“Oh, my love, my dear! only get well, and I will never cease showing my thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying them. Thou’rt not so restless, my lad! may be—Oh, God!”
They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife; for nineteen of those years their life had been as calm and happy as the most perfect uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving submission4 on the other, could make it. Milton’s famous line might have been framed and hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was truly the interpreter, who stood between God and her; she would have considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him austere5, though as certainly as he was an upright man, so surely was he hard, stern, and inflexible6. But for three years the moan and the murmur7 had never been out of her heart; she had rebelled against her husband as against a tyrant8, with a hidden, sullen9 rebellion, which tore up the old landmarks10 of wifely duty and affection, and poisoned the fountains whence gentlest love and reverence11 had once been for ever springing.
But those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in her heart, and called out penitent12 anguish13 for all the bitter estrangement14 of later years. It was this which made her refuse all the entreaties15 of her sons, that she would see the kind-hearted neighbours, who called on their way from church, to sympathize and condole16. No! she would stay with the dead husband that had spoken tenderly at last, if for three years he had kept silence; who knew but what, if she had only been more gentle and less angrily reserved he might have relented earlier—and in time?
She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, while the footsteps below went in and out; she had been in sorrow too long to have any violent burst of deep grief now; the furrows17 were well worn in her cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if incessantly18, all the day long. But when the winter’s night drew on, and the neighbours had gone away to their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, long and wistfully, over the dark grey moors20. She did not hear her son’s voice, as he spoke to her from the door, nor his footstep as he drew nearer. She started when he touched her.
“Mother! come down to us. There’s no one but Will and me. Dearest mother, we do so want you.” The poor lad’s voice trembled, and he began to cry. It appeared to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh’s part to tear herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied with his request.
The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought of him as a lad) had done everything in their power to make the house-place comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days before her sorrow, had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth21, ready for her husband’s return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were all put out, and the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief down into a kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every attention they could think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not resist, she rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did not seem to touch her heart.
When tea was ended—it was merely the form of tea that had been gone through—Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother leant back languidly in her chair.
“Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He’s a better scholar than I.”
“Ay, lad!” said she, almost eagerly. “That’s it. Read me the Prodigal22 Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee.”
Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is customary in village schools. His mother bent23 forward, her lips parted, her eyes dilated24; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat with his head depressed25 and hung down. He knew why that chapter had been chosen; and to him it recalled the family’s disgrace. When the reading was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But her face was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by-and-by she pulled the Bible towards her, and, putting her finger underneath26 each word, began to read them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of bitter sorrow and deep humiliation27; but most of all, she paused and brightened over the father’s tender reception of the repentant28 prodigal.
So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.
The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland before the day of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome29 of heaven lay very still and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth30 out of the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. Two and two the mourners followed, making a black procession, in their winding31 march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church; now lost in some hollow of the bleak32 moors, now slowly climbing the heaving ascents33. There was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbours who accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great white flakes34 which came slowly down were the boding35 forerunners36 of a heavy storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to their home.
The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers. There was the house and out-buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven acres of barren unproductive land, which they had never possessed37 capital enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some trade, such as a wheelwright’s or blacksmith’s.
James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man who accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her lifetime, and afterwards to his son William. The hundred and odd pounds in the savings38 bank was to accumulate for Thomas.
After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time and then she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the back kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields regardless of the driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they were very different in character. Will, the elder, was like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupulously39 upright. Tom (who was ten years younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and character. He had always clung to his mother and dreaded40 his father. They did not speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the more sophisticated language applied42 to the description of feelings.
Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme’s arm with her trembling hand.
“Samuel, I must let the farm—I must.”
“Let the farm! What’s come o’er the woman?”
“Oh, Samuel!” said she, her eyes swimming in tears, “I’m just fain to go and live in Manchester. I mun let the farm.”
Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not speak for some time. At last he said—
“If thou hast made up thy mind, there’s no speaking again it; and thou must e’en go. Thou’lt be sadly pottered wi’ Manchester ways; but that’s not my look out. Why, thou’lt have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast never done afore in all thy born life. Well! it’s not my look out. It’s rather for me than again me. Our Jenny is going to be married to Tom Higginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to begin upon. His father will be dying sometime, I reckon, and then he’ll step into the Croft Farm. But meanwhile—”
“Then, thou’lt let the farm,” said she, still as eagerly as ever.
“Ay, ay, he’ll take it fast enough, I’ve a notion. But I’ll not drive a bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we’ll wait a bit.”
“No; I cannot wait; settle it out at once.”
“Well, well; I’ll speak to Will about it. I see him out yonder. I’ll step to him and talk it over.”
Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and, without more ado, began the subject to them.
“Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and covets43 to let the farm. Now, I’m willing to take it for Tom Higginbotham; but I like to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chaffering with thy mother just now. Let thee and me buckle44 to, my lad! and try and cheat each other; it will warm us this cold day.”
“Let the farm!” said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise. “Go live in Manchester!”
When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before been named to either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until they had spoken to their mother. Likely she was “dazed” by her husband’s death; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to Tom Higginbotham himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it. The lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother. He bade them good-day, and left them.
Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the house. Then he said—
“Tom, go to th’ shippon, and supper the cows. I want to speak to mother alone.”
When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire, looking into its embers. She did not hear him come in: for some time she had lost her quick perception of outward things.
“Mother! what’s this about going to Manchester?” asked he.
“Oh, lad!” said she, turning round, and speaking in a beseeching45 tone, “I must go and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest here for thinking on her. Many’s the time I’ve left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th’ window, and looked and looked my heart out towards Manchester, till I thought I must just set out and tramp over moor19 and moss46 straight away till I got there, and then lift up every downcast face till I came to our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the hollows, I’ve fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her crying upon me; and I’ve thought the voice came closer and closer, till at last it was sobbing47 out, ‘Mother!’ close to the door; and I’ve stolen down, and undone48 the latch49 before now, and looked out into the still, black night, thinking to see her—and turned sick and sorrowful when I heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away. Oh, speak not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable50.” And now she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud.
Will was deeply grieved. He had been old enough to be told the family shame when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to his daughter returned by her mistress in Manchester, telling him that Lizzie had left her service some time—and why. He had sympathized with his father’s stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it is true, when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they would have no daughter; that she should be as one dead, and her name never more be named at market or at meal time, in blessing51 or in prayer. He had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when the neighbours had noticed to him how poor Lizzie’s death had aged52 both his father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved53 couple would never hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that one event had made him old before his time; and had envied Tom the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about her sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, and could have struck her down in her shame. His mother had never named her to him until now.
“Mother!” said he, at last. “She may be dead. Most likely she is”
“No, Will; she is not dead,” said Mrs. Leigh. “God will not let her die till I’ve seen her once again. Thou dost not know how I’ve prayed and prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I’ve forgiven her, though she’s broken my heart—she has, Will.” She could not go on for a minute or two for the choking sobs54. “Thou dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say she could be dead—for God is very merciful, Will; He is: He is much more pitiful than man. I could never ha’ spoken to thy father as I did to Him—and yet thy father forgave her at last. The last words he said were that he forgave her. Thou’lt not be harder than thy father, Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it’s no use.”
Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said, “I’ll not hinder you. I think she’s dead, but that’s no matter.”
“She’s not dead,” said her mother, with low earnestness. Will took no notice of the interruption.
“We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom Higginbotham. I’ll get blacksmith’s work; and Tom can have good schooling55 for awhile, which he’s always craving56 for. At the end of the year you’ll come back, mother, and give over fretting57 for Lizzie, and think with me that she is dead—and, to my mind, that would be more comfort than to think of her living;” he dropped his voice as he spoke these last words. She shook her head but made no answer. He asked again—“Will you, mother, agree to this?”
“I’ll agree to it a-this-ns,” said she. “If I hear and see nought58 of her for a twelvemonth, me being in Manchester looking out, I’ll just ha’ broken my heart fairly before the year’s ended, and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I’m at rest in my grave. I’ll agree to that, Will.”
“Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, why we’re flitting to Manchester. Best spare him.”
“As thou wilt,” said she, sadly, “so that we go, that’s all.”
Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester home; if they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no garden or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet59, no far-stretching view, over moor and hollow; no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone.
Mrs. Leigh heeded60 the loss of all these things less than her sons. She had more spirit in her countenance61 than she had had for months, because now she had hope; of a sad enough kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. She performed all her household duties, strange and complicated as they were, and bewildered as she was with all the town necessities of her new manner of life; but when her house was “sided,” and the boys come home from their work in the evening, she would put on her things and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not without many a heavy sigh from Will, after she had closed the house-door and departed. It was often past midnight before she came back, pale and weary, with almost a guilty look upon her face; but that face so full of disappointment and hope deferred62, that Will had never the heart to say what he thought of the folly63 and hopelessness of the search. Night after night it was renewed, till days grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All this time Will did his duty towards her as well as he could, without having sympathy with her. He stayed at home in the evenings for Tom’s sake, and often wished he had Tom’s pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his hands as he sat up for his mother.
I need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours. And yet I will tell you something. She used to wander out, at first as if without a purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought all her energies to bear on the one point; then she went with earnest patience along the least-known ways to some new part of the town, looking wistfully with dumb entreaty64 into people’s faces; sometimes catching65 a glimpse of a figure which had a kind of momentary66 likeness67 to her child’s, and following that figure with never-wearying perseverance68, till some light from shop or lamp showed the cold strange face which was not her daughter’s. Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck by her look of yearning69 woe70, turned back and offered help, or asked her what she wanted. When so spoken to, she answered only, “You don’t know a poor girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do you?” and when they denied all knowledge, she shook her head, and went on again. I think they believed her to be crazy. But she never spoke first to any one. She sometimes took a few minutes’ rest on the door-steps, and sometimes (very seldom) covered her face and cried; but she could not afford to lose time and chances in this way; while her eyes were blinded with tears, the lost one might pass by unseen.
One evening, in the rich time of shortening autumn-days, Will saw an old man, who, without being absolutely drunk, could not guide himself rightly along the foot-path, and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait by the idle boys of the neighbourhood. For his father’s sake, Will regarded old age with tenderness, even when most degraded and removed from the stern virtues71 which dignified72 that father; so he took the old man home, and seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions, that he drank nothing but water. The stranger tried to stiffen73 himself up into steadiness as he drew nearer home, as if there some one there for whose respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. His home was exquisitely74 clean and neat, even in outside appearance; threshold, window, and windowsill were outward signs of some spirit of purity within. Will was rewarded for his attention by a bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame, from a young woman of twenty or thereabouts. She did not speak or second her father’s hospitable75 invitations to him to be seated. She seemed unwilling76 that a stranger should witness her father’s attempts at stately sobriety, and Will could not bear to stay and see her distress77. But when the old man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, kept asking him to come again some other evening, and see them, Will sought her downcast eyes, and, though he could not read their veiled meaning, he answered, timidly, “If it’s agreeable to everybody, I’ll come, and thank ye.” But there was no answer from the girl, to whom this speech was in reality addressed; and Will left the house, liking78 her all the better for never speaking.
He thought about her a great deal for the next day or two; he scolded himself for being so foolish as to think of her, and then fell to with fresh vigour79, and thought of her more than ever. He tried to depreciate80 her: he told himself she was not pretty, and then made indignant answer that he liked her looks much better than any beauty of them all. He wished he was not so country-looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered; while she was like a lady, with her smooth, colourless complexion81, her bright dark hair, and her spotless dress. Pretty or not pretty she drew his footsteps towards her; he could not resist the impulse that made him wish to see her once more, and find out some fault which should unloose his heart from her unconscious keeping. But there she was, pure and maidenly82 as before. He sat and looked, answering her father at cross-purposes, while she drew more and more into the shadow of the chimney-corner out of sight. Then the spirit that possessed him (it was not he himself, sure, that did so impudent83 a thing!) made him get up and carry the candle to a different place, under the pretence84 of giving her more light at her sewing, but in reality to be able to see her better. She could not stand this much longer, but jumped up and said she must put her little niece to bed; and surely there never was, before or since, so troublesome a child of two years old, for though Will stayed an hour and a half longer, she never came down again. He won the father’s heart, though, by his capacity as a listener; for some people are not at all particular, and, so that they themselves may talk on undisturbed, are not so unreasonable85 as to expect attention to what they say.
Will did gather this much, however, from the old man’s talk. He had once been quite in a genteel line of business, but had failed for more money than any greengrocer he had heard of; at least, any who did not mix up fish and game with green-grocery proper. This grand failure seemed to have been the event of his life, and one on which he dwelt with a strange kind of pride. It appeared as if at present he rested from his past exertions86 (in the bankrupt line), and depended on his daughter, who kept a small school for very young children. But all these particulars Will only remembered and understood when he had left the house; at the time he heard them, he was thinking of Susan. After he had made good his footing at Mr. Palmer’s, he was not long, you may be sure, without finding some reason for returning again and again. He listened to her father, he talked to the little niece, but he looked at Susan, both while he listened and while he talked. Her father kept on insisting upon his former gentility, the details of which would have appeared very questionable87 to Will’s mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest Susan had not thrown an inexplicable88 air of refinement89 over all she came near. She never spoke much; she was generally diligently90 at work; but when she moved it was so noiselessly, and when she did speak, it was in so low and soft a voice, that silence, speech, motion, and stillness alike seemed to remove her high above Will’s reach into some saintly and inaccessible91 air of glory—high above his reach, even as she knew him! And, if she were made acquainted with the dark secret behind of his sister’s shame, which was kept ever present to his mind by his mother’s nightly search among the outcast and forsaken92, would not Susan shrink away from him with loathing93, as if he were tainted94 by the involuntary relationship? This was his dread41; and thereupon followed a resolution that he would withdraw from her sweet company before it was too late. So he resisted internal temptation, and stayed at home, and suffered and sighed. He became angry with his mother for her untiring patience in seeking for one who he could not help hoping was dead rather than alive. He spoke sharply to her, and received only such sad deprecatory answers as made him reproach himself, and still more lose sight of peace of mind. This struggle could not last long without affecting his health; and Tom, his sole companion through the long evenings, noticed his increasing languor95, his restless irritability96, with perplexed97 anxiety, and at last resolved to call his mother’s attention to his brother’s haggard, careworn98 looks. She listened with a startled recollection of Will’s claims upon her love. She noticed his decreasing appetite and half-checked sighs.
“Will, lad! what’s come o’er thee?” said she to him, as he sat listlessly gazing into the fire.
“There’s nought the matter with me,” said he, as if annoyed at her remark.
“Nay, lad, but there is.” He did not speak again to contradict her; indeed, she did not know if he had heard her, so unmoved did he look.
“Wouldst like to go to Upclose Farm?” asked she, sorrowfully.
“It’s just blackberrying time,” said Tom.
Will shook his head. She looked at him awhile, as if trying to read that expression of despondency, and trace it back to its source.
“Will and Tom could go,” said she; “I must stay here till I’ve found her, thou knowest,” continued she, dropping her voice.
He turned quickly round, and with the authority he at all times exercised over Tom, bade him begone to bed.
When Tom had left the room, he prepared to speak.
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1
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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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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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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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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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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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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boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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84
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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