Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the manuscript on his table, open at the first leaf. His nerves were unquestionably shaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages, he started at chance noises on the staircase of the hotel.
The scenario1, or outline, of the Countess’s play began with no formal prefatory phrases. She presented herself and her work with the easy familiarity of an old friend.
‘Allow me, dear Mr. Francis Westwick, to introduce to you the persons in my proposed Play. Behold2 them, arranged symmetrically in a line.
‘My Lord. The Baron3. The Courier. The Doctor. The Countess.
‘I don’t trouble myself, you see, to invest fictitious4 family names. My characters are sufficiently5 distinguished6 by their social titles, and by the striking contrast which they present one with another.
The First Act opens —
‘No! Before I open the First Act, I must announce, injustice7 to myself, that this Play is entirely8 the work of my own invention. I scorn to borrow from actual events; and, what is more extraordinary still, I have not stolen one of my ideas from the Modern French drama. As the manager of an English theatre, you will naturally refuse to believe this. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters — except the opening of my first act.
‘We are at Homburg, in the famous Salon9 d’Or, at the height of the season. The Countess (exquisitely dressed) is seated at the green table. Strangers of all nations are standing10 behind the players, venturing their money or only looking on. My Lord is among the strangers. He is struck by the Countess’s personal appearance, in which beauties and defects are fantastically mingled11 in the most attractive manner. He watches the Countess’s game, and places his money where he sees her deposit her own little stake. She looks round at him, and says, “Don’t trust to my colour; I have been unlucky the whole evening. Place your stake on the other colour, and you may have a chance of winning.” My Lord (a true Englishman) blushes, bows, and obeys. The Countess proves to be a prophet. She loses again. My Lord wins twice the sum that he has risked.
‘The Countess rises from the table. She has no more money, and she offers my Lord her chair.
‘Instead of taking it, he politely places his winnings in her hand, and begs her to accept the loan as a favour to himself. The Countess stakes again, and loses again. My Lord smiles superbly, and presses a second loan on her. From that moment her luck turns. She wins, and wins largely. Her brother, the Baron, trying his fortune in another room, hears of what is going on, and joins my Lord and the Countess.
‘Pay attention, if you please, to the Baron. He is delineated as a remarkable12 and interesting character.
‘This noble person has begun life with a single-minded devotion to the science of experimental chemistry, very surprising in a young and handsome man with a brilliant future before him. A profound knowledge of the occult sciences has persuaded the Baron that it is possible to solve the famous problem called the “Philosopher’s Stone.” His own pecuniary13 resources have long since been exhausted14 by his costly15 experiments. His sister has next supplied him with the small fortune at her disposal: reserving only the family jewels, placed in the charge of her banker and friend at Frankfort. The Countess’s fortune also being swallowed up, the Baron has in a fatal moment sought for new supplies at the gaming table. He proves, at starting on his perilous16 career, to be a favourite of fortune; wins largely, and, alas17! profanes18 his noble enthusiasm for science by yielding his soul to the all-debasing passion of the gamester.
‘At the period of the Play, the Baron’s good fortune has deserted19 him. He sees his way to a crowning experiment in the fatal search after the secret of transmuting20 the baser elements into gold. But how is he to pay the preliminary expenses? Destiny, like a mocking echo, answers, How?
‘Will his sister’s winnings (with my Lord’s money) prove large enough to help him? Eager for this result, he gives the Countess his advice how to play. From that disastrous21 moment the infection of his own adverse22 fortune spreads to his sister. She loses again, and again — loses to the last farthing.
‘The amiable23 and wealthy Lord offers a third loan; but the scrupulous24 Countess positively25 refuses to take it. On leaving the table, she presents her brother to my Lord. The gentlemen fall into pleasant talk. My Lord asks leave to pay his respects to the Countess, the next morning, at her hotel. The Baron hospitably26 invites him to breakfast. My Lord accepts, with a last admiring glance at the Countess which does not escape her brother’s observation, and takes his leave for the night.
‘Alone with his sister, the Baron speaks out plainly. “Our affairs,” he says, “are in a desperate condition, and must find a desperate remedy. Wait for me here, while I make inquiries27 about my Lord. You have evidently produced a strong impression on him. If we can turn that impression into money, no matter at what sacrifice, the thing must be done.”
‘The Countess now occupies the stage alone, and indulges in a soliloquy which develops her character.
‘It is at once a dangerous and attractive character. Immense capacities for good are implanted in her nature, side by side with equally remarkable capacities for evil. It rests with circumstances to develop either the one or the other. Being a person who produces a sensation wherever she goes, this noble lady is naturally made the subject of all sorts of scandalous reports. To one of these reports (which falsely and abominably28 points to the Baron as her lover instead of her brother) she now refers with just indignation. She has just expressed her desire to leave Homburg, as the place in which the vile29 calumny30 first took its rise, when the Baron returns, overhears her last words, and says to her, “Yes, leave Homburg by all means; provided you leave it in the character of my Lord’s betrothed31 wife!”
‘The Countess is startled and shocked. She protests that she does not reciprocate32 my Lord’s admiration33 for her. She even goes the length of refusing to see him again. The Baron answers, “I must positively have command of money. Take your choice, between marrying my Lord’s income, in the interest of my grand discovery — or leave me to sell myself and my title to the first rich woman of low degree who is ready to buy me.”
‘The Countess listens in surprise and dismay. Is it possible that the Baron is in earnest? He is horribly in earnest. “The woman who will buy me,” he says, “is in the next room to us at this moment. She is the wealthy widow of a Jewish usurer. She has the money I want to reach the solution of the great problem. I have only to be that woman’s husband, and to make myself master of untold34 millions of gold. Take five minutes to consider what I have said to you, and tell me on my return which of us is to marry for the money I want, you or I.”
‘As he turns away, the Countess stops him.
‘All the noblest sentiments in her nature are exalted35 to the highest pitch. “Where is the true woman,” she exclaims, “who wants time to consummate36 the sacrifice of herself, when the man to whom she is devoted37 demands it? She does not want five minutes — she does not want five seconds — she holds out her hand to him, and she says, Sacrifice me on the altar of your glory! Take as stepping-stones on the way to your triumph, my love, my liberty, and my life!”
‘On this grand situation the curtain falls. Judging by my first act, Mr. Westwick, tell me truly, and don’t be afraid of turning my head:— Am I not capable of writing a good play?’
Henry paused between the First and Second Acts; reflecting, not on the merits of the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents so far presented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous marriage of the first Lord Montbarry.
Was it possible that the Countess, in the present condition of her mind, supposed herself to be exercising her invention when she was only exercising her memory?
The question involved considerations too serious to be made the subject of a hasty decision. Reserving his opinion, Henry turned the page, and devoted himself to the reading of the next act. The manuscript proceeded as follows:—
‘The Second Act opens at Venice. An interval38 of four months has elapsed since the date of the scene at the gambling39 table. The action now takes place in the reception-room of one of the Venetian palaces.
‘The Baron is discovered, alone, on the stage. He reverts40 to the events which have happened since the close of the First Act. The Countess has sacrificed herself; the mercenary marriage has taken place — but not without obstacles, caused by difference of opinion on the question of marriage settlements.
‘Private inquiries, instituted in England, have informed the Baron that my Lord’s income is derived41 chiefly from what is called entailed42 property. In case of accidents, he is surely bound to do something for his bride? Let him, for example, insure his life, for a sum proposed by the Baron, and let him so settle the money that his widow shall have it, if he dies first.
‘My Lord hesitates. The Baron wastes no time in useless discussion. “Let us by all means” (he says) “consider the marriage as broken off.” My Lord shifts his ground, and pleads for a smaller sum than the sum proposed. The Baron briefly43 replies, “I never bargain.” My lord is in love; the natural result follows — he gives way.
‘So far, the Baron has no cause to complain. But my Lord’s turn comes, when the marriage has been celebrated44, and when the honeymoon45 is over. The Baron has joined the married pair at a palace which they have hired in Venice. He is still bent46 on solving the problem of the “Philosopher’s Stone.” His laboratory is set up in the vaults47 beneath the palace — so that smells from chemical experiments may not incommode the Countess, in the higher regions of the house. The one obstacle in the way of his grand discovery is, as usual, the want of money. His position at the present time has become truly critical. He owes debts of honour to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively be paid; and he proposes, in his own friendly manner, to borrow the money of my Lord. My Lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms. The Baron applies to his sister to exercise her conjugal48 influence. She can only answer that her noble husband (being no longer distractedly in love with her) now appears in his true character, as one of the meanest men living. The sacrifice of the marriage has been made, and has already proved useless.
‘Such is the state of affairs at the opening of the Second Act.
‘The entrance of the Countess suddenly disturbs the Baron’s reflections. She is in a state bordering on frenzy49. Incoherent expressions of rage burst from her lips: it is some time before she can sufficiently control herself to speak plainly. She has been doubly insulted — first, by a menial person in her employment; secondly50, by her husband. Her maid, an Englishwoman, has declared that she will serve the Countess no longer. She will give up her wages, and return at once to England. Being asked her reason for this strange proceeding51, she insolently52 hints that the Countess’s service is no service for an honest woman, since the Baron has entered the house. The Countess does, what any lady in her position would do; she indignantly dismisses the wretch53 on the spot.
‘My Lord, hearing his wife’s voice raised in anger, leaves the study in which he is accustomed to shut himself up over his books, and asks what this disturbance54 means. The Countess informs him of the outrageous55 language and conduct of her maid. My Lord not only declares his entire approval of the woman’s conduct, but expresses his own abominable56 doubts of his wife’s fidelity57 in language of such horrible brutality58 that no lady could pollute her lips by repeating it. “If I had been a man,” the Countess says, “and if I had had a weapon in my hand, I would have struck him dead at my feet!”
‘The Baron, listening silently so far, now speaks. “Permit me to finish the sentence for you,” he says. “You would have struck your husband dead at your feet; and by that rash act, you would have deprived yourself of the insurance money settled on the widow — the very money which is wanted to relieve your brother from the unendurable pecuniary position which he now occupies!”
‘The Countess gravely reminds the Baron that this is no joking matter. After what my Lord has said to her, she has little doubt that he will communicate his infamous59 suspicions to his lawyers in England. If nothing is done to prevent it, she may be divorced and disgraced, and thrown on the world, with no resource but the sale of her jewels to keep her from starving.
‘At this moment, the Courier who has been engaged to travel with my Lord from England crosses the stage with a letter to take to the post. The Countess stops him, and asks to look at the address on the letter. She takes it from him for a moment, and shows it to her brother. The handwriting is my Lord’s; and the letter is directed to his lawyers in London.
‘The Courier proceeds to the post-office. The Baron and the Countess look at each other in silence. No words are needed. They thoroughly60 understand the position in which they are placed; they clearly see the terrible remedy for it. What is the plain alternative before them? Disgrace and ruin — or, my Lord’s death and the insurance money!
‘The Baron walks backwards61 and forwards in great agitation62, talking to himself. The Countess hears fragments of what he is saying. He speaks of my Lord’s constitution, probably weakened in India — of a cold which my Lord has caught two or three days since — of the remarkable manner in which such slight things as colds sometimes end in serious illness and death.
‘He observes that the Countess is listening to him, and asks if she has anything to propose. She is a woman who, with many defects, has the great merit of speaking out. “Is there no such thing as a serious illness,” she asks, “corked up in one of those bottles of yours in the vaults downstairs?”
‘The Baron answers by gravely shaking his head. What is he afraid of?— a possible examination of the body after death? No: he can set any post-mortem examination at defiance63. It is the process of administering the poison that he dreads64. A man so distinguished as my Lord cannot be taken seriously ill without medical attendance. Where there is a Doctor, there is always danger of discovery. Then, again, there is the Courier, faithful to my Lord as long as my Lord pays him. Even if the Doctor sees nothing suspicious, the Courier may discover something. The poison, to do its work with the necessary secrecy65, must be repeatedly administered in graduated doses. One trifling66 miscalculation or mistake may rouse suspicion. The insurance offices may hear of it, and may refuse to pay the money. As things are, the Baron will not risk it, and will not allow his sister to risk it in his place.
‘My Lord himself is the next character who appears. He has repeatedly rung for the Courier, and the bell has not been answered. “What does this insolence67 mean?”
‘The Countess (speaking with quiet dignity — for why should her infamous husband have the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he has wounded her?) reminds my Lord that the Courier has gone to the post. My Lord asks suspiciously if she has looked at the letter. The Countess informs him coldly that she has no curiosity about his letters. Referring to the cold from which he is suffering, she inquires if he thinks of consulting a medical man. My Lord answers roughly that he is quite old enough to be capable of doctoring himself.
‘As he makes this reply, the Courier appears, returning from the post. My Lord gives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons. He proposes to try hot lemonade as a means of inducing perspiration68 in bed. In that way he has formerly69 cured colds, and in that way he will cure the cold from which he is suffering now.
‘The Courier obeys in silence. Judging by appearances, he goes very reluctantly on this second errand.
‘My Lord turns to the Baron (who has thus far taken no part in the conversation) and asks him, in a sneering70 tone, how much longer he proposes to prolong his stay in Venice. The Baron answers quietly, “Let us speak plainly to one another, my Lord. If you wish me to leave your house, you have only to say the word, and I go.” My Lord turns to his wife, and asks if she can support the calamity71 of her brother’s absence — laying a grossly insulting emphasis on the word “brother.” The Countess preserves her impenetrable composure; nothing in her betrays the deadly hatred72 with which she regards the titled ruffian who has insulted her. “You are master in this house, my Lord,” is all she says. “Do as you please.”
‘My Lord looks at his wife; looks at the Baron — and suddenly alters his tone. Does he perceive in the composure of the Countess and her brother something lurking73 under the surface that threatens him? This is at least certain, he makes a clumsy apology for the language that he has used. (Abject wretch!)
‘My Lord’s excuses are interrupted by the return of the Courier with the lemons and hot water.
‘The Countess observes for the first time that the man looks ill. His hands tremble as he places the tray on the table. My Lord orders his Courier to follow him, and make the lemonade in the bedroom. The Countess remarks that the Courier seems hardly capable of obeying his orders. Hearing this, the man admits that he is ill. He, too, is suffering from a cold; he has been kept waiting in a draught74 at the shop where he bought the lemons; he feels alternately hot and cold, and he begs permission to lie down for a little while on his bed.
‘Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers to make the lemonade herself. My Lord takes the Courier by the arm, leads him aside, and whispers these words to him: “Watch her, and see that she puts nothing into the lemonade; then bring it to me with your own hands; and, then, go to bed, if you like.”
‘Without a word more to his wife, or to the Baron, my Lord leaves the room.
‘The Countess makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his master.
‘Returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he says, so giddy, that he is obliged to support himself by the backs of the chairs as he passes them. The Baron, always considerate to persons of low degree, offers his arm. “I am afraid, my poor fellow,” he says, “that you are really ill.” The Courier makes this extraordinary answer: “It’s all over with me, Sir: I have caught my death.”
‘The Countess is naturally startled. “You are not an old man,” she says, trying to rouse the Courier’s spirits. “At your age, catching75 cold doesn’t surely mean catching your death?” The Courier fixes his eyes despairingly on the Countess.
“My lungs are weak, my Lady,” he says; “I have already had two attacks of bronchitis. The second time, a great physician joined my own doctor in attendance on me. He considered my recovery almost in the light of a miracle. Take care of yourself,” he said. “If you have a third attack of bronchitis, as certainly as two and two make four, you will be a dead man. I feel the same inward shivering, my Lady, that I felt on those two former occasions — and I tell you again, I have caught my death in Venice.”
‘Speaking some comforting words, the Baron leads him to his room. The Countess is left alone on the stage.
‘She seats herself, and looks towards the door by which the Courier has been led out. “Ah! my poor fellow,” she says, “if you could only change constitutions with my Lord, what a happy result would follow for the Baron and for me! If you could only get cured of a trumpery76 cold with a little hot lemonade, and if he could only catch his death in your place —!”
‘She suddenly pauses — considers for a while — and springs to her feet, with a cry of triumphant77 surprise: the wonderful, the unparalleled idea has crossed her mind like a flash of lightning. Make the two men change names and places — and the deed is done! Where are the obstacles? Remove my Lord (by fair means or foul) from his room; and keep him secretly prisoner in the palace, to live or die as future necessity may determine. Place the Courier in the vacant bed, and call in the doctor to see him — ill, in my Lord’s character, and (if he dies) dying under my Lord’s name!’
The manuscript dropped from Henry’s hands. A sickening sense of horror overpowered him. The question which had occurred to his mind at the close of the First Act of the Play assumed a new and terrible interest now. As far as the scene of the Countess’s soliloquy, the incidents of the Second Act had reflected the events of his late brother’s life as faithfully as the incidents of the First Act. Was the monstrous78 plot, revealed in the lines which he had just read, the offspring of the Countess’s morbid79 imagination? or had she, in this case also, deluded80 herself with the idea that she was inventing when she was really writing under the influence of her own guilty remembrances of the past? If the latter interpretation81 were the true one, he had just read the narrative82 of the contemplated83 murder of his brother, planned in cold blood by a woman who was at that moment inhabiting the same house with him. While, to make the fatality84 complete, Agnes herself had innocently provided the conspirators85 with the one man who was fitted to be the passive agent of their crime.
Even the bare doubt that it might be so was more than he could endure. He left his room; resolved to force the truth out of the Countess, or to denounce her before the authorities as a murderess at large.
Arrived at her door, he was met by a person just leaving the room. The person was the manager. He was hardly recognisable; he looked and spoke86 like a man in a state of desperation.
‘Oh, go in, if you like!’ he said to Henry. ‘Mark this, sir! I am not a superstitious87 man; but I do begin to believe that crimes carry their own curse with them. This hotel is under a curse. What happens in the morning? We discover a crime committed in the old days of the palace. The night comes, and brings another dreadful event with it — a death; a sudden and shocking death, in the house. Go in, and see for yourself! I shall resign my situation, Mr. Westwick: I can’t contend with the fatalities88 that pursue me here!’
Henry entered the room.
The Countess was stretched on her bed. The doctor on one side, and the chambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. From time to time, she drew a heavy stertorous89 breath, like a person oppressed in sleeping. ‘Is she likely to die?’ Henry asked.
‘She is dead,’ the doctor answered. ‘Dead of the rupture90 of a blood-vessel on the brain. Those sounds that you hear are purely91 mechanical — they may go on for hours.’
Henry looked at the chambermaid. She had little to tell. The Countess had refused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her desk to proceed with her writing. Finding it useless to remonstrate92 with her, the maid had left the room to speak to the manager. In the shortest possible time, the doctor was summoned to the hotel, and found the Countess dead on the floor. There was this to tell — and no more.
Looking at the writing-table as he went out, Henry saw the sheet of paper on which the Countess had traced her last lines of writing. The characters were almost illegible93. Henry could just distinguish the words, ‘First Act,’ and ‘Persons of the Drama.’ The lost wretch had been thinking of her Play to the last, and had begun it all over again!
收听单词发音 |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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standing
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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profanes
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| n.不敬（神）的( profane的名词复数 )；渎神的；亵渎的；世俗的v.不敬( profane的第三人称单数 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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calumny
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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fatalities
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| n.恶性事故( fatality的名词复数 )；死亡；致命性；命运 | |
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stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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