faster.
"Oh, you poor boy!" she said, looking up with a laugh, and a flush so interfused that they seemed one, "that geranium took a great deal upon itself. It went quite beyond its instructions, which were simply to remind you of me now and then. One day, while you were out,--the day before I was taken ill,--I placed the flowers on the desk there, perhaps with a kind of premonition that I was going away from you for a time."
"What if you had never come back?"
"I wouldn't think of that if I were you," said Margaret softly.
"But it haunts me,--that thought. Sometimes of a morning, after I unlock the workshop door, I stand hesitating, with my hand on the latch86, as one might hesitate a few seconds before stepping into a tomb. There were days last month, Margaret, when this chamber87 did appear to me like a tomb. All that was happy in my past seemed to lie buried here; it was something visible and tangible88; I used to steal in and look upon it."
"Oh, Richard!"
"If you only knew what a life I led as a boy in my cousin's house, and what a doleful existence for years afterwards, until I found you, perhaps you would understand my despair when I saw everything suddenly slipping away from me. Margaret! the day your father brought you in here, I had all I could do not to kneel down at your feet"--Richard stopped short. "I didn't mean to tell you that," he added, turning towards the work-table. Then he checked himself, and came and stood in front of her again. He had gone too far not to go further. "While you were ill I made a great discovery."
"What was that, Richard?"
"I discovered that I had been blind for two or three years."
"Blind?" repeated Margaret.
"Stone-blind. I discovered it by suddenly seeing--by seeing that I had loved you all the while, Margaret! Are you offended?"
"No," said Margaret, slowly; she was a moment finding her voice to say it. "I--ought I to be offended?"
"Not if you are not!" said Richard.
"Then I am note. I--I've made little discoveries myself," murmured Margaret, going into full mourning with her eyelashes.
But it was only for an instant. She refused to take her happiness shyly or insincerely; it was something too sacred. She was a trifle appalled89 by it, if the truth must be told. If Richard had scattered90 his love-making through the month of her convalescence, or if he had made his avowal91 in a different mood, perhaps Margaret might have met him with some natural coquetry. But Richard's tone and manner had been such as to suppress any instinct of the kind. His declaration, moreover, had amazed her. Margaret's own feelings had been more or less plain to her that past month, and she had diligently92 disciplined herself to accept Richard's friendship, since it seemed all he had to give. Indeed, it had seemed at times as if he had not even that.
When Margaret lifted her eyes to him, a second after her confession93, they were full of a sweet seriousness, and she had no thought of withdrawing the hands which Richard had taken, and was holding lightly, that she might withdraw them if she willed. She felt no impulse to do so, though as Margaret looked up she saw her father standing94 a few paces behind Richard.
With an occult sense of another presence in the room, Richard, turned at the same instant.
Mr. Slocum had advanced two steps into the apartment, and had been brought to a dead halt by the surprising tableau95 in the embrasure of the window. He stood motionless, with an account-book under his arm, while a dozen expressions chased each other over his countenance96.
"Mr. Slocum," said Richard, who saw that only one course lay open to him, "I love Margaret, and I have been telling her."
At that the flitting shadows on Mr. Slocum's face settled into one grave look. He did not reply immediately, but let his glance wander from Margaret to Richard, and back again to Margaret, slowly digesting the fact. It was evident he had not relished97 it. Meanwhile the girl had risen from the chair and was moving towards her father.
"This strikes me as very extraordinary," he said at last. "You have never given any intimation that such a feeling existed. How long has this been going on?"
"I have always been fond of Margaret, sir; but I was not aware of the strength of the attachment98 until the time of her illness, when I--that is, we--came near to losing her."
"And you, Margaret?"
As Mr. Slocum spoke he instinctively99 put one arm around Margaret, who had crept closely to his side.
"I don't know when I began to love Richard," said Margaret simply.
"You don't know!"
"Perhaps it was while I was ill; perhaps it was long before that; may be my liking100 for him commenced as far back as the time he made the cast of my hand. How can I tell, papa? I don't know."
Margaret bit her lip, and kept still. Her father was taking it a great deal more seriously than she had expected. A long, awkward silence ensued. Richard broke it at last by remarking uneasily, "Nothing has been or was to be concealed102 from you. Before going to sleep to-night, Margaret would have told you all I've said to her."
"You should have consulted with me before saying anything."
"I intended to do so, but my words got away from me. I hope you will overlook it, sir, and not oppose my loving Margaret, though I see as plainly as you do that I am not worthy103 of her."
"I have not said that. I base my disapproval104 on entirely105 different ground. Margaret is too young. A girl of seventeen or eighteen"--
"Nineteen," said Margaret, parenthetically.
"Of nineteen, then,--has no business to bother her head with such matters. Only yesterday she was a child!"
Richard glanced across at Margaret, and endeavored to recall her as she impressed him that first afternoon, when she knocked defiantly106 at the workshop door to inquire if he wanted any pans and pails; but he was totally unable to reconstruct that crude little figure with the glossy107 black head, all eyes and beak108, like a young hawk's.
"My objection is impersonal," continued Mr. Slocum. "I object to the idea. I wish this had not happened. I might not have disliked it--years hence; I don't say; but I dislike it now."
Richard's face brightened. "It will be years hence in a few years!"
Mr. Slocum replied with a slow, grave smile, "I am not going to be unreasonable109 in a matter where I find Margaret's happiness concerned; and yours, Richard, I care for that, too; but I'll have no entanglements110. You and she are to be good friends, and nothing beyond. I prefer that Margaret should not come to the studio so often; you shall see her whenever you like at our fireside, of an evening. I don't think the conditions hard."
Mr. Slocum had dictated111 terms, but it was virtually a surrender. Margaret listened to him with her cheek resting against his arm, and a warm light nestled down deep under her eyelids112.
Mr. Slocum drew a half-pathetic sigh. "I presume I have not done wisely. Every one bullies113 me. The Marble Workers' Association ruins my yard for me, and now my daughter is taken off my hands. By the way, Richard," he said, interrupting himself brusquely, and with an air of dismissing the subject, "I forgot what I came for. I've been thinking over Torrini's case, and have concluded that you had better make up his account and discharge him."
"He causes a deal of trouble in the yard."
"I am afraid he does. Sucha clean workman when he's sober!"
"But he is never sober."
"He has been in a bad way lately, I admit."
"His example demoralizes the men. I can see it day by day."
"I wish he were not so necessary at this moment," observed Richard. "I don't know who else could be trusted with the frieze115 for the Soldiers' Monument. I'd like to keep him on a week or ten days longer. Suppose I have a plain talk with Torrini?"
"Surely we have enough good hands to stand the loss of one."
"For a special kind of work there is nobody in the yard like Torrini. That is one reason why I want to hold on to him for a while, and there are other reasons."
"Such as what?"
"Why not now as well as any time?"
"He has lately been elected secretary of the Association."
"What of that?"
"He has a great deal of influence there."
"If we put him out of the works it seems to me he would lose his importance, if he really has any to speak of."
"You are mistaken if you doubt it. His position gives him a chance to do much mischief117, and he would avail himself of it very adroitly118, if he had a personal grievance."
"I believe you are actually afraid of the fellow."
Richard smiled. "No, I am not afraid of him, but I don't underrate him. The men look up to Torrini as a sort of leader; he's an effective speaker, and knows very well how to fan a dissatisfaction. Either he or some other disturbing element has recently been at work among the men. There's considerable grumbling119 in the yard."
"They are always grumbling, aren't they?"
"Most always, but this is more serious than usual; there appears to be a general stir among the trades in the village. I don't understand it clearly. The marble workers have been holding secret meetings."
"They mean business, you think?"
"They mean increased wages, perhaps."
"But we are now paying from five to ten per cent more than any trade in the place. What are they after?"
"So far as I can gather, sir, the finishers and the slab-sawers want an advance,--I don't know how much. Then there's some talk about having the yard closed an hour earlier on Saturdays. All this is merely rumor120; but I am sure there is something in it."
"Confound the whole lot! If we can't discharge a drunken hand without raising the pay of all t he rest, we had better turn over the entire business to the Association. But do as you like, Richard. You see how I am bullied121, Margaret. He runs everything! Come, dear."
And Mr. Slocum quitted the workshop, taking Margaret with him. Richard remained standing awhile by the table, in a deep study, with his eyes fixed122 on the floor. He thought of his early days in the sepulchral123 house in Welch's Court, of his wanderings abroad, his long years of toil124 since then, and this sudden blissful love that had come to him, and Mr. Slocum's generosity125. Then he thought of Torrini, and went down into the yard gently to admonish126 the man, for Richard' heart that hour was full of kindness for all the world.
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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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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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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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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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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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22
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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23
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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24
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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28
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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29
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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30
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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31
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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32
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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33
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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34
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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35
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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36
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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37
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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38
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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39
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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40
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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41
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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42
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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43
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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44
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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45
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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46
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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47
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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48
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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49
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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50
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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51
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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52
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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53
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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56
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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57
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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58
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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59
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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62
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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63
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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64
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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65
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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66
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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67
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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68
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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69
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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70
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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71
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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72
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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73
obstructs
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| 阻塞( obstruct的第三人称单数 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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74
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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75
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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76
incorporeal
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| adj.非物质的，精神的 | |
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77
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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78
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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79
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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80
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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81
approbative
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| 批准的，认可的；赞许的，表示满意的 | |
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82
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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83
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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84
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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85
unfamiliarity
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86
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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87
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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88
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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89
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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90
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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91
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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92
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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93
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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94
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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95
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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96
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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97
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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98
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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99
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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100
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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101
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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102
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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103
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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104
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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105
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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106
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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107
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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108
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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109
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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110
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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111
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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112
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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113
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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114
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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115
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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116
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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117
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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118
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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119
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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120
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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121
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
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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123
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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124
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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125
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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126
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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