We pass over the intervening weeks. The time of the story is thus advanced more than a quarter of a year.
On the midnight preceding the morning which would make her the wife of a man whose presence fascinated her into involuntariness of bearing, and whom in absence she almost dreaded1, Cytherea lay in her little bed, vainly endeavouring to sleep.
She had been looking back amid the years of her short though varied3 past, and thinking of the threshold upon which she stood. Days and months had dimmed the form of Edward Springrove like the gauzes of a vanishing stage-scene, but his dying voice could still be heard faintly behind. That a soft small chord in her still vibrated true to his memory, she would not admit: that she did not approach Manston with feelings which could by any stretch of words be called hymeneal, she calmly owned.
‘Why do I marry him?’ she said to herself. ‘Because Owen, dear Owen my brother, wishes me to marry him. Because Mr. Manston is, and has been, uniformly kind to Owen, and to me. “Act in obedience4 to the dictates5 of common-sense,” Owen said, “and dread2 the sharp sting of poverty. How many thousands of women like you marry every year for the same reason, to secure a home, and mere6 ordinary, material comforts, which after all go far to make life endurable, even if not supremely7 happy.”
”Tis right, I suppose, for him to say that. O, if people only knew what a timidity and melancholy8 upon the subject of her future grows up in the heart of a friendless woman who is blown about like a reed shaken with the wind, as I am, they would not call this resignation of one’s self by the name of scheming to get a husband. Scheme to marry? I’d rather scheme to die! I know I am not pleasing my heart; I know that if I only were concerned, I should like risking a single future. But why should I please my useless self overmuch, when by doing otherwise I please those who are more valuable than I?’
In the midst of desultory9 reflections like these, which alternated with surmises10 as to the inexplicable11 connection that appeared to exist between her intended husband and Miss Aldclyffe, she heard dull noises outside the walls of the house, which she could not quite fancy to be caused by the wind. She seemed doomed12 to such disturbances13 at critical periods of her existence. ‘It is strange,’ she pondered, ‘that this my last night in Knapwater House should be disturbed precisely14 as my first was, no occurrence of the kind having intervened.’
As the minutes glided15 by the noise increased, sounding as if some one were beating the wall below her window with a bunch of switches. She would gladly have left her room and gone to stay with one of the maids, but they were without doubt all asleep.
The only person in the house likely to be awake, or who would have brains enough to comprehend her nervousness, was Miss Aldclyffe, but Cytherea never cared to go to Miss Aldclyffe’s room, though she was always welcome there, and was often almost compelled to go against her will.
The oft-repeated noise of switches grew heavier upon the wall, and was now intermingled with creaks, and a rattling16 like the rattling of dice17. The wind blew stronger; there came first a snapping, then a crash, and some portion of the mystery was revealed. It was the breaking off and fall of a branch from one of the large trees outside. The smacking18 against the wall, and the intermediate rattling, ceased from that time.
Well, it was the tree which had caused the noises. The unexplained matter was that neither of the trees ever touched the walls of the house during the highest wind, and that trees could not rattle19 like a man playing castanets or shaking dice.
She thought, ‘Is it the intention of Fate that something connected with these noises shall influence my future as in the last case of the kind?’
During the dilemma20 she fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamt that she was being whipped with dry bones suspended on strings21, which rattled22 at every blow like those of a malefactor23 on a gibbet; that she shifted and shrank and avoided every blow, and they fell then upon the wall to which she was tied. She could not see the face of the executioner for his mask, but his form was like Manston’s.
‘Thank Heaven!’ she said, when she awoke and saw a faint light struggling through her blind. ‘Now what were those noises?’ To settle that question seemed more to her than the event of the day.
She pulled the blind aside and looked out. All was plain. The evening previous had closed in with a grey drizzle25, borne upon a piercing air from the north, and now its effects were visible. The hoary26 drizzle still continued; but the trees and shrubs27 were laden28 with icicles to an extent such as she had never before witnessed. A shoot of the diameter of a pin’s head was iced as thick as her finger; all the boughs29 in the park were bent30 almost to the earth with the immense weight of the glistening31 incumbrance; the walks were like a looking-glass. Many boughs had snapped beneath their burden, and lay in heaps upon the icy grass. Opposite her eye, on the nearest tree, was a fresh yellow scar, showing where the branch that had terrified her had been splintered from the trunk.
‘I never could have believed it possible,’ she thought, surveying the bowed-down branches, ‘that trees would bend so far out of their true positions without breaking.’ By watching a twig32 she could see a drop collect upon it from the hoary fog, sink to the lowest point, and there become coagulated as the others had done.
‘Or that I could so exactly have imitated them,’ she continued. ‘On this morning I am to be married—unless this is a scheme of the great Mother to hinder a union of which she does not approve. Is it possible for my wedding to take place in the face of such weather as this?’
2. Morning
Her brother Owen was staying with Manston at the Old House. Contrary to the opinion of the doctors, the wound had healed after the first surgical33 operation, and his leg was gradually acquiring strength, though he could only as yet get about on crutches34, or ride, or be dragged in a chair.
Miss Aldclyffe had arranged that Cytherea should be married from Knapwater House, and not from her brother’s lodgings36 at Budmouth, which was Cytherea’s first idea. Owen, too, seemed to prefer the plan. The capricious old maid had latterly taken to the contemplation of the wedding with even greater warmth than had at first inspired her, and appeared determined37 to do everything in her power, consistent with her dignity, to render the adjuncts of the ceremony pleasing and complete.
But the weather seemed in flat contradiction of the whole proceeding38. At eight o’clock the coachman crept up to the House almost upon his hands and knees, entered the kitchen, and stood with his back to the fire, panting from his exertions39 in pedestrianism.
The kitchen was by far the pleasantest apartment in Knapwater House on such a morning as this. The vast fire was the centre of the whole system, like a sun, and threw its warm rays upon the figures of the domestics, wheeling about it in true planetary style. A nervously-feeble imitation of its flicker40 was continually attempted by a family of polished metallic41 utensils42 standing43 in rows and groups against the walls opposite, the whole collection of shines nearly annihilating44 the weak daylight from outside. A step further in, and the nostrils45 were greeted by the scent46 of green herbs just gathered, and the eye by the plump form of the cook, wholesome47, white-aproned, and floury—looking as edible48 as the food she manipulated—her movements being supported and assisted by her satellites, the kitchen and scullery maids. Minute recurrent sounds prevailed—the click of the smoke-jack, the flap of the flames, and the light touches of the women’s slippers49 upon the stone floor.
The coachman hemmed50, spread his feet more firmly upon the hearthstone, and looked hard at a small plate in the extreme corner of the dresser.
‘No wedden this mornen—that’s my opinion. In fact, there can’t be,’ he said abruptly51, as if the words were the mere torso of a many-membered thought that had existed complete in his head.
The kitchen-maid was toasting a slice of bread at the end of a very long toasting-fork, which she held at arm’s length towards the unapproachable fire, travestying the Flanconnade in fencing.
‘Bad out of doors, isn’t it?’ she said, with a look of commiseration52 for things in general.
‘Bad? Not even a liven soul, gentle or simple, can stand on level ground. As to getten up hill to the church, ’tis perfect lunacy. And I speak of foot-passengers. As to horses and carriage, ’tis murder to think of ’em. I am going to send straight as a line into the breakfast-room, and say ’tis a closer.... Hullo—here’s Clerk Crickett and John Day a-comen! Now just look at ’em and picture a wedden if you can.’
All eyes were turned to the window, from which the clerk and gardener were seen crossing the court, bowed and stooping like Bel and Nebo.
‘You’ll have to go if it breaks all the horses’ legs in the county,’ said the cook, turning from the spectacle, knocking open the oven-door with the tongs53, glancing critically in, and slamming it together with a clang.
‘O, O; why shall I?’ asked the coachman, including in his auditory by a glance the clerk and gardener who had just entered.
‘Because Mr. Manston is in the business. Did you ever know him to give up for weather of any kind, or for any other mortal thing in heaven or earth?’
‘——Mornen so’s—such as it is!’ interrupted Mr. Crickett cheerily, coming forward to the blaze and warming one hand without looking at the fire. ‘Mr. Manston gie up for anything in heaven or earth, did you say? You might ha’ cut it short by sayen “to Miss Aldclyffe,” and leaven54 out heaven and earth as trifles. But it might be put off; putten off a thing isn’t getten rid of a thing, if that thing is a woman. O no, no!’
The coachman and gardener now naturally subsided55 into secondaries. The cook went on rather sharply, as she dribbled56 milk into the exact centre of a little crater57 of flour in a platter—
‘It might be in this case; she’s so indifferent.’
‘Dang my old sides! and so it might be. I have a bit of news—I thought there was something upon my tongue; but ’tis a secret; not a word, mind, not a word. Why, Miss Hinton took a holiday yesterday.’
‘Yes?’ inquired the cook, looking up with perplexed58 curiosity.
‘D’ye think that’s all?’
‘Don’t be so three-cunning—if it is all, deliver you from the evil of raising a woman’s expectations wrongfully; I’ll skimmer your pate60 as sure as you cry Amen!’
‘Well, it isn’t all. When I got home last night my wife said, “Miss Adelaide took a holiday this mornen,” says she (my wife, that is); “walked over to Nether61 Mynton, met the comen man, and got married!” says she.’
‘Got married! what, Lord-a-mercy, did Springrove come?’
‘Springrove, no—no—Springrove’s nothen to do wi’ it—’twas Farmer Bollens. They’ve been playing bo-peep for these two or three months seemingly. Whilst Master Teddy Springrove has been daddlen, and hawken, and spetten about having her, she’s quietly left him all forsook62. Serve him right. I don’t blame the little woman a bit.’
‘Farmer Bollens is old enough to be her father!’
‘Ay, quite; and rich enough to be ten fathers. They say he’s so rich that he has business in every bank, and measures his money in half-pint cups.’
‘Lord, I wish it was me, don’t I wish ’twas me!’ said the scullery-maid.
‘Yes, ’twas as neat a bit of stitching as ever I heard of,’ continued the clerk, with a fixed63 eye, as if he were watching the process from a distance. ‘Not a soul knew anything about it, and my wife is the only one in our parish who knows it yet. Miss Hinton came back from the wedden, went to Mr. Manston, puffed64 herself out large, and said she was Mrs. Bollens, but that if he wished, she had no objection to keep on the house till the regular time of giving notice had expired, or till he could get another tenant65.’
‘Just like her independence,’ said the cook.
‘Well, independent or no, she’s Mrs. Bollens now. Ah, I shall never forget once when I went by Farmer Bollens’s garden—years ago now—years, when he was taking up ashleaf taties. A merry feller I was at that time, a very merry feller—for ’twas before I took holy orders, and it didn’t prick67 my conscience as ‘twould now. “Farmer,” says I, “little taties seem to turn out small this year, don’t em?” “O no, Crickett,” says he, “some be fair-sized.” He’s a dull man—Farmer Bollens is—he always was. However, that’s neither here nor there; he’s a-married to a sharp woman, and if I don’t make a mistake she’ll bring him a pretty good family, gie her time.’
‘Well, it don’t matter; there’s a Providence68 in it,’ said the scullery-maid. ‘God A’mighty always sends bread as well as children.’
‘But ’tis the bread to one house and the children to another very often. However, I think I can see my lady Hinton’s reason for chosen yesterday to sickness-or-health-it. Your young miss, and that one, had crossed one another’s path in regard to young Master Springrove; and I expect that when Addy Hinton found Miss Graye wasn’t caren to have en, she thought she’d be beforehand with her old enemy in marrying somebody else too. That’s maids’ logic69 all over, and maids’ malice70 likewise.’
Women who are bad enough to divide against themselves under a man’s partiality are good enough to instantly unite in a common cause against his attack. ‘I’ll just tell you one thing then,’ said the cook, shaking out her words to the time of a whisk she was beating eggs with. ‘Whatever maids’ logic is and maids’ malice too, if Cytherea Graye even now knows that young Springrove is free again, she’ll fling over the steward71 as soon as look at him.’
‘No, no: not now,’ the coachman broke in like a moderator. ‘There’s honour in that maid, if ever there was in one. No Miss Hinton’s tricks in her. She’ll stick to Manston.’
‘Pifh!’
‘Don’t let a word be said till the wedden is over, for Heaven’s sake,’ the clerk continued. ‘Miss Aldclyffe would fairly hang and quarter me, if my news broke off that there wedden at a last minute like this.’
‘Then you had better get your wife to bolt you in the closet for an hour or two, for you’ll chatter72 it yourself to the whole boiling parish if she don’t! ’Tis a poor womanly feller!’
‘You shouldn’t ha’ begun it, clerk. I knew how ‘twould be,’ said the gardener soothingly73, in a whisper to the clerk’s mangled74 remains75.
The clerk turned and smiled at the fire, and warmed his other hand.
3. noon
The weather gave way. In half-an-hour there began a rapid thaw76. By ten o’clock the roads, though still dangerous, were practicable to the extent of the half-mile required by the people of Knapwater Park. One mass of heavy leaden cloud spread over the whole sky; the air began to feel damp and mild out of doors, though still cold and frosty within.
They reached the church and passed up the nave77, the deep-coloured glass of the narrow windows rendering78 the gloom of the morning almost night itself inside the building. Then the ceremony began. The only warmth or spirit imported into it came from the bridegroom, who retained a vigorous—even Spenserian—bridal-mood throughout the morning.
Cytherea was as firm as he at this critical moment, but as cold as the air surrounding her. The few persons forming the wedding-party were constrained79 in movement and tone, and from the nave of the church came occasional coughs, emitted by those who, in spite of the weather, had assembled to see the termination of Cytherea’s existence as a single woman. Many poor people loved her. They pitied her success, why, they could not tell, except that it was because she seemed to stand more like a statue than Cytherea Graye.
Yet she was prettily80 and carefully dressed; a strange contradiction in a man’s idea of things—a saddening, perplexing contradiction. Are there any points in which a difference of sex amounts to a difference of nature? Then this is surely one. Not so much, as it is commonly put, in regard to the amount of consideration given, but in the conception of the thing considered. A man emasculated by coxcombry81 may spend more time upon the arrangement of his clothes than any woman, but even then there is no fetichism in his idea of them—they are still only a covering he uses for a time. But here was Cytherea, in the bottom of her heart almost indifferent to life, yet possessing an instinct with which her heart had nothing to do, the instinct to be particularly regardful of those sorry trifles, her robe, her flowers, her veil, and her gloves.
The irrevocable words were soon spoken—the indelible writing soon written—and they came out of the vestry. Candles had been necessary here to enable them to sign their names, and on their return to the church the light from the candles streamed from the small open door, and across the chancel to a black chestnut83 screen on the south side, dividing it from a small chapel84 or chantry, erected85 for the soul’s peace of some Aldclyffe of the past. Through the open-work of this screen could now be seen illuminated87, inside the chantry, the reclining figures of cross-legged knights88, damp and green with age, and above them a huge classic monument, also inscribed89 to the Aldclyffe family, heavily sculptured in cadaverous marble.
Leaning here—almost hanging to the monument—was Edward Springrove, or his spirit.
The weak daylight would never have revealed him, shaded as he was by the screen; but the unexpected rays of candle-light in the front showed him forth90 in startling relief to any and all of those whose eyes wandered in that direction. The sight was a sad one—sad beyond all description. His eyes were wild, their orbits leaden. His face was of a sickly paleness, his hair dry and disordered, his lips parted as if he could get no breath. His figure was spectre-thin. His actions seemed beyond his own control.
Manston did not see him; Cytherea did. The healing effect upon her heart of a year’s silence—a year and a half’s separation—was undone91 in an instant. One of those strange revivals92 of passion by mere sight—commoner in women than in men, and in oppressed women commonest of all—had taken place in her—so transcendently, that even to herself it seemed more like a new creation than a revival93.
Marrying for a home—what a mockery it was!
It may be said that the means most potent94 for rekindling95 old love in a maiden96’s heart are, to see her lover in laughter and good spirits in her despite when the breach97 has been owing to a slight from herself; when owing to a slight from him, to see him suffering for his own fault. If he is happy in a clear conscience, she blames him; if he is miserable98 because deeply to blame, she blames herself. The latter was Cytherea’s case now.
First, an agony of face told of the suppressed misery99 within her, which presently could be suppressed no longer. When they were coming out of the porch, there broke from her in a low plaintive100 scream the words, ‘He’s dying—dying! O God, save us!’ She began to sink down, and would have fallen had not Manston caught her. The chief bridesmaid applied101 her vinaigrette.
‘What did she say?’ inquired Manston.
Owen was the only one to whom the words were intelligible102, and he was far too deeply impressed, or rather alarmed, to reply. She did not faint, and soon began to recover her self-command. Owen took advantage of the hindrance103 to step back to where the apparition104 had been seen. He was enraged105 with Springrove for what he considered an unwarrantable intrusion.
But Edward was not in the chantry. As he had come, so he had gone, nobody could tell how or whither.
4. Afternoon
It might almost have been believed that a transmutation had taken place in Cytherea’s idiosyncrasy, that her moral nature had fled.
The wedding-party returned to the house. As soon as he could find an opportunity, Owen took his sister aside to speak privately106 with her on what had happened. The expression of her face was hard, wild, and unreal—an expression he had never seen there before, and it disturbed him. He spoke82 to her severely107 and sadly.
‘Cytherea,’ he said, ‘I know the cause of this emotion of yours. But remember this, there was no excuse for it. You should have been woman enough to control yourself. Remember whose wife you are, and don’t think anything more of a mean-spirited fellow like Springrove; he had no business to come there as he did. You are altogether wrong, Cytherea, and I am vexed108 with you more than I can say—very vexed.’
‘Say ashamed of me at once,’ she bitterly answered.
‘I am ashamed of you,’ he retorted angrily; ‘the mood has not left you yet, then?’
‘Owen,’ she said, and paused. Her lip trembled; her eye told of sensations too deep for tears. ‘No, Owen, it has not left me; and I will be honest. I own now to you, without any disguise of words, what last night I did not own to myself, because I hardly knew of it. I love Edward Springrove with all my strength, and heart, and soul. You call me a wanton for it, don’t you? I don’t care; I have gone beyond caring for anything!’ She looked stonily109 into his face and made the speech calmly.
‘Well, poor Cytherea, don’t talk like that!’ he said, alarmed at her manner.
‘I thought that I did not love him at all,’ she went on hysterically110. ‘A year and a half had passed since we met. I could go by the gate of his garden without thinking of him—look at his seat in church and not care. But I saw him this morning—dying because he loves me so—I know it is that! Can I help loving him too? No, I cannot, and I will love him, and I don’t care! We have been separated somehow by some contrivance—I know we have. O, if I could only die!’
He held her in his arms. ‘Many a woman has gone to ruin herself,’ he said, ‘and brought those who love her into disgrace, by acting111 upon such impulses as possess you now. I have a reputation to lose as well as you. It seems that do what I will by way of remedying the stains which fell upon us, it is all doomed to be undone again.’ His voice grew husky as he made the reply.
The right and only effective chord had been touched. Since she had seen Edward, she had thought only of herself and him. Owen—her name—position—future—had been as if they did not exist.
‘I won’t give way and become a disgrace to you, at any rate,’ she said.
‘Besides, your duty to society, and those about you, requires that you should live with (at any rate) all the appearance of a good wife, and try to love your husband.’
‘Yes—my duty to society,’ she murmured. ‘But ah, Owen, it is difficult to adjust our outer and inner life with perfect honesty to all! Though it may be right to care more for the benefit of the many than for the indulgence of your own single self, when you consider that the many, and duty to them, only exist to you through your own existence, what can be said? What do our own acquaintances care about us? Not much. I think of mine. Mine will now (do they learn all the wicked frailty112 of my heart in this affair) look at me, smile sickly, and condemn113 me. And perhaps, far in time to come, when I am dead and gone, some other’s accent, or some other’s song, or thought, like an old one of mine, will carry them back to what I used to say, and hurt their hearts a little that they blamed me so soon. And they will pause just for an instant, and give a sigh to me, and think, “Poor girl!” believing they do great justice to my memory by this. But they will never, never realize that it was my single opportunity of existence, as well as of doing my duty, which they are regarding; they will not feel that what to them is but a thought, easily held in those two words of pity, “Poor girl!” was a whole life to me; as full of hours, minutes, and peculiar114 minutes, of hopes and dreads115, smiles, whisperings, tears, as theirs: that it was my world, what is to them their world, and they in that life of mine, however much I cared for them, only as the thought I seem to them to be. Nobody can enter into another’s nature truly, that’s what is so grievous.’
‘Well, it cannot be helped,’ said Owen.
‘But we must not stay here,’ she continued, starting up and going. ‘We shall be missed. I’ll do my best, Owen—I will, indeed.’
It had been decided116 that on account of the wretched state of the roads, the newly-married pair should not drive to the station till the latest hour in the afternoon at which they could get a train to take them to Southampton (their destination that night) by a reasonable time in the evening. They intended the next morning to cross to Havre, and thence to Paris—a place Cytherea had never visited—for their wedding tour.
The afternoon drew on. The packing was done. Cytherea was so restless that she could stay still nowhere. Miss Aldclyffe, who, though she took little part in the day’s proceedings117, was, as it were, instinctively118 conscious of all their movements, put down her charge’s agitation119 for once as the natural result of the novel event, and Manston himself was as indulgent as could be wished.
At length Cytherea wandered alone into the conservatory120. When in it, she thought she would run across to the hot-house in the outer garden, having in her heart a whimsical desire that she should also like to take a last look at the familiar flowers and luxuriant leaves collected there. She pulled on a pair of overshoes, and thither122 she went. Not a soul was in or around the place. The gardener was making merry on Manston’s and her account.
The happiness that a generous spirit derives123 from the belief that it exists in others is often greater than the primary happiness itself. The gardener thought ‘How happy they are!’ and the thought made him happier than they.
Coming out of the forcing-house again, she was on the point of returning indoors, when a feeling that these moments of solitude124 would be her last of freedom induced her to prolong them a little, and she stood still, unheeding the wintry aspect of the curly-leaved plants, the straw-covered beds, and the bare fruit-trees around her. The garden, no part of which was visible from the house, sloped down to a narrow river at the foot, dividing it from the meadows without.
A man was lingering along the public path on the other side of the river; she fancied she knew the form. Her resolutions, taken in the presence of Owen, did not fail her now. She hoped and prayed that it might not be one who had stolen her heart away, and still kept it. Why should he have reappeared at all, when he had declared that he went out of her sight for ever?
She hastily hid herself, in the lowest corner of the garden close to the river. A large dead tree, thickly robed in ivy125, had been considerably126 depressed127 by its icy load of the morning, and hung low over the stream, which here ran slow and deep. The tree screened her from the eyes of any passer on the other side.
She waited timidly, and her timidity increased. She would not allow herself to see him—she would hear him pass, and then look to see if it had been Edward.
But, before she heard anything, she became aware of an object reflected in the water from under the tree which hung over the river in such a way that, though hiding the actual path, and objects upon it, it permitted their reflected images to pass beneath its boughs. The reflected form was that of the man she had seen further off, but being inverted128, she could not definitely characterize him.
He was looking at the upper windows of the House—at hers—was it Edward, indeed? If so, he was probably thinking he would like to say one parting word. He came closer, gazed into the stream, and walked very slowly. She was almost certain that it was Edward. She kept more safely hidden. Conscience told her that she ought not to see him. But she suddenly asked herself a question: ‘Can it be possible that he sees my reflected image, as I see his? Of course he does!’
He was looking at her in the water.
She could not help herself now. She stepped forward just as he emerged from the other side of the tree and appeared erect86 before her. It was Edward Springrove—till the inverted vision met his eye, dreaming no more of seeing his Cytherea there than of seeing the dead themselves.
‘Cytherea!’
‘Mr. Springrove,’ she returned, in a low voice, across the stream.
He was the first to speak again.
‘Since we have met, I want to tell you something, before we become quite as strangers to each other.’
‘No—not now—I did not mean to speak—it is not right, Edward.’ She spoke hurriedly and turned away from him, beating the air with her hand.
‘Not one common word of explanation?’ he implored129. ‘Don’t think I am bad enough to try to lead you astray. Well, go—it is better.’
Their eyes met again. She was nearly choked. O, how she longed—and dreaded—to hear his explanation!
‘What is it?’ she said desperately130.
‘It is that I did not come to the church this morning in order to distress131 you: I did not, Cytherea. It was to try to speak to you before you were—married.’
He stepped closer, and went on, ‘You know what has taken place? Surely you do?—my cousin is married, and I am free.’
‘Married—and not to you?’ Cytherea faltered132, in a weak whisper.
‘Yes, she was married yesterday! A rich man had appeared, and she jilted me. She said she never would have jilted a stranger, but that by jilting me, she only exercised the right everybody has of snubbing their own relations. But that’s nothing now. I came to you to ask once more if.... But I was too late.’
‘But, Edward, what’s that, what’s that!’ she cried, in an agony of reproach. ‘Why did you leave me to return to her? Why did you write me that cruel, cruel letter that nearly killed me!’
‘Cytherea! Why, you had grown to love—like—Mr. Manston, and how could you be anything to me—or care for me? Surely I acted naturally?’
‘O no—never! I loved you—only you—not him—always you!—till lately.... I try to love him now.’
‘But that can’t be correct! Miss Aldclyffe told me that you wanted to hear no more of me—proved it to me!’ said Edward.
‘Never! she couldn’t.’
‘She did, Cytherea. And she sent me a letter—a love-letter, you wrote to Mr. Manston.’
‘A love-letter I wrote?’
‘Yes, a love-letter—you could not meet him just then, you said you were sorry, but the emotion you had felt with him made you forgetful of realities.’
The strife133 of thought in the unhappy girl who listened to this distortion of her meaning could find no vent24 in words. And then there followed the slow revelation in return, bringing with it all the misery of an explanation which comes too late. The question whether Miss Aldclyffe were schemer or dupe was almost passed over by Cytherea, under the immediate134 oppressiveness of her despair in the sense that her position was irretrievable.
Not so Springrove. He saw through all the cunning half-misrepresentations—worse than downright lies—which had just been sufficient to turn the scale both with him and with her; and from the bottom of his soul he cursed the woman and man who had brought all this agony upon him and his Love. But he could not add more misery to the future of the poor child by revealing too much. The whole scheme she should never know.
‘I was indifferent to my own future,’ Edward said, ‘and was urged to promise adherence135 to my engagement with my cousin Adelaide by Miss Aldclyffe: now you are married I cannot tell you how, but it was on account of my father. Being forbidden to think of you, what did I care about anything? My new thought that you still loved me was first raised by what my father said in the letter announcing my cousin’s marriage. He said that although you were to be married on Old Christmas Day—that is tomorrow—he had noticed your appearance with pity: he thought you loved me still. It was enough for me—I came down by the earliest morning train, thinking I could see you some time today, the day, as I thought, before your marriage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, that you might be induced to marry me. I hurried from the station; when I reached the village I saw idlers about the church, and the private gate leading to the House open. I ran into the church by the small door and saw you come out of the vestry; I was too late. I have now told you. I was compelled to tell you. O, my lost darling, now I shall live content—or die content!’
‘I am to blame, Edward, I am,’ she said mournfully; ‘I was taught to dread pauperism136; my nights were made sleepless137; there was continually reiterated138 in my ears till I believed it—
‘“The world and its ways have a certain worth,
And to press a point where these oppose
Were a simple policy.”
‘But I will say nothing about who influenced—who persuaded. The act is mine, after all. Edward, I married to escape dependence66 for my bread upon the whim121 of Miss Aldclyffe, or others like her. It was clearly represented to me that dependence is bearable if we have another place which we can call home; but to be a dependent and to have no other spot for the heart to anchor upon—O, it is mournful and harassing140!... But that without which all persuasion141 would have been as air, was added by my miserable conviction that you were false; that did it, that turned me! You were to be considered as nobody to me, and Mr. Manston was invariably kind. Well, the deed is done—I must abide142 by it. I shall never let him know that I do not love him—never. If things had only remained as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me and married another woman, I could have borne it better. I wish I did not know the truth as I know it now! But our life, what is it? Let us be brave, Edward, and live out our few remaining years with dignity. They will not be long. O, I hope they will not be long!... Now, good-bye, good-bye!’
‘I wish I could be near and touch you once, just once,’ said Springrove, in a voice which he vainly endeavoured to keep firm and clear.
They looked at the river, then into it; a shoal of minnows was floating over the sandy bottom, like the black dashes on miniver; though narrow, the stream was deep, and there was no bridge.
‘Cytherea, reach out your hand that I may just touch it with mine.’
She stepped to the brink143 and stretched out her hand and fingers towards his, but not into them. The river was too wide.
‘Never mind,’ said Cytherea, her voice broken by agitation, ‘I must be going. God bless and keep you, my Edward! God bless you!’
‘I must touch you, I must press your hand,’ he said.
They came near—nearer—nearer still—their fingers met. There was a long firm clasp, so close and still that each hand could feel the other’s pulse throbbing144 beside its own.
‘My Cytherea! my stolen pet lamb!’
She glanced a mute farewell from her large perturbed145 eyes, turned, and ran up the garden without looking back. All was over between them. The river flowed on as quietly and obtusely146 as ever, and the minnows gathered again in their favourite spot as if they had never been disturbed.
Nobody indoors guessed from her countenance147 and bearing that her heart was near to breaking with the intensity148 of the misery which gnawed149 there. At these times a woman does not faint, or weep, or scream, as she will in the moment of sudden shocks. When lanced by a mental agony of such refined and special torture that it is indescribable by men’s words, she moves among her acquaintances much as before, and contrives150 so to cast her actions in the old moulds that she is only considered to be rather duller than usual.
5. Half-past Two To Five O’clock P.m.
Owen accompanied the newly-married couple to the railway-station, and in his anxiety to see the last of his sister, left the brougham and stood upon his crutches whilst the train was starting.
When the husband and wife were about to enter the railway-carriage they saw one of the porters looking frequently and furtively151 at them. He was pale, and apparently152 very ill.
‘Look at that poor sick man,’ said Cytherea compassionately153, ‘surely he ought not to be here.’
‘He’s been very queer today, madam, very queer,’ another porter answered. ‘He do hardly hear when he’s spoken to, and d’ seem giddy, or as if something was on his mind. He’s been like it for this month past, but nothing so bad as he is today.’
‘Poor thing.’
She could not resist an innate154 desire to do some just thing on this most deceitful and wretched day of her life. Going up to him she gave him money, and told him to send to the old manor-house for wine or whatever he wanted.
The train moved off as the trembling man was murmuring his incoherent thanks. Owen waved his hand; Cytherea smiled back to him as if it were unknown to her that she wept all the while.
Owen was driven back to the Old House. But he could not rest in the lonely place. His conscience began to reproach him for having forced on the marriage of his sister with a little too much peremptoriness155. Taking up his crutches he went out of doors and wandered about the muddy roads with no object in view save that of getting rid of time.
The clouds which had hung so low and densely156 during the day cleared from the west just now as the sun was setting, calling forth a weakly twitter from a few small birds. Owen crawled down the path to the waterfall, and lingered thereabout till the solitude of the place oppressed him, when he turned back and into the road to the village. He was sad; he said to himself—
‘If there is ever any meaning in those heavy feelings which are called presentiments—and I don’t believe there is—there will be in mine today.... Poor little Cytherea!’
At that moment the last low rays of the sun touched the head and shoulders of a man who was approaching, and showed him up to Owen’s view. It was old Mr. Springrove. They had grown familiar with each other by reason of Owen’s visits to Knapwater during the past year. The farmer inquired how Owen’s foot was progressing, and was glad to see him so nimble again.
‘How is your son?’ said Owen mechanically.
‘He is at home, sitting by the fire,’ said the farmer, in a sad voice. ‘This morning he slipped indoors from God knows where, and there he sits and mopes, and thinks, and thinks, and presses his head so hard, that I can’t help feeling for him.’
‘Is he married?’ said Owen. Cytherea had feared to tell him of the interview in the garden.
‘No. I can’t quite understand how the matter rests.... Ah! Edward, too, who started with such promise; that he should now have become such a careless fellow—not a month in one place. There, Mr. Graye, I know what it is mainly owing to. If it hadn’t been for that heart affair, he might have done—but the less said about him the better. I don’t know what we should have done if Miss Aldclyffe had insisted upon the conditions of the leases. Your brother-inlaw, the steward, had a hand in making it light for us, I know, and I heartily158 thank him for it.’ He ceased speaking, and looked round at the sky.
‘Have you heard o’ what’s happened?’ he said suddenly; ‘I was just coming out to learn about it.’
‘I haven’t heard of anything.’
‘It is something very serious, though I don’t know what. All I know is what I heard a man call out bynow—that it very much concerns somebody who lives in the parish.’
It seems singular enough, even to minds who have no dim beliefs in adumbration159 and presentiment157, that at that moment not the shadow of a thought crossed Owen’s mind that the somebody whom the matter concerned might be himself, or any belonging to him. The event about to transpire161 was as portentous162 to the woman whose welfare was more dear to him than his own, as any, short of death itself, could possibly be; and ever afterwards, when he considered the effect of the knowledge the next half-hour conveyed to his brain, even his practical good sense could not refrain from wonder that he should have walked toward the village after hearing those words of the farmer, in so leisurely163 and unconcerned a way. ‘How unutterably mean must my intelligence have appeared to the eye of a foreseeing God,’ he frequently said in after-time. ‘Columbus on the eve of his discovery of a world was not so contemptibly164 unaware165.’
After a few additional words of common-place the farmer left him, and, as has been said, Owen proceeded slowly and indifferently towards the village.
The labouring men had just left work, and passed the park gate, which opened into the street as Owen came down towards it. They went along in a drift, earnestly talking, and were finally about to turn in at their respective doorways166. But upon seeing him they looked significantly at one another, and paused. He came into the road, on that side of the village-green which was opposite the row of cottages, and turned round to the right. When Owen turned, all eyes turned; one or two men went hurriedly indoors, and afterwards appeared at the doorstep with their wives, who also contemplated167 him, talking as they looked. They seemed uncertain how to act in some matter.
‘If they want me, surely they will call me,’ he thought, wondering more and more. He could no longer doubt that he was connected with the subject of their discourse168.
The first who approached him was a boy.
‘What has occurred?’ said Owen.
‘O, a man ha’ got crazy-religious, and sent for the pa’son.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, sir. He wished he was dead, he said, and he’s almost out of his mind wi’ wishen it so much. That was before Mr. Raunham came.’
‘Who is he?’ said Owen.
‘Joseph Chinney, one of the railway-porters; he used to be night-porter.’
‘Ah—the man who was ill this afternoon; by the way, he was told to come to the Old House for something, but he hasn’t been. But has anything else happened—anything that concerns the wedding today?’
‘No, sir.’
Concluding that the connection which had seemed to be traced between himself and the event must in some way have arisen from Cytherea’s friendliness169 towards the man, Owen turned about and went homewards in a much quieter frame of mind—yet scarcely satisfied with the solution. The route he had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened the gate.
Five minutes before this point of time, Edward Springrove was looking over one of his father’s fields at an outlying hamlet of three or four cottages some mile and a half distant. A turnpike-gate was close by the gate of the field.
The carrier to Casterbridge came up as Edward stepped into the road, and jumped down from the van to pay toll170. He recognized Springrove. ‘This is a pretty set-to in your place, sir,’ he said. ‘You don’t know about it, I suppose?’
‘What?’ said Springrove.
The carrier paid his dues, came up to Edward, and spoke ten words in a confidential171 whisper: then sprang upon the shafts172 of his vehicle, gave a clinching173 nod of significance to Springrove, and rattled away.
Edward turned pale with the intelligence. His first thought was, ‘Bring her home!’
The next—did Owen Graye know what had been discovered? He probably did by that time, but no risks of probability must be run by a woman he loved dearer than all the world besides. He would at any rate make perfectly174 sure that her brother was in possession of the knowledge, by telling it him with his own lips.
Off he ran in the direction of the old manor-house.
The path was across arable139 land, and was ploughed up with the rest of the field every autumn, after which it was trodden out afresh. The thaw had so loosened the soft earth, that lumps of stiff mud were lifted by his feet at every leap he took, and flung against him by his rapid motion, as it were doggedly175 impeding176 him, and increasing tenfold the customary effort of running,
But he ran on—uphill, and downhill, the same pace alike—like the shadow of a cloud. His nearest direction, too, like Owen’s, was through the dairy-barton, and as Owen entered it he saw the figure of Edward rapidly descending177 the opposite hill, at a distance of two or three hundred yards. Owen advanced amid the cows.
The dairyman, who had hitherto been talking loudly on some absorbing subject to the maids and men milking around him, turned his face towards the head of the cow when Owen passed, and ceased speaking.
Owen approached him and said—
‘A singular thing has happened, I hear. The man is not insane, I suppose?’
‘Not he—he’s sensible enough,’ said the dairyman, and paused. He was a man noisy with his associates—stolid and taciturn with strangers.
‘Is it true that he is Chinney, the railway-porter?’
‘That’s the man, sir.’ The maids and men sitting under the cows were all attentively178 listening to this discourse, milking irregularly, and softly directing the jets against the sides of the pail.
Owen could contain himself no longer, much as his mind dreaded anything of the nature of ridicule179. ‘The people all seem to look at me, as if something seriously concerned me; is it this stupid matter, or what is it?’
‘Surely, sir, you know better than anybody else if such a strange thing concerns you.’
‘What strange thing?’
‘Don’t you know! His confessing to Parson Raunham.’
‘What did he confess? Tell me.’
‘If you really ha’n’t heard, ’tis this. He was as usual on duty at the station on the night of the fire last year, otherwise he wouldn’t ha’ known it.’
‘Known what? For God’s sake tell, man!’
But at this instant the two opposite gates of the dairy-yard, one on the east, the other on the west side, slammed almost simultaneously180.
The rector from one, Springrove from the other, came striding across the barton.
Edward was nearest, and spoke first. He said in a low voice: ‘Your sister is not legally married! His first wife is still living! How it comes out I don’t know!’
‘O, here you are at last, Mr. Graye, thank Heaven!’ said the rector breathlessly. ‘I have been to the Old House, and then to Miss Aldclyffe’s looking for you—something very extraordinary.’ He beckoned181 to Owen, afterwards included Springrove in his glance, and the three stepped aside together.
‘A porter at the station. He was a curious nervous man. He had been in a strange state all day, but he wouldn’t go home. Your sister was kind to him, it seems, this afternoon. When she and her husband had gone, he went on with his work, shifting luggage-vans. Well, he got in the way, as if he were quite lost to what was going on, and they sent him home at last. Then he wished to see me. I went directly. There was something on his mind, he said, and told it. About the time when the fire of last November twelvemonth was got under, whilst he was by himself in the porter’s room, almost asleep, somebody came to the station and tried to open the door. He went out and found the person to be the lady he had accompanied to Carriford earlier in the evening, Mrs. Manston. She asked, when would be another train to London? The first the next morning, he told her, was at a quarter-past six o’clock from Budmouth, but that it was express, and didn’t stop at Carriford Road—it didn’t stop till it got to Anglebury. “How far is it to Anglebury?” she said. He told her, and she thanked him, and went away up the line. In a short time she ran back and took out her purse. “Don’t on any account say a word in the village or anywhere that I have been here, or a single breath about me—I’m ashamed ever to have come.” He promised; she took out two sovereigns. “Swear it on the Testament182 in the waiting-room,” she said, “and I’ll pay you these.” He got the book, took an oath upon it, received the money, and she left him. He was off duty at half-past five. He has kept silence all through the intervening time till now, but lately the knowledge he possessed183 weighed heavily upon his conscience and weak mind. Yet the nearer came the wedding-day, the more he feared to tell. The actual marriage filled him with remorse184. He says your sister’s kindness afterwards was like a knife going through his heart. He thought he had ruined her.’
‘But whatever can be done? Why didn’t he speak sooner?’ cried Owen.
‘He actually called at my house twice yesterday,’ the rector continued, ‘resolved, it seems, to unburden his mind. I was out both times—he left no message, and, they say, he looked relieved that his object was defeated. Then he says he resolved to come to you at the Old House last night—started, reached the door, and dreaded to knock—and then went home again.’
‘Here will be a tale for the newsmongers of the county,’ said Owen bitterly. ‘The idea of his not opening his mouth sooner—the criminality of the thing!’
‘Ah, that’s the inconsistency of a weak nature. But now that it is put to us in this way, how much more probable it seems that she should have escaped than have been burnt—’
‘You will, of course, go straight to Mr. Manston, and ask him what it all means?’ Edward interrupted.
‘Of course I shall! Manston has no right to carry off my sister unless he’s her husband,’ said Owen. ‘I shall go and separate them.’
‘Certainly you will,’ said the rector.
‘Where’s the man?’
‘In his cottage.’
”Tis no use going to him, either. I must go off at once and overtake them—lay the case before Manston, and ask him for additional and certain proofs of his first wife’s death. An up-train passes soon, I think.’
‘Where have they gone?’ said Edward.
‘To Paris—as far as Southampton this afternoon, to proceed tomorrow morning.’
‘Where in Southampton?’
‘I really don’t know—some hotel. I only have their Paris address. But I shall find them by making a few inquiries185.’
The rector had in the meantime been taking out his pocket-book, and now opened it at the first page, whereon it was his custom every month to gum a small railway time-table—cut from the local newspaper.
‘The afternoon express is just gone,’ he said, holding open the page, ‘and the next train to Southampton passes at ten minutes to six o’clock. Now it wants—let me see—five-and-forty minutes to that time. Mr. Graye, my advice is that you come with me to the porter’s cottage, where I will shortly write out the substance of what he has said, and get him to sign it. You will then have far better grounds for interfering186 between Mr. and Mrs. Manston than if you went to them with a mere hearsay187 story.’
The suggestion seemed a good one. ‘Yes, there will be time before the train starts,’ said Owen.
Edward had been musing188 restlessly.
‘Let me go to Southampton in your place, on account of your lameness189?’ he said suddenly to Graye.
‘I am much obliged to you, but I think I can scarcely accept the offer,’ returned Owen coldly. ‘Mr. Manston is an honourable190 man, and I had much better see him myself.’
‘There is no doubt,’ said Mr. Raunham, ‘that the death of his wife was fully59 believed in by himself.’
‘None whatever,’ said Owen; ‘and the news must be broken to him, and the question of other proofs asked, in a friendly way. It would not do for Mr. Springrove to appear in the case at all.’ He still spoke rather coldly; the recollection of the attachment191 between his sister and Edward was not a pleasant one to him.
‘You will never find them,’ said Edward. ‘You have never been to Southampton, and I know every house there.’
‘That makes little difference,’ said the rector; ‘he will have a cab. Certainly Mr. Graye is the proper man to go on the errand.’
‘Stay; I’ll telegraph to ask them to meet me when I arrive at the terminus,’ said Owen; ‘that is, if their train has not already arrived.’
Mr. Raunham pulled out his pocket-book again. ‘The two-thirty train reached Southampton a quarter of an hour ago,’ he said.
It was too late to catch them at the station. Nevertheless, the rector suggested that it would be worth while to direct a message to ‘all the respectable hotels in Southampton,’ on the chance of its finding them, and thus saving a deal of personal labour to Owen in searching about the place.
‘I’ll go and telegraph, whilst you return to the man,’ said Edward—an offer which was accepted. Graye and the rector then turned off in the direction of the porter’s cottage.
Edward, to despatch192 the message at once, hurriedly followed the road towards the station, still restlessly thinking. All Owen’s proceedings were based on the assumption, natural under the circumstances, of Manston’s good faith, and that he would readily acquiesce193 in any arrangement which should clear up the mystery. ‘But,’ thought Edward, ‘suppose—and Heaven forgive me, I cannot help supposing it—that Manston is not that honourable man, what will a young and inexperienced fellow like Owen do? Will he not be hoodwinked by some specious194 story or another, framed to last till Manston gets tired of poor Cytherea? And then the disclosure of the truth will ruin and blacken both their futures195 irremediably.’
However, he proceeded to execute his commission. This he put in the form of a simple request from Owen to Manston, that Manston would come to the Southampton platform, and wait for Owen’s arrival, as he valued his reputation. The message was directed as the rector had suggested, Edward guaranteeing to the clerk who sent it off that every expense connected with the search would be paid.
No sooner had the telegram been despatched than his heart sank within him at the want of foresight196 shown in sending it. Had Manston, all the time, a knowledge that his first wife lived, the telegram would be a forewarning which might enable him to defeat Owen still more signally.
Whilst the machine was still giving off its multitudinous series of raps, Edward heard a powerful rush under the shed outside, followed by a long sonorous197 creak. It was a train of some sort, stealing softly into the station, and it was an up-train. There was the ring of a bell. It was certainly a passenger train.
Yet the booking-office window was closed.
‘Ho, ho, John, seventeen minutes after time and only three stations up the line. The incline again?’ The voice was the stationmaster’s, and the reply seemed to come from the guard.
‘Yes, the other side of the cutting. The thaw has made it all in a perfect cloud of fog, and the rails are as slippery as glass. We had to bring them through the cutting at twice.’
‘Anybody else for the four-forty-five express?’ the voice continued. The few passengers, having crossed over to the other side long before this time, had taken their places at once.
A conviction suddenly broke in upon Edward’s mind; then a wish overwhelmed him. The conviction—as startling as it was sudden—was that Manston was a villain198, who at some earlier time had discovered that his wife lived, and had bribed199 her to keep out of sight, that he might possess Cytherea. The wish was—to proceed at once by this very train that was starting, find Manston before he would expect from the words of the telegram (if he got it) that anybody from Carriford could be with him—charge him boldly with the crime, and trust to his consequent confusion (if he were guilty) for a solution of the extraordinary riddle200, and the release of Cytherea!
The ticket-office had been locked up at the expiration201 of the time at which the train was due. Rushing out as the guard blew his whistle, Edward opened the door of a carriage and leapt in. The train moved along, and he was soon out of sight.
Springrove had long since passed that peculiar line which lies across the course of falling in love—if, indeed, it may not be called the initial itself of the complete passion—a longing160 to cherish; when the woman is shifted in a man’s mind from the region of mere admiration202 to the region of warm fellowship. At this assumption of her nature, she changes to him in tone, hue203, and expression. All about the loved one that said ‘She’ before, says ‘We’ now. Eyes that were to be subdued204 become eyes to be feared for: a brain that was to be probed by cynicism becomes a brain that is to be tenderly assisted; feet that were to be tested in the dance become feet that are not to be distressed205; the once-criticized accent, manner, and dress, become the clients of a special pleader.
6. Five To Eight O’clock P.m.
Now that he was fairly on the track, and had begun to cool down, Edward remembered that he had nothing to show—no legal authority whatever to question Manston or interfere206 between him and Cytherea as husband and wife. He now saw the wisdom of the rector in obtaining a signed confession207 from the porter. The document would not be a death-bed confession—perhaps not worth anything legally—but it would be held by Owen; and he alone, as Cytherea’s natural guardian208, could separate them on the mere ground of an unproved probability, or what might perhaps be called the hallucination of an idiot. Edward himself, however, was as firmly convinced as the rector had been of the truth of the man’s story, and paced backward and forward the solitary209 compartment210 as the train wound through the dark heathery plains, the mazy woods, and moaning coppices, as resolved as ever to pounce211 on Manston, and charge him with the crime during the critical interval212 between the reception of the telegram and the hour at which Owen’s train would arrive—trusting to circumstances for what he should say and do afterwards, but making up his mind to be a ready second to Owen in any emergency that might arise.
At thirty-three minutes past seven he stood on the platform of the station at Southampton—a clear hour before the train containing Owen could possibly arrive.
Making a few inquiries here, but too impatient to pursue his investigation213 carefully and inductively, he went into the town.
At the expiration of another half-hour he had visited seven hotels and inns, large and small, asking the same questions at each, and always receiving the same reply—nobody of that name, or answering to that description, had been there. A boy from the telegraph-office had called, asking for the same persons, if they recollected214 rightly.
He reflected awhile, struck again by a painful thought that they might possibly have decided to cross the Channel by the night-boat. Then he hastened off to another quarter of the town to pursue his inquiries among hotels of the more old-fashioned and quiet class. His stained and weary appearance obtained for him but a modicum215 of civility, wherever he went, which made his task yet more difficult. He called at three several houses in this neighbourhood, with the same result as before. He entered the door of the fourth house whilst the clock of the nearest church was striking eight.
‘Have a tall gentleman named Manston, and a young wife arrived here this evening?’ he asked again, in words which had grown odd to his ears from very familiarity.
‘A new-married couple, did you say?’
‘They are, though I didn’t say so.’
‘They have taken a sitting-room216 and bedroom, number thirteen.’
‘Are they indoors?’
‘I don’t know. Eliza!’
‘Yes, m’m.’
‘See if number thirteen is in-that gentleman and his wife.’
‘Yes, m’m.’
‘Has any telegram come for them?’ said Edward, when the maid had gone on her errand.
‘No—nothing that I know of.’
‘Somebody did come and ask if a Mr. and Mrs. Masters, or some such name, were here this evening,’ said another voice from the back of the bar-parlour.
‘And did they get the message?’
‘Of course they did not—they were not here—they didn’t come till half-an-hour after that. The man who made inquiries left no message. I told them when they came that they, or a name something like theirs, had been asked for, but they didn’t seem to understand why it should be, and so the matter dropped.’
The chambermaid came back. ‘The gentleman is not in, but the lady is. Who shall I say?’
‘Nobody,’ said Edward. For it now became necessary to reflect upon his method of proceeding. His object in finding their whereabouts—apart from the wish to assist Owen—had been to see Manston, ask him flatly for an explanation, and confirm the request of the message in the presence of Cytherea—so as to prevent the possibility of the steward’s palming off a story upon Cytherea, or eluding217 her brother when he came. But here were two important modifications218 of the expected condition of affairs. The telegram had not been received, and Cytherea was in the house alone.
He hesitated as to the propriety219 of intruding220 upon her in Manston’s absence. Besides, the women at the bottom of the stairs would see him—his intrusion would seem odd—and Manston might return at any moment. He certainly might call, and wait for Manston with the accusation221 upon his tongue, as he had intended. But it was a doubtful course. That idea had been based upon the assumption that Cytherea was not married. If the first wife were really dead after all—and he felt sick at the thought—Cytherea as the steward’s wife might in after-years—perhaps, at once—be subjected to indignity222 and cruelty on account of an old lover’s interference now.
Yes, perhaps the announcement would come most properly and safely for her from her brother Owen, the time of whose arrival had almost expired.
But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage were quite deserted223. He and his errand had as completely died from the minds of the attendants as if they had never been. There was absolutely nothing between him and Cytherea’s presence. Reason was powerless now; he must see her—right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston—offensive to her brother or no. His lips must be the first to tell the alarming story to her. Who loved her as he! He went back lightly through the hall, up the stairs, two at a time, and followed the corridor till he came to the door numbered thirteen.
He knocked softly: nobody answered.
There was no time to lose if he would speak to Cytherea before Manston came. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. The lamp on the table burned low, and showed writing materials open beside it; the chief light came from the fire, the direct rays of which were obscured by a sweet familiar outline of head and shoulders—still as precious to him as ever.
7. A Quarter-past Eight O’clock P.m.
There is an attitude—approximatively called pensive—in which the soul of a human being, and especially of a woman, dominates outwardly and expresses its presence so strongly, that the intangible essence seems more apparent than the body itself. This was Cytherea’s expression now. What old days and sunny eves at Budmouth Bay was she picturing? Her reverie had caused her not to notice his knock.
‘Cytherea!’ he said softly.
She let drop her hand, and turned her head, evidently thinking that her visitor could be no other than Manston, yet puzzled at the voice.
There was no preface on Springrove’s tongue; he forgot his position—hers—that he had come to ask quietly if Manston had other proofs of being a widower—everything—and jumped to a conclusion.
‘You are not his wife, Cytherea—come away, he has a wife living!’ he cried in an agitated224 whisper. ‘Owen will be here directly.’
She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of them afterwards. ‘Not his wife? O, what is it—what—who is living?’ She awoke by degrees. ‘What must I do? Edward, it is you! Why did you come? Where is Owen?’
‘What has Manston shown you in proof of the death of his other wife? Tell me quick.’
‘Nothing—we have never spoken of the subject. Where is my brother Owen? I want him, I want him!’
‘He is coming by-and-by. Come to the station to meet him—do,’ implored Springrove. ‘If Mr. Manston comes, he will keep you from me: I am nobody,’ he added bitterly, feeling the reproach her words had faintly shadowed forth.
‘Mr. Manston is only gone out to post a letter he has just written,’ she said, and without being distinctly cognizant of the action, she wildly looked for her bonnet225 and cloak, and began putting them on, but in the act of fastening them uttered a spasmodic cry.
‘No, I’ll not go out with you,’ she said, flinging the articles down again. Running to the door she flitted along the passage, and downstairs.
‘Give me a private room—quite private,’ she said breathlessly to some one below.
‘Number twelve is a single room, madam, and unoccupied,’ said some tongue in astonishment226.
Without waiting for any person to show her into it, Cytherea hurried upstairs again, brushed through the corridor, entered the room specified227, and closed the door. Edward heard her sob228 out—
‘Nobody but Owen shall speak to me—nobody!’
‘He will be here directly,’ said Springrove, close against the panel, and then went towards the stairs. He had seen her; it was enough.
He descended229, stepped into the street, and hastened to meet Owen at the railway-station.
As for the poor maiden who had received the news, she knew not what to think. She listened till the echo of Edward’s footsteps had died away, then bowed her face upon the bed. Her sudden impulse had been to escape from sight. Her weariness after the unwonted strain, mental and bodily, which had been put upon her by the scenes she had passed through during the long day, rendered her much more timid and shaken by her position than she would naturally have been. She thought and thought of that single fact which had been told her—that the first Mrs. Manston was still living—till her brain seemed ready to burst its confinement230 with excess of throbbing. It was only natural that she should, by degrees, be unable to separate the discovery, which was matter of fact, from the suspicion of treachery on her husband’s part, which was only matter of inference. And thus there arose in her a personal fear of him.
‘Suppose he should come in now and seize me!’ This at first mere frenzied231 supposition grew by degrees to a definite horror of his presence, and especially of his intense gaze. Thus she raised herself to a heat of excitement, which was none the less real for being vented232 in no cry of any kind. No; she could not meet Manston’s eye alone, she would only see him in her brother’s company.
Almost delirious233 with this idea, she ran and locked the door to prevent all possibility of her intentions being nullified, or a look or word being flung at her by anybody whilst she knew not what she was.
8. Half-past Eight O’clock P.m.
Then Cytherea felt her way amid the darkness of the room till she came to the head of the bed, where she searched for the bell-rope and gave it a pull. Her summons was speedily answered by the landlady234 herself, whose curiosity to know the meaning of these strange proceedings knew no bounds. The landlady attempted to turn the handle of the door. Cytherea kept the door locked. ‘Please tell Mr. Manston when he comes that I am ill,’ she said from the inside, ‘and that I cannot see him.’
‘Certainly I will, madam,’ said the landlady. ‘Won’t you have a fire?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Nor a light?’
‘I don’t want one, thank you.’
‘Nor anything?’
‘Nothing.’
The landlady withdrew, thinking her visitor half insane.
Manston came in about five minutes later, and went at once up to the sitting-room, fully expecting to find his wife there. He looked round, rang, and was told the words Cytherea had said, that she was too ill to be seen.
‘She is in number twelve room,’ added the maid.
Manston was alarmed, and knocked at the door. ‘Cytherea!’
‘I am unwell, I cannot see you,’ she said.
‘Are you seriously ill, dearest? Surely not.’
‘No, not seriously.’
‘Let me come in; I will get a doctor.’
‘No, he can’t see me either.’
‘She won’t open the door, sir, not to nobody at all!’ said the chambermaid, with wonder-waiting eyes.
‘Hold your tongue, and be off!’ said Manston with a snap.
The maid vanished.
‘Come, Cytherea, this is foolish—indeed it is—not opening the door.... I cannot comprehend what can be the matter with you. Nor can a doctor either, unless he sees you.’
Her voice had trembled more and more at each answer she gave, but nothing could induce her to come out and confront him. Hating scenes, Manston went back to the sitting-room, greatly irritated and perplexed.
And there Cytherea from the adjoining room could hear him pacing up and down. She thought, ‘Suppose he insists upon seeing me—he probably may—and will burst open the door!’ This notion increased, and she sank into a corner in a half-somnolent state, but with ears alive to the slightest sound. Reason could not overthrow235 the delirious fancy that outside her door stood Manston and all the people in the hotel, waiting to laugh her to scorn.
9. Half-past Eight To Eleven P.m.
In the meantime, Springrove was pacing up and down the arrival platform of the railway-station. Half-past eight o’clock—the time at which Owen’s train was due—had come, and passed, but no train appeared.
‘When will the eight-thirty train be in?’ he asked of a man who was sweeping236 the mud from the steps.
‘She is not expected yet this hour.’
‘How is that?’
‘Christmas-time, you see, ’tis always so. People are running about to see their friends. The trains have been like it ever since Christmas Eve, and will be for another week yet.’
Edward again went on walking and waiting under the draughty roof. He found it utterly237 impossible to leave the spot. His mind was so intent upon the importance of meeting with Owen, and informing him of Cytherea’s whereabouts, that he could not but fancy Owen might leave the station unobserved if he turned his back, and become lost to him in the streets of the town.
The hour expired. Ten o’clock struck. ‘When will the train be in?’ said Edward to the telegraph clerk.
‘In five-and-thirty minutes. She’s now at L——. They have extra passengers, and the rails are bad today.’
At last, at a quarter to eleven, the train came in.
The first to alight from it was Owen, looking pale and cold. He casually238 glanced round upon the nearly deserted platform, and was hurrying to the outlet239, when his eyes fell upon Edward. At sight of his friend he was quite bewildered, and could not speak.
‘Here I am, Mr. Graye,’ said Edward cheerfully. ‘I have seen Cytherea, and she has been waiting for you these two or three hours.’
Owen took Edward’s hand, pressed it, and looked at him in silence. Such was the concentration of his mind, that not till many minutes after did he think of inquiring how Springrove had contrived240 to be there before him.
10. Eleven O’clock P.m.
On their arrival at the door of the hotel, it was arranged between Springrove and Graye that the latter only should enter, Edward waiting outside. Owen had remembered continually what his friend had frequently overlooked, that there was yet a possibility of his sister being Manston’s wife, and the recollection taught him to avoid any rashness in his proceedings which might lead to bitterness hereafter.
Entering the room, he found Manston sitting in the chair which had been occupied by Cytherea on Edward’s visit, three hours earlier. Before Owen had spoken, Manston arose, and stepping past him closed the door. His face appeared harassed—much more troubled than the slight circumstance which had as yet come to his knowledge seemed to account for.
Manston could form no reason for Owen’s presence, but intuitively linked it with Cytherea’s seclusion241. ‘Altogether this is most unseemly,’ he said, ‘whatever it may mean.’
‘Don’t think there is meant anything unfriendly by my coming here,’ said Owen earnestly; ‘but listen to this, and think if I could do otherwise than come.’
He took from his pocket the confession of Chinney the porter, as hastily written out by the vicar, and read it aloud. The aspects of Manston’s face whilst he listened to the opening words were strange, dark, and mysterious enough to have justified242 suspicions that no deceit could be too complicated for the possessor of such impulses, had there not overridden243 them all, as the reading went on, a new and irrepressible expression—one unmistakably honest. It was that of unqualified amazement244 in the steward’s mind at the news he heard. Owen looked up and saw it. The sight only confirmed him in the belief he had held throughout, in antagonism245 to Edward’s suspicions.
There could no longer be a shadow of doubt that if the first Mrs. Manston lived, her husband was ignorant of the fact. What he could have feared by his ghastly look at first, and now have ceased to fear, it was quite futile246 to conjecture247.
‘Now I do not for a moment doubt your complete ignorance of the whole matter; you cannot suppose for an instant that I do,’ said Owen when he had finished reading. ‘But is it not best for both that Cytherea should come back with me till the matter is cleared up? In fact, under the circumstances, no other course is left open to me than to request it.’
Whatever Manston’s original feelings had been, all in him now gave way to irritation248, and irritation to rage. He paced up and down the room till he had mastered it; then said in ordinary tones—
‘Certainly, I know no more than you and others know—it was a gratuitous249 unpleasantness in you to say you did not doubt me. Why should you, or anybody, have doubted me?’
‘Well, where is my sister?’ said Owen.
‘Locked in the next room.’
His own answer reminded Manston that Cytherea must, by some inscrutable means, have had an inkling of the event.
Owen had gone to the door of Cytherea’s room.
‘Cytherea, darling—’tis Owen,’ he said, outside the door. A rustling250 of clothes, soft footsteps, and a voice saying from the inside, ‘Is it really you, Owen,—is it really?’
‘It is.’
‘O, will you take care of me?’
‘Always.’
She unlocked the door, and retreated again. Manston came forward from the other room with a candle in his hand, as Owen pushed open the door.
Her frightened eyes were unnaturally251 large, and shone like stars in the darkness of the background, as the light fell upon them. She leapt up to Owen in one bound, her small taper252 fingers extended like the leaves of a lupine. Then she clasped her cold and trembling hands round his neck and shivered.
The sight of her again kindled253 all Manston’s passions into activity. ‘She shall not go with you,’ he said firmly, and stepping a pace or two closer, ‘unless you prove that she is not my wife; and you can’t do it!’
‘This is proof,’ said Owen, holding up the paper.
‘No proof at all,’ said Manston hotly. ”Tis not a death-bed confession, and those are the only things of the kind held as good evidence.’
‘Send for a lawyer,’ Owen returned, ‘and let him tell us the proper course to adopt.’
‘Never mind the law—let me go with Owen!’ cried Cytherea, still holding on to him. ‘You will let me go with him, won’t you, sir?’ she said, turning appealingly to Manston.
‘We’ll have it all right and square,’ said Manston, with more quietness. ‘I have no objection to your brother sending for a lawyer, if he wants to.’
It was getting on for twelve o’clock, but the proprietor254 of the hotel had not yet gone to bed on account of the mystery on the first floor, which was an occurrence unusual in the quiet family lodging35. Owen looked over the banisters, and saw him standing in the hall. It struck Graye that the wisest course would be to take the landlord to a certain extent into their confidence, appeal to his honour as a gentleman, and so on, in order to acquire the information he wanted, and also to prevent the episode of the evening from becoming a public piece of news. He called the landlord up to where they stood, and told him the main facts of the story.
The landlord was fortunately a quiet, prejudiced man, and a meditative255 smoker256.
‘I know the very man you want to see—the very man,’ he said, looking at the general features of the candle-flame. ‘Sharp as a needle, and not over-rich. Timms will put you all straight in no time—trust Timms for that.’
‘He’s in bed by this time for certain,’ said Owen.
‘Never mind that—Timms knows me, I know him. He’ll oblige me as a personal favour. Wait here a bit. Perhaps, too, he’s up at some party or another—he’s a nice, jovial257 fellow, sharp as a needle, too; mind you, sharp as a needle, too.’
He went downstairs, put on his overcoat, and left the house, the three persons most concerned entering the room, and standing motionless, awkward, and silent in the midst of it. Cytherea pictured to herself the long weary minutes she would have to stand there, whilst a sleepy man could be prepared for consultation258, till the constraint259 between them seemed unendurable to her—she could never last out the time. Owen was annoyed that Manston had not quietly arranged with him at once; Manston at Owen’s homeliness260 of idea in proposing to send for an attorney, as if he would be a touchstone of infallible proof.
Reflection was cut short by the approach of footsteps, and in a few moments the proprietor of the hotel entered, introducing his friend. ‘Mr. Timms has not been in bed,’ he said; ‘he had just returned from dining with a few friends, so there’s no trouble given. To save time I explained the matter as we came along.’
It occurred to Owen and Manston both that they might get a misty261 exposition of the law from Mr. Timms at that moment of concluding dinner with a few friends.
‘As far as I can see,’ said the lawyer, yawning, and turning his vision inward by main force, ‘it is quite a matter for private arrangement between the parties, whoever the parties are—at least at present. I speak more as a father than as a lawyer, it is true, but, let the young lady stay with her father, or guardian, safe out of shame’s way, until the mystery is sifted262, whatever the mystery is. Should the evidence prove to be false, or trumped263 up by anybody to get her away from you, her husband, you may sue them for the damages accruing264 from the delay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Manston, who had completely recovered his self-possession and common-sense; ‘let it all be settled by herself.’ Turning to Cytherea he whispered so softly that Owen did not hear the words—
‘Do you wish to go back with your brother, dearest, and leave me here miserable, and lonely, or will you stay with me, your own husband.’
‘I’ll go back with Owen.’
‘Very well.’ He relinquished265 his coaxing266 tone, and went on sternly: ‘And remember this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of deception267 in this thing as you are yourself. Do you believe me?’
‘I do,’ she said.
‘I had no shadow of suspicion that my first wife lived. I don’t think she does even now. Do you believe me?’
‘I believe you,’ she said.
‘And now, good-evening,’ he continued, opening the door and politely intimating to the three men standing by that there was no further necessity for their remaining in his room. ‘In three days I shall claim her.’
The lawyer and the hotel-keeper retired268 first. Owen, gathering269 up as much of his sister’s clothing as lay about the room, took her upon his arm, and followed them. Edward, to whom she owed everything, who had been left standing in the street like a dog without a home, was utterly forgotten. Owen paid the landlord and the lawyer for the trouble he had occasioned them, looked to the packing, and went to the door.
A fly, which somewhat unaccountably was seen lingering in front of the house, was called up, and Cytherea’s luggage put upon it.
‘Do you know of any hotel near the station that is open for night arrivals?’ Owen inquired of the driver.
‘A place has been bespoke270 for you, sir, at the White Unicorn—and the gentleman wished me to give you this.’
‘Bespoken by Springrove, who ordered the fly, of course,’ said Owen to himself. By the light of the street-lamp he read these lines, hurriedly traced in pencil:—
‘I have gone home by the mail-train. It is better for all parties that I should be out of the way. Tell Cytherea that I apologize for having caused her such unnecessary pain, as it seems I did—but it cannot be helped now. E.S.’
Owen handed his sister into the vehicle, and told the flyman to drive on.
‘Poor Springrove—I think we have served him rather badly,’ he said to Cytherea, repeating the words of the note to her.
A thrill of pleasure passed through her bosom271 as she listened to them. They were the genuine reproach of a lover to his mistress; the trifling272 coldness of her answer to him would have been noticed by no man who was only a friend. But, in entertaining that sweet thought, she had forgotten herself, and her position for the instant.
Was she still Manston’s wife—that was the terrible supposition, and her future seemed still a possible misery to her. For, on account of the late jarring accident, a life with Manston which would otherwise have been only a sadness, must become a burden of unutterable sorrow.
Then she thought of the misrepresentation and scandal that would ensue if she were no wife. One cause for thankfulness accompanied the reflection; Edward knew the truth.
They soon reached the quiet old inn, which had been selected for them by the forethought of the man who loved her well. Here they installed themselves for the night, arranging to go to Budmouth by the first train the next day.
At this hour Edward Springrove was fast approaching his native county on the wheels of the night-mail.
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1
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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3
varied
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adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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4
obedience
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n.服从,顺从 | |
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5
dictates
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n.命令,规定,要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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supremely
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adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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melancholy
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n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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desultory
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adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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surmises
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v.臆测,推断( surmise的第三人称单数 );揣测;猜想 | |
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11
inexplicable
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adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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doomed
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命定的 | |
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13
disturbances
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n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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14
precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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15
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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16
rattling
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adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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17
dice
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n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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smacking
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活泼的,发出响声的,精力充沛的 | |
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rattle
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v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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20
dilemma
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n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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21
strings
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n.弦 | |
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22
rattled
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慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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23
malefactor
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n.罪犯 | |
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24
vent
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n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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25
drizzle
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v.下毛毛雨;n.毛毛雨,蒙蒙细雨 | |
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hoary
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adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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shrubs
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灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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28
laden
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adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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boughs
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大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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30
bent
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n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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glistening
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adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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32
twig
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n.小树枝,嫩枝;v.理解 | |
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surgical
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adj.外科的,外科医生的,手术上的 | |
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34
crutches
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n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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35
lodging
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n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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proceeding
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n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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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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flicker
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vi./n.闪烁,摇曳,闪现 | |
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metallic
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adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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utensils
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器具,用具,器皿( utensil的名词复数 ); 器物 | |
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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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annihilating
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v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的现在分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
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45
nostrils
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鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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scent
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n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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wholesome
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adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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48
edible
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n.食品,食物;adj.可食用的 | |
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49
slippers
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n. 拖鞋 | |
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50
hemmed
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缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 ); 包围 | |
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51
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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52
commiseration
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n.怜悯,同情 | |
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53
tongs
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n.钳;夹子 | |
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54
leaven
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v.使发酵;n.酵母;影响 | |
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55
subsided
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v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );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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56
dribbled
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v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 );(使液体)滴下或作细流;运球,带球 | |
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57
crater
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n.火山口,弹坑 | |
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58
perplexed
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adj.不知所措的 | |
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59
fully
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adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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60
pate
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n.头顶;光顶 | |
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nether
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adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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62
forsook
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forsake的过去式 | |
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63
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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64
puffed
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adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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65
tenant
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n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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66
dependence
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n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
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67
prick
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v.刺伤,刺痛,刺孔;n.刺伤,刺痛 | |
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68
providence
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n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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69
logic
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n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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70
malice
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n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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71
steward
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n.乘务员,服务员;看管人;膳食管理员 | |
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72
chatter
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vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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73
soothingly
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adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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74
mangled
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vt.乱砍(mangle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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75
remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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76
thaw
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v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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77
nave
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n.教堂的中部;本堂 | |
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78
rendering
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n.表现,描写 | |
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79
constrained
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adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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80
prettily
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adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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81
coxcombry
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n.(男子的)虚浮,浮夸,爱打扮 | |
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82
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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83
chestnut
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n.栗树,栗子 | |
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84
chapel
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n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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85
ERECTED
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adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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86
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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87
illuminated
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adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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88
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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89
inscribed
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v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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90
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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91
undone
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a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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92
revivals
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n.复活( revival的名词复数 );再生;复兴;(老戏多年后)重新上演 | |
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93
revival
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n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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94
potent
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adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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95
rekindling
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v.使再燃( rekindle的现在分词 ) | |
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96
maiden
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n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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97
breach
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n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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98
miserable
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adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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99
misery
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n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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100
plaintive
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adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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101
applied
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adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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102
intelligible
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adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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103
hindrance
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n.妨碍,障碍 | |
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104
apparition
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n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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105
enraged
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使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 ); 歜; 激愤 | |
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106
privately
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adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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107
severely
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adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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108
vexed
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adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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109
stonily
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石头地,冷酷地 | |
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110
hysterically
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ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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111
acting
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n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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112
frailty
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n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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113
condemn
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vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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114
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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115
dreads
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n.恐惧,畏惧( dread的名词复数 );令人恐惧的事物v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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117
proceedings
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n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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118
instinctively
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adv.本能地 | |
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119
agitation
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n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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120
conservatory
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n.温室,音乐学院;adj.保存性的,有保存力的 | |
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121
whim
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n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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122
thither
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adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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123
derives
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v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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124
solitude
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n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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125
ivy
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n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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126
considerably
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adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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127
depressed
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adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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128
inverted
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adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
implored
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恳求或乞求(某人)( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
desperately
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adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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131
distress
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n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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132
faltered
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(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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133
strife
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n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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134
immediate
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adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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135
adherence
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n.信奉,依附,坚持,固着 | |
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136
pauperism
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n.有被救济的资格,贫困 | |
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137
sleepless
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adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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138
reiterated
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反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
arable
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adj.可耕的,适合种植的 | |
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140
harassing
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v.侵扰,骚扰( harass的现在分词 );不断攻击(敌人) | |
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141
persuasion
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n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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142
abide
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vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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143
brink
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n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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144
throbbing
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a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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145
perturbed
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adj.烦燥不安的v.使(某人)烦恼,不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
obtusely
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adv.钝地,圆头地 | |
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147
countenance
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n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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148
intensity
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n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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149
gnawed
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咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 ); (长时间) 折磨某人; (使)苦恼; (长时间)危害某事物 | |
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150
contrives
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(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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151
furtively
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adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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152
apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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153
compassionately
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adv.表示怜悯地,有同情心地 | |
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154
innate
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adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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155
peremptoriness
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n.专横,强制,武断 | |
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156
densely
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ad.密集地;浓厚地 | |
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157
presentiment
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n.预感,预觉 | |
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158
heartily
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adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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159
adumbration
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n.预示,预兆 | |
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160
longing
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n.(for)渴望 | |
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161
transpire
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v.(使)蒸发,(使)排出 ;泄露,公开 | |
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162
portentous
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adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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163
leisurely
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adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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164
contemptibly
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adv.卑鄙地,下贱地 | |
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165
unaware
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a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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166
doorways
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n.门口,门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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167
contemplated
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adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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168
discourse
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n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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169
friendliness
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n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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170
toll
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n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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171
confidential
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adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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172
shafts
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n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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173
clinching
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v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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174
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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175
doggedly
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adv.顽强地,固执地 | |
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176
impeding
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a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的,临近的 | |
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177
descending
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n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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178
attentively
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adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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179
ridicule
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v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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180
simultaneously
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adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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181
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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182
testament
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n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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183
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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184
remorse
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n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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185
inquiries
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n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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186
interfering
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adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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187
hearsay
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n.谣传,风闻 | |
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188
musing
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n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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189
lameness
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n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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190
honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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191
attachment
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n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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192
despatch
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n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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193
acquiesce
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vi.默许,顺从,同意 | |
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194
specious
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adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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195
futures
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n.期货,期货交易 | |
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196
foresight
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n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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197
sonorous
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adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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198
villain
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n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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199
bribed
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v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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200
riddle
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n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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201
expiration
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n.终结,期满,呼气,呼出物 | |
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202
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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203
hue
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n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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204
subdued
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adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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205
distressed
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痛苦的 | |
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206
interfere
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v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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207
confession
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n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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208
guardian
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n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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209
solitary
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adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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210
compartment
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n.卧车包房,隔间;分隔的空间 | |
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211
pounce
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n.猛扑;v.猛扑,突然袭击,欣然同意 | |
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212
interval
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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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213
investigation
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n.调查,调查研究 | |
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214
recollected
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adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
modicum
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n.少量,一小份 | |
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216
sitting-room
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n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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217
eluding
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v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的现在分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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218
modifications
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n.缓和( modification的名词复数 );限制;更改;改变 | |
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219
propriety
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n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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220
intruding
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v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的现在分词);把…强加于 | |
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221
accusation
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n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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222
indignity
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n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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223
deserted
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adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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224
agitated
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adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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225
bonnet
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n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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226
astonishment
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n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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227
specified
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adj.特定的 | |
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228
sob
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n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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229
descended
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a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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230
confinement
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n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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231
frenzied
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a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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232
vented
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表达,发泄(感情,尤指愤怒)( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233
delirious
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adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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234
landlady
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n.女房东,女地主 | |
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235
overthrow
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v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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236
sweeping
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adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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237
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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238
casually
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adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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239
outlet
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n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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240
contrived
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adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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241
seclusion
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n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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242
justified
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a.正当的,有理的 | |
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243
overridden
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越控( override的过去分词 ); (以权力)否决; 优先于; 比…更重要 | |
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244
amazement
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n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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245
antagonism
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n.对抗,敌对,对立 | |
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246
futile
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adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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247
conjecture
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n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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248
irritation
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n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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249
gratuitous
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adj.无偿的,免费的;无缘无故的,不必要的 | |
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250
rustling
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n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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251
unnaturally
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adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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252
taper
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n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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253
kindled
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(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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254
proprietor
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n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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255
meditative
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adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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256
smoker
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n.吸烟者,吸烟车厢,吸烟室 | |
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257
jovial
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adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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258
consultation
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n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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259
constraint
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n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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260
homeliness
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n.简朴,朴实;相貌平平 | |
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261
misty
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adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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262
sifted
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v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 );筛滤;细查;详审 | |
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263
trumped
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v.(牌戏)出王牌赢(一牌或一墩)( trump的过去分词 );吹号公告,吹号庆祝;吹喇叭;捏造 | |
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264
accruing
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v.增加( accrue的现在分词 );(通过自然增长)产生;获得;(使钱款、债务)积累 | |
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265
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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266
coaxing
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v.哄,用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 );巧言骗取;哄劝,劝诱;“锻炼”效应 | |
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267
deception
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n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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268
retired
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adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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269
gathering
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n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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270
bespoke
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adj.(产品)订做的;专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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271
bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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272
trifling
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adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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