1. from the Twelfth of February to the second of March
Owen Graye’s recovery from the illness that had incapacitated him for so long a time was, professionally, the dawn of a brighter prospect1 for him in every direction, though the change was at first very gradual, and his movements and efforts were little more than mechanical. With the lengthening2 of the days, and the revival3 of building operations for the forthcoming season, he saw himself, for the first time, on a road which, pursued with care, would probably lead to a comfortable income at some future day. But he was still very low down the hill as yet.
The first undertaking5 entrusted6 to him in the new year began about a month after his return from Southampton. Mr. Gradfield had come back to him in the wake of his restored health, and offered him the superintendence, as clerk of works, of a church which was to be nearly rebuilt at the village of Tolchurch, fifteen or sixteen miles from Budmouth, and about half that distance from Carriford.
‘I am now being paid at the rate of a hundred and fifty pounds a year,’ he said to his sister in a burst of thankfulness, ‘and you shall never, Cytherea, be at any tyrannous lady’s beck and call again as long as I live. Never pine or think about what has happened, dear; it’s no disgrace to you. Cheer up; you’ll be somebody’s happy wife yet.’
He did not say Edward Springrove’s, for, greatly to his disappointment, a report had reached his ears that the friend to whom Cytherea owed so much had been about to pack up his things and sail for Australia. However, this was before the uncertainty7 concerning Mrs. Manston’s existence had been dispersed8 by her return, a phenomenon that altered the cloudy relationship in which Cytherea had lately been standing9 towards her old lover, to one of distinctness; which result would have been delightful10 but for circumstances about to be mentioned.
Cytherea was still pale from her recent illness, and still greatly dejected. Until the news of Mrs. Manston’s return had reached them, she had kept herself closely shut up during the day-time, never venturing forth4 except at night. Sleeping and waking she had been in perpetual dread12 lest she should still be claimed by a man whom, only a few weeks earlier, she had regarded in the light of a future husband with quiet assent13, not unmixed with cheerfulness.
But the removal of the uneasiness in this direction—by Mrs. Manston’s arrival, and her own consequent freedom—had been the imposition of pain in another. Utterly14 fictitious15 details of the finding of Cytherea and Manston had been invented and circulated, unavoidably reaching her ears in the course of time. Thus the freedom brought no happiness, and it seemed well-nigh impossible that she could ever again show herself the sparkling creature she once had been—
On this account, and for the first time in his life, Owen made a point of concealing18 from her the real state of his feelings with regard to the unhappy transaction. He writhed19 in secret under the humiliation20 to which they had been subjected, till the resentment21 it gave rise to, and for which there was no vent11, was sometimes beyond endurance; it induced a mood that did serious damage to the material and plodding22 perseverance23 necessary if he would secure permanently24 the comforts of a home for them.
They gave up their lodgings25 at Budmouth, and went to Tolchurch as soon as the work commenced.
Here they were domiciled in one half of an old farmhouse26, standing not far from the ivy-covered church tower (which was all that was to remain of the original structure). The long steep roof of this picturesque27 dwelling28 sloped nearly down to the ground, the old tiles that covered it being overgrown with rich olive-hued moss29. New red tiles in twos and threes had been used for patching the holes wrought30 by decay, lighting31 up the whole harmonious32 surface with dots of brilliant scarlet33.
The chief internal features of this snug34 abode35 were a wide fireplace, enormous cupboards, a brown settle, and several sketches36 on the wood mantel, done in outline with the point of a hot poker—the subjects mainly consisting of old men walking painfully erect37, with a curly-tailed dog behind.
After a week or two of residence in Tolchurch, and rambles38 amid the quaint39 scenery circumscribing40 it, a tranquillity41 began to spread itself through the mind of the maiden42, which Graye hoped would be a preface to her complete restoration. She felt ready and willing to live the whole remainder of her days in the retirement43 of their present quarters: she began to sing about the house in low tremulous snatches—
‘"—I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble44 may hope for it here.”’
2. The Third of March
Her convalescence45 had arrived at this point on a certain evening towards the end of the winter, when Owen had come in from the building hard by, and was changing his muddy boots for slippers46, previously47 to sitting down to toast and tea.
A prolonged though quiet knocking came to the door.
The only person who ever knocked at their door in that way was the new vicar, the prime mover in the church-building. But he was that evening dining with the Squire48.
Cytherea was uneasy at the sound—she did not know why, unless it was because her nerves were weakened by the sickness she had undergone. Instead of opening the door she ran out of the room, and upstairs.
‘What nonsense, Cytherea!’ said her brother, going to the door.
Edward Springrove stood in the grey light outside.
‘Capital—not gone to Australia, and not going, of course!’ cried Owen. ‘What’s the use of going to such a place as that?—I never believed that you would.’
‘I am going back to London again tomorrow,’ said Springrove, ‘and I called to say a word before going. Where is... ?’
‘She has just run upstairs. Come in-never mind scraping your shoes—we are regular cottagers now; stone floor, yawning chimney-corner, and all, you see.’
‘Mrs. Manston came,’ said Edward awkwardly, when he had sat down in the chimney-corner by preference.
‘Yes.’ At mention of one of his skeletons Owen lost his blitheness49 at once, and fell into a reverie.
‘The history of her escape is very simple.’
‘Very.’
‘You know I always had wondered, when my father was telling any of the circumstances of the fire to me, how it could be that a woman could sleep so soundly as to be unaware50 of her horrid51 position till it was too late even to give shout or sound of any kind.’
‘Well, I think that would have been possible, considering her long wearisome journey. People have often been suffocated52 in their beds before they awoke. But it was hardly likely a body would be completely burnt to ashes as this was assumed to be, though nobody seemed to see it at the time. And how positive the surgeon was too, about those bits of bone! Why he should have been so, nobody can tell. I cannot help saying that if it has ever been possible to find pure stupidity incarnate53, it was in that jury of Carriford. There existed in the mass the stupidity of twelve and not the penetration54 of one.’
‘Is she quite well?’ said Springrove.
‘Who?—O, my sister, Cytherea. Thank you, nearly well, now. I’ll call her.’
‘Wait one minute. I have a word to say to you.’
Owen sat down again.
‘You know, without my saying it, that I love Cytherea as dearly as ever.... I think she loves me too,—does she really?’
There was in Owen enough of that worldly policy on the subject of matchmaking which naturally resides in the breasts of parents and guardians55, to give him a certain caution in replying, and, younger as he was by five years than Edward, it had an odd effect.
‘Well, she may possibly love you still,’ he said, as if rather in doubt as to the truth of his words.
Springrove’s countenance56 instantly saddened; he had expected a simple ‘Yes,’ at the very least. He continued in a tone of greater depression—
‘Supposing she does love me, would it be fair to you and to her if I made her an offer of marriage, with these dreary57 conditions attached—that we lived for a few years on the narrowest system, till a great debt, which all honour and duty require me to pay off, shall be paid? My father, by reason of the misfortune that befell him, is under a great obligation to Miss Aldclyffe. He is getting old, and losing his energies. I am attempting to work free of the burden. This makes my prospects58 gloomy enough at present.
‘But consider again,’ he went on. ‘Cytherea has been left in a nameless and unsatisfactory, though innocent state, by this unfortunate, and now void, marriage with Manston. A marriage with me, though under the—materially—untoward conditions I have mentioned, would make us happy; it would give her a locus59 standi. If she wished to be out of the sound of her misfortunes we would go to another part of England—emigrate—do anything.’
‘I’ll call Cytherea,’ said Owen. ‘It is a matter which she alone can settle.’ He did not speak warmly. His pride could not endure the pity which Edward’s visit and errand tacitly implied. Yet, in the other affair, his heart went with Edward; he was on the same beat for paying off old debts himself.
‘Cythie, Mr. Springrove is here,’ he said, at the foot of the staircase.
His sister descended60 the creaking old steps with a faltering61 tread, and stood in the firelight from the hearth62. She extended her hand to Springrove, welcoming him by a mere63 motion of the lip, her eyes averted—a habit which had engendered64 itself in her since the beginning of her illness and defamation65. Owen opened the door and went out—leaving the lovers alone. It was the first time they had met since the memorable66 night at Southampton.
‘I will get a light,’ she said, with a little embarrassment67.
‘No—don’t, please, Cytherea,’ said Edward softly, ‘Come and sit down with me.’
‘O yes. I ought to have asked you to,’ she returned timidly. ‘Everybody sits in the chimney-corner in this parish. You sit on that side. I’ll sit here.’
Two recesses68—one on the right, one on the left hand—were cut in the inside of the fireplace, and here they sat down facing each other, on benches fitted to the recesses, the fire glowing on the hearth between their feet. Its ruddy light shone on the underslopes of their faces, and spread out over the floor of the room with the low horizontality of the setting sun, giving to every grain of sand and tumour69 in the paving a long shadow towards the door.
Edward looked at his pale love through the thin azure70 twines71 of smoke that went up like ringlets between them, and invested her, as seen through its medium, with the shadowy appearance of a phantom72. Nothing is so potent73 for coaxing74 back the lost eyes of a woman as a discreet75 silence in the man who has so lost them—and thus the patient Edward coaxed76 hers. After lingering on the hearth for half a minute, waiting in vain for another word from him, they were lifted into his face.
He was ready primed to receive them. ‘Cytherea, will you marry me?’ he said.
He could not wait in his original position till the answer came. Stepping across the front of the fire to her own side of the chimney corner, he reclined at her feet, and searched for her hand. She continued in silence awhile.
‘Edward, I can never be anybody’s wife,’ she then said sadly, and with firmness.
‘Think of it in every light,’ he pleaded; ‘the light of love, first. Then, when you have done that, see how wise a step it would be. I can only offer you poverty as yet, but I want—I do so long to secure you from the intrusion of that unpleasant past, which will often and always be thrust before you as long as you live the shrinking solitary77 life you do now—a life which purity chooses, it may be; but to the outside world it appears like the enforced loneliness of neglect and scorn—and tongues are busy inventing a reason for it which does not exist.’
‘I know all about it,’ she said hastily; ‘and those are the grounds of my refusal. You and Owen know the whole truth—the two I love best on earth—and I am content. But the scandal will be continually repeated, and I can never give any one the opportunity of saying to you—that—your wife....’ She utterly broke down and wept.
‘Don’t, my own darling!’ he entreated78. ‘Don’t, Cytherea!’
‘Please to leave me—we will be friends, Edward—but don’t press me—my mind is made up—I cannot—I will not marry you or any man under the present ambiguous circumstances—never will I—I have said it: never!’
They were both silent. He listlessly regarded the illuminated79 blackness overhead, where long flakes80 of soot81 floated from the sides and bars of the chimney-throat like tattered82 banners in ancient aisles83; whilst through the square opening in the midst one or two bright stars looked down upon them from the grey March sky. The sight seemed to cheer him.
‘At any rate you will love me?’ he murmured to her.
‘Yes—always—for ever and for ever!’
He kissed her once, twice, three times, and arose to his feet, slowly withdrawing himself from her side towards the door. Cytherea remained with her gaze fixed84 on the fire. Edward went out grieving, but hope was not extinguished even now.
He smelt85 the fragrance86 of a cigar, and immediately afterwards saw a small red star of fire against the darkness of the hedge. Graye was pacing up and down the lane, smoking as he walked. Springrove told him the result of the interview.
‘You are a good fellow, Edward,’ he said; ‘but I think my sister is right.’
‘I wish you would believe Manston a villain87, as I do,’ said Springrove.
‘It would be absurd of me to say that I like him now—family feeling prevents it, but I cannot in honesty say deliberately88 that he is a bad man.’
Edward could keep the secret of Manston’s coercion89 of Miss Aldclyffe in the matter of the houses a secret no longer. He told Owen the whole story.
‘That’s one thing,’ he continued, ‘but not all. What do you think of this—I have discovered that he went to Budmouth post-office for a letter the day before the first advertisement for his wife appeared in the papers. One was there for him, and it was directed in his wife’s handwriting, as I can prove. This was not till after the marriage with Cytherea, it is true, but if (as it seems to show) the advertising90 was a farce91, there is a strong presumption92 that the rest of the piece was.’
Owen was too astounded93 to speak. He dropped his cigar, and fixed his eyes upon his companion.
‘Collusion!’
‘Yes.’
‘With his first wife?’
‘Yes—with his wife. I am firmly persuaded of it.’
‘What did you discover?’
‘That he fetched from the post-office at Budmouth a letter from her the day before the first advertisement appeared.’
Graye was lost in a long consideration. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘it would be difficult to prove anything of that sort now. The writing could not be sworn to, and if he is guilty the letter is destroyed.’
‘I have other suspicions—’
‘Yes—as you said’ interrupted Owen, who had not till now been able to form the complicated set of ideas necessary for picturing the position. ‘Yes, there is this to be remembered—Cytherea had been taken from him before that letter came—and his knowledge of his wife’s existence could not have originated till after the wedding. I could have sworn he believed her dead then. His manner was unmistakable.’
‘Well, I have other suspicions,’ repeated Edward; ‘and if I only had the right—if I were her husband or brother, he should be convicted of bigamy yet.’
‘The reproof94 was not needed,’ said Owen, with a little bitterness. ‘What can I do—a man with neither money nor friends—whilst Manston has Miss Aldclyffe and all her fortune to back him up? God only knows what lies between the mistress and her steward95, but since this has transpired—if it is true—I can believe the connection to be even an unworthy one—a thing I certainly never so much as owned to myself before.’
3. The Fifth of March
Edward’s disclosure had the effect of directing Owen Graye’s thoughts into an entirely96 new and uncommon97 channel.
On the Monday after Springrove’s visit, Owen had walked to the top of a hill in the neighbourhood of Tolchurch—a wild hill that had no name, beside a barren down where it never looked like summer. In the intensity98 of his meditations99 on the ever-present subject, he sat down on a weather-beaten boundary-stone gazing towards the distant valleys—seeing only Manston’s imagined form.
Had his defenceless sister been trifled with? that was the question which affected100 him. Her refusal of Edward as a husband was, he knew, dictated101 solely102 by a humiliated103 sense of inadequacy104 to him in repute, and had not been formed till since the slanderous105 tale accounting106 for her seclusion107 had been circulated. Was it not true, as Edward had hinted, that he, her brother, was neglecting his duty towards her in allowing Manston to thrive unquestioned, whilst she was hiding her head for no fault at all?
Was it possible that Manston was sensuous108 villain enough to have contemplated109, at any moment before the marriage with Cytherea, the return of his first wife, when he should have grown weary of his new toy? Had he believed that, by a skilful110 manipulation of such circumstances as chance would throw in his way, he could escape all suspicion of having known that she lived? Only one fact within his own direct knowledge afforded the least ground for such a supposition. It was that, possessed111 by a woman only in the humble and unprotected station of a lady’s hired companion, his sister’s beauty might scarcely have been sufficient to induce a selfish man like Manston to make her his wife, unless he had foreseen the possibility of getting rid of her again.
‘But for that stratagem112 of Manston’s in relation to the Springroves,’ Owen thought, ‘Cythie might now have been the happy wife of Edward. True, that he influenced Miss Aldclyffe only rests on Edward’s suspicions, but the grounds are good—the probability is strong.’
He went indoors and questioned Cytherea.
‘On the night of the fire, who first said that Mrs. Manston was burnt?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know who started the report.’
‘Was it Manston?’
‘It was certainly not he. All doubt on the subject was removed before he came to the spot—that I am certain of. Everybody knew that she did not escape after the house was on fire, and thus all overlooked the fact that she might have left before—of course that would have seemed such an improbable thing for anybody to do.’
‘Yes, until the porter’s story of her irritation113 and doubt as to her course made it natural.’
‘What settled the matter at the inquest,’ said Cytherea, ‘was Mr. Manston’s evidence that the watch was his wife’s.’
‘He was sure of that, wasn’t he?’
‘I believe he said he was certain of it.’
‘It might have been hers—left behind in her perturbation, as they say it was—impossible as that seems at first sight. Yes—on the whole, he might have believed in her death.’
‘I know by several proofs that then, and at least for some time after, he had no other thought than that she was dead. I now think that before the porter’s confession114 he knew something about her—though not that she lived.’
‘Why do you?’
‘From what he said to me on the evening of the wedding-day, when I had fastened myself in the room at the hotel, after Edward’s visit. He must have suspected that I knew something, for he was irritated, and in a passion of uneasy doubt. He said, “You don’t suppose my first wife is come to light again, madam, surely?” Directly he had let the remark slip out, he seemed anxious to withdraw it.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Owen.
‘I thought it very odd.’
‘Still we must remember he might only have hit upon the thought by accident, in doubt as to your motive115. Yes, the great point to discover remains116 the same as ever—did he doubt his first impression of her death before he married you. I can’t help thinking he did, although he was so astounded at our news that night. Edward swears he did.’
‘It was perhaps only a short time before,’ said Cytherea; ‘when he could hardly recede117 from having me.’
‘Seasoning justice with mercy as usual, Cytherea. ’Tis unfair to yourself to talk like that. If I could only bring him to ruin as a bigamist—supposing him to be one—I should die happy. That’s what we must find out by fair means or foul—was he a wilful118 bigamist?’
‘It is no use trying, Owen. You would have to employ a solicitor119, and how can you do that?’
‘I can’t at all—I know that very well. But neither do I altogether wish to at present—a lawyer must have a case—facts to go upon, that means. Now they are scarce at present—as scarce as money is with us, and till we have found more money there is no hurry for a lawyer. Perhaps by the time we have the facts we shall have the money. The only thing we lose in working alone in this way, is time—not the issue: for the fruit that one mind matures in a twelvemonth forms a more perfectly120 organized whole than that of twelve minds in one month, especially if the interests of the single one are vitally concerned, and those of the twelve are only hired. But there is not only my mind available—you are a shrewd woman, Cythie, and Edward is an earnest ally. Then, if we really get a sure footing for a criminal prosecution121, the Crown will take up the case.’
‘I don’t much care to press on in the matter,’ she murmured. ‘What good can it do us, Owen, after all?’
‘Selfishly speaking, it will do this good—that all the facts of your journey to Southampton will become known, and the scandal will die. Besides, Manston will have to suffer—it’s an act of justice to you and to other women, and to Edward Springrove.’
He now thought it necessary to tell her of the real nature of the Springroves’ obligation to Miss Aldclyffe—and their nearly certain knowledge that Manston was the prime mover in effecting their embarrassment. Her face flushed as she listened.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘our first undertaking is to find out where Mrs. Manston lived during the separation; next, when the first communications passed between them after the fire.’
‘If we only had Miss Aldclyffe’s countenance and assistance as I used to have them,’ Cytherea returned, ‘how strong we should be! O, what power is it that he exercises over her, swaying her just as he wishes! She loves me now. Mrs. Morris in her letter said that Miss Aldclyffe prayed for me—yes, she heard her praying for me, and crying. Miss Aldclyffe did not mind an old friend like Mrs. Morris knowing it, either. Yet in opposition122 to this, notice her dead silence and inaction throughout this proceeding123.’
‘It is a mystery; but never mind that now,’ said Owen impressively. ‘About where Mrs. Manston has been living. We must get this part of it first—learn the place of her stay in the early stage of their separation, during the period of Manston’s arrival here, and so on, for that was where she was first communicated with on the subject of coming to Knapwater, before the fire; and that address, too, was her point of departure when she came to her husband by stealth in the night—you know—the time I visited you in the evening and went home early in the morning, and it was found that he had been visited too. Ah! couldn’t we inquire of Mrs. Leat, who keeps the post-office at Carriford, if she remembers where the letters to Mrs. Manston were directed?’
‘He never posted his letters to her in the parish—it was remarked at the time. I was thinking if something relating to her address might not be found in the report of the inquest in the Casterbridge Chronicle of the date. Some facts about the inquest were given in the papers to a certainty.’
Her brother caught eagerly at the suggestion. ‘Who has a file of the Chronicles?’ he said.
‘Mr. Raunham used to file them,’ said Cytherea. ‘He was rather friendly-disposed towards me, too.’
Owen could not, on any consideration, escape from his attendance at the church-building till Saturday evening; and thus it became necessary, unless they actually wasted time, that Cytherea herself should assist. ‘I act under your orders, Owen,’ she said.
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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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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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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writhed
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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resentment
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plodding
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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picturesque
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dwelling
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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snug
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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38
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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39
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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40
circumscribing
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| v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的现在分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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41
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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42
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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43
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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44
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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45
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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46
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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47
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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48
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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49
blitheness
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| n.blithe（快乐的）的变形 | |
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50
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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51
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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52
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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53
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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54
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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55
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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56
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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57
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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58
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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59
locus
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| n.中心 | |
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60
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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61
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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62
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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63
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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64
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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66
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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67
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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68
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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69
tumour
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| n.(tumor)(肿)瘤，肿块 | |
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70
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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71
twines
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| n.盘绕( twine的名词复数 )；麻线；捻；缠绕在一起的东西 | |
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72
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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73
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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74
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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75
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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76
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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77
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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80
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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81
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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82
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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83
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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84
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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85
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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86
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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87
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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88
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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89
coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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90
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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91
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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92
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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93
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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94
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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95
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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96
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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97
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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98
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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99
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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100
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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101
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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102
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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103
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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104
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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105
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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106
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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107
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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108
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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109
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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110
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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111
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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112
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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113
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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114
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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115
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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116
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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117
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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118
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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119
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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120
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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121
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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122
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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123
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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