It was the first time they had dined with the Hendersons. It was Jack1's doings. "Certainly, if you wish it," Edith had said when the invitation came. The unmentioned fact was that Jack had taken a little flier in Oshkosh, and a hint from Henderson one evening at the Union, when the venture looked squally, had let him out of a heavy loss into a small profit, and Jack felt grateful.
"I wonder how Henderson came to do it?" Jack was querying2, as he and old Fairfax sipped3 their five-o'clock "Manhattan."
"Oh, Henderson likes to do a good-natured thing still, now and then. Do you know his wife?"
"No. Who was she?"
"Why, old Eschelle's daughter, Carmen; of course you wouldn't know; that was ten years ago. There was a good deal of talk about it at the time."
"How?"
"Some said they'd been good friends before Mrs. Henderson's death."
"Then Carmen, as you call her, wasn't the first?"
"No, but she was an easy second. She's a social climber; bound to get there from the start."
"Is she pretty?"
"Devilish. She's a little thing. I saw her once at Homburg, on the promenade4 with her mother.
"The kind of sweet blonde, I said to myself, that would mix a man up in a duel5 before he knew where he was."
"She must be interesting."
"She was always clever, and she knows enough to play a straight game and when to propitiate6. I'll bet a five she tells Henderson whom to be good to when the chance offers."
"Then her influence on him is good?"
"My dear sir, she gets what she wants, and Henderson is going to the... well, look at the lines in his face. I've known Henderson since he came fresh into the Street. He'd rarely knife a friend when his first wife was living. Now, when you see the old frank smile on his face, it's put on."
It was half-past eight when Mr. Henderson with Mrs. Delancy on his arm led the way to the diningroom. The procession was closed by Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Delancy. The Van Dams were there, and Mrs. Chesney and the Chesney girls, and Miss Tavish, who sat on Jack's right, but the rest of the guests were unknown to Jack, except by name. There was a strong dash of the Street in the mixture, and although the Street was tabooed in the talk, there was such an emanation of aggressive prosperity at the table that Jack said afterwards that he felt as if he had been at a meeting of the board.
If Jack had known the house ten years ago, he would have noticed certain subtle changes in it, rather in the atmosphere than in many alterations8. The newness and the glitter of cost had worn off. It might still be called a palace, but the city had now a dozen handsomer houses, and Carmen's idea, as she expressed it, was to make this more like a home. She had made it like herself. There were pictures on the walls that would not have hung there in the late Mrs. Henderson's time; and the prevailing9 air was that of refined sensuousness10. Life, she said, was her idea, life in its utmost expression, untrammeled, and yes, a little Greek. Freedom was perhaps the word, and yet her latest notion was simplicity11. The dinner was simple. Her dress was exceedingly simple, save that it had in it somewhere a touch of audacity12, revealing in a flash of invitation the hidden nature of the woman. She knew herself better than any one knew her, except Henderson, and even he was forced to laugh when she travestied Browning in saying that she had one soul-side to face the world with, one to show the man she loved, and she declared he was downright coarse when on going out of the door he muttered, "But it needn't be the seamy side." The reported remark of some one who had seen her at church that she looked like a nun13 made her smile, but she broke into a silvery laugh when she head Van Dam's comment on it, "Yes, a devil of a nun."
The library was as cozy14 as ever, but did not appear to be used much as a library. Henderson, indeed, had no time to add to his collection or enjoy it. Most of the books strewn on the tables were French novels or such American tales as had the cachet of social riskiness15. But Carmen liked the room above all others. She enjoyed her cigarette there, and had a fancy for pouring her five-o'clock tea in its shelter. Books which had all sorts of things in them gave somehow an unconventional atmosphere to the place, and one could say things there that one couldn't say in a drawing-room.
Henderson himself, it must be confessed, had grown stout16 in the ten years, and puffy under the eyes. There were lines of irritation17 in his face and lines of weariness. He had not kept the freshness of youth so well as Carmen, perhaps because of his New England conscience. To his guest he was courteous18, seemed to be making an effort to be so, and listened with well-assumed interest to the story of her day's pilgrimage. At length he said, with a smile, "Life seems to interest you, Mrs. Delancy."
"Yes, indeed," said Edith, looking up brightly; "doesn't it you?"
"Why, yes; not life exactly, but things, doing things--conflict."
"Yes, I can understand that. There is so much to be done for everybody."
Henderson looked amused. "You know in the city the gospel is that everybody is to be done."
"Well," said Edith, not to be diverted, "but, Mr. Henderson, what is it all for--this conflict? Perhaps, however, you are fighting the devil?"
"Yes, that's it; the devil is usually the other fellow. But, Mrs. Delancy," added Henderson, with an accent of seriousness, "I don't know what it's all for. I doubt if there is much in it."
"And yet the world credits you with finding a great deal in it."
"The world is generally wrong. Do you understand poker19, Mrs. Delancy? No! Of course you do not. But the interest of the game isn't so much in the cards as in the men."
"I thought it was the stakes."
"Perhaps so. But you want to win for the sake of winning. If I gambled it would be a question of nerve. I suppose that which we all enjoy is the exercise of skill in winning."
"And not for the sake of doing anything--just winning? Don't you get tired of that?" asked Edith, quite simply.
There was something in Edith's sincerity20, in her fresh enthusiasm about life, that appeared to strike a reminiscent note in Henderson. Perhaps he remembered another face as sweet as hers, and ideals, faint and long ago, that were once mixed with his ideas of success. At any rate, it was with an accent of increased deference21, and with a look she had not seen in his face before, that he said:
"People get tired of everything. I'm not sure but it would interest me to see for a minute how the world looks through your eyes." And then he added, in a different tone, "As to your East Side, Mrs. Henderson tried that some years ago."
"Wasn't she interested?"
"Oh, very much. For a time. But she said there was too much of it." And Edith could detect no tone of sarcasm22 in the remark.
Down at the other end of the table, matters were going very smoothly23. Jack was charmed with his hostess. That clever woman had felt her way along from the heresy24 trial, through Tuxedo25 and the Independent Theatre and the Horse Show, until they were launched in a perfectly26 free conversation, and Carmen knew that she hadn't to look out for thin ice.
"Were you thinking of going on to the Conventional Club tonight, Mr. Delancy?" she was saying.
"I don't belong," said Jack. "Mrs. Delancy said she didn't care for it."
"Oh, I don't care for it, for myself," replied Carmen.
"I do," struck in Miss Tavish. "It's awfully27 nice."
"Yes, it does seem to fill a want. Why, what do you do with your evenings, Mr. Delancy?"
"Well, here's one of them."
"Yes, I know, but I mean between twelve o'clock and bedtime."
"Oh," said Jack, laughing out loud, "I go to bed--sometimes."
"Yes, 'there's always that. But you want some place to go to after the theatres and the dinners; after the other places are shut up you want to go somewhere and be amused."
"Yes," said Jack, falling in, "it is a fact that there are not many places of amusement for the rich; I understand. After the theatres you want to be amused. This Conventional Club is--"
"I tell you what it is. It's a sort of Midnight Mission for the rich. They never have had anything of the kind in the city."
"And it's very nice," said Miss Tavish, demurely30.
"The performers are selected. You can see things there that you want to see at other places to which you can't go. And everybody you know is there."
"Oh, I see," said Jack. "It's what the Independent Theatre is trying to do, and what all the theatrical31 people say needs to be done, to elevate the character of the audiences, and then the managers can give better plays."
"That's just it. We want to elevate the stage," Carmen explained.
"But," continued Jack, "it seems to me that now the audience is select and elevated, it wants to see the same sort of things it liked to see before it was elevated."
"You may laugh, Mr. Delancy," replied Carmen, throwing an earnest simplicity into her eyes, "but why shouldn't women know what is going on as well as men?"
"And why," Miss Tavish asked, "will the serpentine32 dances and the London topical songs do any more harm to women than to men?"
"And besides, Mr. Delancy," Carmen said, chiming in, "isn't it just as proper that women should see women dance and throw somersaults on the stage as that men should see them? And then, you know, women are such a restraining influence."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Jack. "I thought the Conventional was for the benefit of the audience, not for the salvation33 of the performers."
"It's both. It's life. Don't you think women ought to know life? How are they to take their place in the world unless they know life as men know it?"
"I'm sure I don't know whose place they are to take, the serpentine dancer's or mine," said Jack, as if he were studying a problem. "How does your experiment get on, Miss Tavish?"
Carmen looked up quickly.
"Oh, I haven't any experiment," said Miss Tavish, shaking her head. "It's just Mr. Delancy's nonsense."
"I wish I had an experiment. There is so little for women to do. I wish I knew what was right." And Carmen looked mournfully demure29, as if life, after all, were a serious thing with her.
"Whatever Mrs. Henderson does is sure to be right," said Jack, gallantly34.
Carmen shot at him a quick sympathetic glance, tempered by a grateful smile. "There are so many points of view."
Jack felt the force of the remark as he did the revealing glance. And he had a swift vision of Miss Tavish leading him a serpentine dance, and of Carmen sweetly beckoning35 him to a pleasant point of view. After all it doesn't much matter. Everything is in the point of view.
After dinner and cigars and cigarettes in the library, the talk dragged a little in duets. The dinner had been charming, the house was lovely, the company was most agreeable. All said that. It had been so somewhere else the night before that, and would be the next night. And the ennui36 of it all! No one expressed it, but Henderson could not help looking it, and Carmen saw it. That charming hostess had been devoting herself to Edith since dinner. She was so full of sympathy with the East-Side work, asked a hundred questions about it, and declared that she must take it up again. She would order a cage of canaries from that poor German for her kitchen. It was such a beautiful idea. But Edith did not believe in her one bit. She told Jack afterwards that "Mrs. Henderson cares no more for the poor of New York than she does for--"
"Henderson?" suggested Jack.
"Oh, I don't know anything about that. Henderson has only one idea--to get the better of everybody, and be the money king of New York. But I should not wonder if he had once a soft spot in his heart. He is better than she is."
It was still early, lacked half an hour of midnight, and the night was before them. Some one proposed the Conventional. "Yes," said Carmen; "all come to our box." The Van Dams would go, Miss Tavish, the Chesneys; the suggestion was a relief to everybody. Only Mr. Henderson pleaded important papers that must have his attention that night. Edith said that she was too tired, but that her desertion must not break up the party.
"Then you will excuse me also," said Jack, a little shade of disappointment in his face.
"No, no," said Edith, quickly; "you can drop me on the way. Go, by all means, Jack."
"Do you really want me to go, dear?" said Jack, aside.
"Why of course; I want you to be happy."
And Jack recalled the loving look that accompanied these words, later on, as he sat in the Henderson box at the Conventional, between Carmen and Miss Tavish, and saw, through the slight haze37 of smoke, beyond the orchestra, the praiseworthy efforts of the Montana Kicker, who had just returned with the imprimatur of Paris, to relieve the ennui of the modern world.
The complex affair we call the world requires a great variety of people to keep it going. At one o'clock in the morning Carmen and our friend Mr. Delancy and Miss Tavish were doing their part. Edith lay awake listening for Jack's return. And in an alley38 off Rivington Street a young girl, pretty once, unknown to fortune but not to fame, was about to render the last service she could to the world by leaving it.
The impartial39 historian scarcely knows how to distribute his pathos40. By the electric light (and that is the modern light) gayety is almost as pathetic as suffering. Before the Montana girl hit upon the happy device that gave her notoriety, her feet, whose every twinkle now was worth a gold eagle, had trod a thorny41 path. There was a fortune now in the whirl of her illusory robes, but any day--such are the whims42 of fashion--she might be wandering again, sick at heart, about the great city, knocking at the side doors of variety shows for any engagement that would give her a pittance43 of a few dollars a week. How long had Carmen waited on the social outskirts44; and now she had come into her kingdom, was she anything but a tinsel queen? Even Henderson, the great Henderson, did the friends of his youth respect him? had he public esteem45? Carmen used to cut out the newspaper paragraphs that extolled46 Henderson's domestic virtue47 and his generosity48 to his family, and show them to her lord, with a queer smile on her face. Miss Tavish, in the nervous consciousness of fleeting49 years, was she not still waiting, dashing here and there like a bird in a net for the sort of freedom, audacious as she was, that seemed denied her? She was still beautiful, everybody said, and she was sought and flattered, because she was always merry and good-natured. Why should Van Dam, speaking of women, say that there were horses that had been set up, and checked up and trained, that held their heads in an aristocratic fashion, moved elegantly, and showed style, long after the spirit had gone out of them? And Jack himself, happily married, with a comfortable income, why was life getting flat to him? What sort of career was it that needed the aid of Carmen and the serpentine dancer? And why not, since it is absolutely necessary that the world should be amused?
We are in no other world when we enter the mean tenement50 in the alley off Rivington Street. Here also is the life of the town. The room is small, but it contains a cook-stove, a chest of drawers, a small table, a couple of chairs, and two narrow beds. On the top of the chest are a looking-glass, some toilet articles, and bottles of medicine. The cracked walls are bare and not clean. In one of the beds are two children, sleeping soundly, and on the foot of it is a middle-aged51 woman, in a soiled woolen52 gown with a thin figured shawl drawn53 about her shoulders, a dirty cap half concealing54 her frowzy55 hair; she looks tired and worn and sleepy. On the other bed lies a girl of twenty years, a woman in experience. The kerosene56 lamp on the stand at the head of the bed casts a spectral57 light on her flushed face, and the thin arms that are restlessly thrown outside the cover. By the bedside sits the doctor, patient, silent, and watchful58. The doctor puts her hand caressingly59 on that of the girl. It is hot and dry. The girl opens her eyes with a startled look, and says, feebly:
"Do you think he will come?"
"Yes, dear, presently. He never fails."
The girl closed her eyes again, and there was silence. The dim rays of the lamp, falling upon the doctor, revealed the figure of a woman of less than medium size, perhaps of the age of thirty or more, a plain little body, you would have said, who paid the slightest possible attention to her dress, and when she went about the city was not to be distinguished60 from a working-woman. Her friends, indeed, said that she had not the least care for her personal appearance, and unless she was watched, she was sure to go out in her shabbiest gown and most battered61 hat. She wore tonight a brown ulster and a nondescript black bonnet62 drawn close down on her head and tied with black strings63. In her lap lay her leathern bag, which she usually carried under her arm, that contained medicines, lint64, bandages, smelling-salts, a vial of ammonia, and so on; to her patients it was a sort of conjurer's bag, out of which she could produce anything that an emergency called for.
Dr. Leigh was not in the least nervous or excited. Indeed, an artist would not have painted her as a rapt angelic visitant to this abode65 of poverty. This contact with poverty and coming death was quite in her ordinary experience. It would never have occurred to her that she was doing anything unusual, any more than it would have occurred to the objects of her ministrations to overwhelm her with thanks. They trusted her, that was all. They met her always with a pleasant recognition. She belonged perhaps to their world. Perhaps they would have said that "Dr. Leigh don't handsome much," but their idea was that her face was good. That was what anybody would have said who saw her tonight, "She has such a good face;" the face of a woman who knew the world, and perhaps was not very sanguine66 about it, had few illusions and few antipathies67, but accepted it, and tried in her humble68 way to alleviate69 its hardships, without any consciousness of having a mission or making a sacrifice.
Dr. Leigh--Miss Ruth Leigh--was Edith's friend. She had not come from the country with an exalted70 notion of being a worker among the poor about whom so much was written; she had not even descended71 from some high circle in the city into this world, moved by a restless enthusiasm for humanity. She was a woman of the people, to adopt a popular phrase. From her childhood she had known them, their wants, their sympathies, their discouragements; and in her heart--though you would not discover this till you had known her long and well--there was a burning sympathy with them, a sympathy born in her, and not assumed for the sake of having a career. It was this that had impelled72 her to get a medical education, which she obtained by hard labor73 and self-denial. To her this was not a means of livelihood74, but simply that she might be of service to those all about her who needed help more than she did. She didn't believe in charity, this stout-hearted, clearheaded little woman; she meant to make everybody pay for her medical services who could pay; but somehow her practice was not lucrative75, and the little salary she got as a dispensary doctor melted away with scarcely any perceptible improvement in her own wardrobe. Why, she needed nothing, going about as she did.
She sat--now waiting for the end; and the good face, so full of sympathy for the living, had no hope in it. Just another human being had come to the end of her path--the end literally76. It was so everyday. Somebody came to the end, and there was nothing beyond. Only it was the end, and that was peace. One o'clock--half-past one. The door opened softly. The old woman rose from the foot of the bed with a start and a low "Herr! gross Gott." It was Father Damon. The girl opened her eyes with a frightened look at first, and then an eager appeal. Dr. Leigh rose to make room for him at the bedside. They bowed as he came forward, and their eyes met. She shook her head. In her eyes was no expectation, no hope. In his was the glow of faith. But the eyes of the girl rested upon his face with a rapt expression. It was as if an angel had entered the room.
Father Damon was a young man, not yet past thirty, slender, erect77. He had removed as he came in his broad-brimmed soft hat. The hair was close-cut, but not tonsured78. He wore a brown cassock, falling in straight lines, and confined at the waist with a white cord. From his neck depended from a gold chain a large gold cross. His face was smooth-shaven, thin, intellectual, or rather spiritual; the nose long, the mouth straight, the eyes deep gray, sometimes dreamy and puzzling, again glowing with an inner fervor79. A face of long vigils and the schooled calmness of repressed energy. You would say a fanatic80 of God, with a dash of self-consciousness. Dr. Leigh knew him well. They met often on their diverse errands, and she liked, when she could, to go to vespers in the little mission chapel81 of St. Anselm, where he ministered. It was not the confessional that attracted her, that was sure; perhaps not altogether the service, though that was soothing82 in certain moods; but it was the noble personality of Father Damon. He was devoted83 to the people as she was, he understood them; and for the moment their passion of humanity assumed the same aspect, though she knew that what he saw, or thought he saw, lay beyond her agnostic vision.
Father Damon was an Englishman, a member of a London Anglican order, who had taken the three vows84 of poverty, chastity, and obedience85, who had been for some years in New York, and had finally come to live on the East Side, where his work was. In a way he had identified himself with the people; he attended their clubs; he was a Christian86 socialist87; he spoke88 on the inequalities of taxation89; the strikers were pretty sure of his sympathy; he argued the injustice90 of the present ownership of land. Some said that he had joined a lodge91 of the Knights92 of Labor. Perhaps it was these things, quite as much as his singleness of purpose and his spiritual fervor, that drew Dr. Leigh to him with a feeling that verged93 on devotion. The ladies up-town, at whose tables Father Damon was an infrequent guest, were as fully28 in sympathy with this handsome and aristocratic young priest, and thought it beautiful that he should devote himself to the poor and the sinful; but they did not see why he should adopt their views.
It was at the mission that Father Damon had first seen the girl. She had ventured in not long ago at twilight94, with her cough and her pale face, in a silk gown and flower-garden of a hat, and crept into one of the confessional boxes, and told him her story.
"Do you think, Father," said the girl, looking up wistfully, "that I can--can be forgiven?"
Father Damon looked down sadly, pitifully. "Yes, my daughter, if you repent95. It is all with our Father. He never refuses."
He knelt down, with his cross in his hand, and in a low voice repeated the prayer for the dying. As the sweet, thrilling voice went on in supplication96 the girl's eyes closed again, and a sweet smile played about her mouth; it was the innocent smile of the little girl long ago, when she might have awakened97 in the morning and heard the singing of birds at her window.
When Father Damon arose she seemed to be sleeping. They all stood in silence for a moment.
"You will remain?" he asked the doctor.
"Yes," she said, with the faintest wan7 smile on her face. "It is I, you know, who have care of the body."
At the door he turned and said, quite low, "Peace be to this house!"
收听单词发音 |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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querying
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的现在分词 )；询问 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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sensuousness
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| n.知觉 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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riskiness
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| n.风险性 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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tuxedo
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| n.礼服，无尾礼服 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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42
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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46
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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48
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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50
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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51
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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53
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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56
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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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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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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82
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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83
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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86
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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88
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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taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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90
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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91
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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92
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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93
verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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96
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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97
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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