‘Where—’ began Emmeline faintly, breaking off with a groan1 as the cab gave a jolt2 and she felt a sudden shoot of pain rather like having a tooth out, only it was much worse, and in her arm, not her mouth.
‘We are going to the Infirmary,’ said the lady gently; ‘they’ll soon make you well.’
‘Can’t we go to Mary?’ said Emmeline, so feebly that the lady could not quite catch the words.
‘You shall go home as soon as ever the doctor has put your arm right,’ she promised.
After that the pain grew so bad that there was nothing for it but just to lie back on the seat and squeeze her lips tightly together so as to keep from screaming. At that moment she did not care where she was going if only she got there[216] soon, and this dreadful jolting4 drive came to an end.
After a few minutes that seemed almost like as many hours the cab stopped, and then somebody came and lifted her out with strong, careful arms. She must have fainted again after that, for the next thing she knew was that she was lying on a bed in a strange room, and that a doctor was leaning over her, hurting her horribly by feeling her arm.
‘Only a simple fracture,’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘We shall soon set that to rights.’
It was all very well for the doctor to speak cheerfully, but the process of having her arm set gave Emmeline the sharpest pain she had ever known. One agonised ‘Oh!’ did burst from her, but except for that she lay quite still and quiet, only breathing harder than usual.
‘Well, you’re one of the pluckiest little things I’ve ever had to do with,’ said the doctor warmly, when he had finished his work.
‘Yes, indeed she is,’ agreed the Nurse who had helped to bind6 up the arm.
Emmeline gave a wan7 little smile. ‘One must be—game,’ she remarked. ‘Game’ was one of Micky’s words which she would never have used if she had been quite herself.
‘Well, you have been very game!’ said the doctor smiling as he left her.
[217]
Afterwards the Nurse began to undress her. Emmeline had a dreamy impression that the proceeding8 was a strange one, and that there was something very important she ought to have been doing, but she could not remember what it was, and she felt so tired and so much disinclined to argue that she just submitted without a word.
‘Now, dear, can you tell me your name and where you live?’ asked the Nurse, as she put Emmeline into the narrow spring-bed on which she had lain to have her arm set.
‘My name’s Emmeline Bolton,’ was the prompt answer, ‘and I live——’ She hesitated, frowned with perplexity, and then broke into a weak little laugh. ‘Why, how funny! I can’t remember the name of the place.’
‘Don’t you live in Eastwich, then?’ asked the Nurse.
‘No, I don’t think we live there now,’ said Emmeline in a puzzled way. ‘Mary does, though,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Do you remember Mary’s address and what her surname is?’
Emmeline frowned again.
‘It’s very odd,’ she said after a moment. ‘I don’t seem able to remember anything to-day.’
‘Never mind,’ said the Nurse, ‘it’ll all come back to you soon enough.’ She went out of the[218] room and returned presently with a glass of warm milk. ‘Drink this,’ she said, ‘and then go to sleep like a good child.’
Emmeline drained the glass obediently, after which she dropped her head back on to the pillow, and in another minute she had fallen sound asleep.
‘Poor little thing!’ said the Nurse to herself as she went away. ‘She’s still dazed with the blow on her head. Well, it can’t have been a very bad one, or she wouldn’t have remembered as much as she did, so I dare say she’ll be pretty well all right by to-morrow. For to-night all we can do is to give notice at the police-station that she is here.’
Emmeline awoke the next morning to find the sunlight pouring full into the room where she was lying—a strange room with three empty beds in it instead of Kitty’s, and none of the familiar pictures nor furniture. Her first feeling was one of bewilderment as to where she was, and why one of her arms felt so funny. Then she remembered that this was Eastwich Infirmary, and that she had been brought there in a cab to have her arm put to rights.
What had she been doing in Eastwich? For a moment she could not think. Then suddenly all the events of the last few days flashed back upon her, up to the time when she had been[219] standing9 talking to the stranger boy outside the tall grim house, into which the policeman had just led Micky and Diamond Jubilee10!
When the Nurse came in to attend to her a few minutes later, there was nothing to be seen of Emmeline but a restless lump, heaving about stormily underneath11 the bedclothes.
‘It’s very bad for the child to lie with her head covered up like that,’ thought the Nurse, and, going up to the bed, she tried gently to pull down the clothes. For a moment Emmeline held on fiercely, and when she did let her face be uncovered it was tear-stained and flushed.
‘Well, how are you feeling this morning?’ asked the Nurse kindly12, ignoring the marks of tears. She was quite used to patients being miserably13 shy and homesick just at first.
‘Better, thank you—I mean quite well,’ said Emmeline. ‘Please, I can’t stay here,’ she went on. ‘There’s something dreadfully important I must tell my friends. I can’t think how I came to forget it last night. I must dress and go to them now, at once. You don’t know how frightfully it matters!’
‘Don’t be so unhappy,’ said Nurse. ‘We’ll send for your friend, and I daresay she’ll be here almost as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ said Emmeline, as much relieved as she could be just then. ‘It’s Miss[220] Mary Bell I want to see, and her address is 14, East Parade.’
‘I know,’ said the Nurse. ‘Her brother was round late last night inquiring after you. They had found out at the police-station where you were, and were very anxious about you, so mind you eat a good breakfast and look as well as possible when your friend comes, so as to set her mind at rest,’ and Nurse went away with a merry smile which poor Emmeline felt quite incapable14 of returning.
Events turned out even better than Nurse’s word. Emmeline was still struggling with her basin of arrowroot, when the sound of a voice in the passage outside made her flush and tremble all over. Then the door opened, and Nurse entered, followed by Mary, who hobbled in looking anxious and worried, but otherwise so much her motherly self that there would have been comfort in the very sight of her if Emmeline had been less taken up with the thought of the terrible news she must tell.
‘Well, my poor darling, you have been through a lot!’ said Mary, coming close to the bed and bending down to kiss Emmeline’s quivering face.
The kindly tone was too much for Emmeline, and she burst into tears.
‘You won’t want to k-kiss me when you’ve[221] heard what dreadful things have happened all through m-me!’ she sobbed15.
‘There, there, my darling. Don’t take on so!’ said Mary, kissing her again. ‘Things aren’t so bad as what you think. Master Micky have been found.’
‘But, Mary,’ she broke out desperately16, ‘he’s in prison. I saw a policeman take him there yesterday afternoon.’
‘Oh no, dear,’ Mary hastened to explain, ‘not to prison, only to the police-station. People can’t be sent to prison till they have been tried in court, you know. Micky didn’t stay long even at the police-station, for as soon as he gave his name and address they knew he must be the boy who was missing, and sent for me to take him away.’
‘And is that really all that will happen,’ cried Emmeline.
‘Well, he’s had to go to the police-court this morning to be questioned by the magistrate17,’ Mary was forced to admit. ‘But I quite hope he will get on all right. Nobody could talk to him without seeing what an honest little boy he is really, and that he didn’t a bit understand what that Diamond Jubilee was up to. That Diamond Jubilee is a real bad boy, if ever there was one!’
‘I’m afraid he is,’ said Emmeline sorrowfully. ‘It’s a dreadful pity Micky ever got mixed up with him. And oh, Mary, it’s all my fault that he[222] ever did! That’s what I was going to tell you about.’
‘I think Master Micky has told me,’ said Mary. ‘You mean about adopting that boy unbeknown to Miss Bolton. I must say I was surprised to hear it of you, Miss Emmeline. I should never have thought you would have done anything so silly—to say nothing of its being very naughty to do such a thing without leave.’
‘You see,’ faltered18 Emmeline, ‘I knew Aunt Grace wouldn’t understand or sympathise with us trying to do a good work.’
‘And I don’t blame her either,’ said Mary. ‘Not good works of that kind. They’re not suitable to children.’
Poor Emmeline felt as though her one friend had gone over to the enemy. Mary’s remark was almost exactly what Aunt Grace had said last Sunday, when Emmeline had been so indignant with her for not appreciating that charitable little Kathleen.
‘But, Mary,’ she said piteously. ‘You did say yourself that guileless children could do more good to sinners than anybody else, and I’m sure Diamond Jubilee is a sinner!’
Mary looked as much taken aback as people usually do when their own theories are put by others into inconvenient19 practice.
‘I wasn’t thinking of adoption20 when I said[223] that,’ she explained rather lamely21. ‘Specially not a nasty, dirty little boy like that, who isn’t at all fit company for little ladies and gentlemen. But there, my darling, I don’t want to scold you, for I’m sure you meant well, and anyhow, you’ve been punished more than enough already, both for adopting the boy, and also for running away to find Micky, which is another thing you would never have done if you had stopped to think how dreadfully anxious and unhappy it would make everybody.’
‘Did it?’ and Emmeline looked self-reproachful; ‘but there wasn’t anyone at home who would mind much. It isn’t as if Jane and Cook cared for us as you do, Mary.’
‘It isn’t likely they should, but for all that they were nearly frightened out of their wits, poor things,’ said Mary, ‘specially after Miss Miller22 had got out of Kitty that you’d gone to Green Ginger23 Land to look for Master Micky.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Emmeline.
‘I had a letter from Jane this morning, and a telegram from Miss Miller yesterday evening,’ answered Mary.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Yes, I see now that I oughtn’t to have gone off like that,’ said Emmeline sadly. ‘But I was so dreadfully unhappy about Micky that nothing seemed to matter except finding him.’
[224]
Mary was too kind to point out to Emmeline that Micky would have been found just as soon if she had never made her expedition.
‘Yes, poor darling, I can just fancy what you must have been feeling!’ she said, ‘George would have left a message for you last night about Master Micky, only while he’s in this trouble it seems best not to make any more talk than can be helped, so I thought I’d come round and tell you first thing this morning instead, and see how you were at the same time. How did you come to get run over?’
‘I can’t remember anything about it, it seems just wiped out of my mind,’ said Emmeline; ‘it’s very funny, for I remember the early part of the afternoon so well. Oh, Mary, it was just like a dreadful dream!’
Then she went on to tell of her adventures in Green Ginger Land.
Mary shuddered24 as she listened, for she knew far better than Emmeline herself what a risk the child had run.
‘Thank God nothing worse happened than your watch being stolen!’ she exclaimed from the bottom of her heart when she had heard the whole story. ‘That’s very grieving, though. But maybe the police will be able to get it back for you.’
‘Do you really think the police will get me back my watch?’ cried Emmeline.
[225]
‘Well, you mustn’t reckon on it, but I can’t help hoping they may,’ said Mary. ‘And now, my darling, I must be going, for Master Micky’s case will be getting over, and I must go and hear how the poor lamb got on.’
‘You’ll come back and tell me as soon as ever you know anything, won’t you?’ pleaded Emmeline.
‘I expect your aunt will want to come herself, dear, but if she doesn’t, I certainly will,’ answered Mary.
‘Aunt Grace!’ exclaimed Emmeline. ‘Why, she isn’t here. She’s in London!’
‘She’s here now,’ said Mary. ‘Miss Miller telegraphed for her yesterday evening, and when she reached home, about two o’clock this morning, she found a telegram from George to say that both you and Micky were at Eastwich, and that you had had an accident. So she came back here by the seven o’clock train.’
‘How dreadfully tired she must be!’ exclaimed Emmeline. ‘And how could she leave her friend?’
‘The poor lady died yesterday afternoon,’ said Mary in a low voice. ‘The end came much more suddenly than anyone expected.’
‘Oh, Mary, I wish it hadn’t all happened just yesterday!’ said Emmeline, with tears in her eyes.
‘So do I, dear,’ said Mary. ‘But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. The only thing for you[226] to do now is to tell your Aunt Grace how very sorry you are. You’ll find she’ll understand.’
Emmeline heaved herself round and buried her face in the pillow.
‘No, she won’t,’ she muttered. ‘Nobody could, and besides, she never really cared for me. She’ll hate me after this, I expect.’
‘Miss Emmeline, you mustn’t talk of your aunt like that,’ said Mary gently. ‘She loves you all dearly—I never knew how dearly till I saw her this morning, tired to death with the journey and all the worry and anxiety following so quick on her grief at losing her friend, and yet comforting poor little Micky as if she’d been his mother. Now that it is all over, and I shall never misjudge her so again, perhaps there’s no harm in telling you that there was a time when I had my doubts as to how your living with her would turn out, what with her being so young and pretty, and more used to a gay London life than to bringing up children; but I’ve reproached myself many a time this morning for ever having had such uncharitable thoughts, for a better Christian25 or a more loving-hearted young lady doesn’t walk the earth.’
Poor dear Mary! She little thought that Emmeline had all along been quite aware of those misgivings26 of hers, which she had been too loyal and good a woman ever to express in words, or[227] that it is far easier to suggest doubts than to put trust and confidence in their place. Emmeline said nothing, but she none the less looked forward with dread3 to the possible visit from Aunt Grace. Even Mary thought she had done very wrong, dear kind Mary, who always took the best view of things, and as to Aunt Grace, she would never really forgive her, or believe how very sorry she was.
Emmeline’s heart sank when, about half an hour afterwards, Aunt Grace herself arrived. She was looking so ill and sad that a dreadful fear came over Emmeline lest Micky might, after all, have been sent to prison, and she could only look at Aunt Grace in dumb suspense27. Fortunately, her aunt understood at once, and hastened to set her mind at rest.
‘It’s all right, Emmeline,’ she said; ‘Micky has come out of the affair all right, and is quite cleared of the charge of helping28 the other boy to thieve. Micky stood up before the magistrate like a little hero, and answered every question so frankly29 and pluckily30 that no one could doubt that he was telling the truth. Then it came to the other boy’s turn, and though he whimpered, and altogether did not cut nearly such a good figure as Micky, he was quite ready to own that Micky had known nothing of his meaning to pick the lady’s pocket. I dare say poor Diamond Jubilee[228] is a very naughty little boy, but I shall always have a kindly feeling towards him, for being so anxious as he certainly was to clear Micky’s character. The end of it all was that Micky was acquitted31. I’m not altogether sorry he had the fright, as a punishment for his naughtiness in running away. As to the other poor child, he was sentenced to have six strokes of the birch.’
‘Then even he won’t be sent to prison?’ asked Emmeline.
‘Oh no, they would never think of sending such a child to prison,’ Aunt Grace assured her. ‘You poor little Emmeline, I don’t wonder you looked so white and frightened just now, if you were expecting to hear of Micky’s being sent to prison! But now your mind is easy about him, I want you to tell me what’s been happening to you, my poor child.’
Something in the unexpected gentleness of the question brought the tears into Emmeline’s eyes again. ‘Oh, Aunt Grace,’ she said, ‘I am so very, very sorry!’
Aunt Grace bent32 over her suddenly, and gave her one of her rare kisses. ‘I know you are, darling,’ she said—she had never called Emmeline ‘darling’ before—‘tell me all about it. Of course I know a good deal from what Micky has told me, but I want to hear it from you too. Tell me[229] from the very beginning. What made you first think of adopting Diamond Jubilee?’
It was very odd; all the morning Emmeline had been dreading33 more than anything else having to tell her story to Aunt Grace, and yet, now, almost before she knew what she was doing, she found herself pouring it all out as freely and fully5 as if Aunt Grace had been her most intimate friend. She began by speaking of the Meeting in the Village School, and of how much it had made her want to do good to the poor. Then came the history of the day they had gone to the Fair alone—‘and I knew all the time you wouldn’t like us to go alone, though I pretended to myself that you wouldn’t mind,’ Emmeline confessed—and of the encounter with Diamond Jubilee, and of how it had almost seemed ‘meant’ that they should adopt him when his dire34 need of being plucked as a brand from the burning was brought home to them so forcibly.
‘I thought how b-beautiful it would be to bring him up to be a m-missionary!’ said Emmeline, with two little sobs35 at the remembrance of the woeful way in which Diamond Jubilee had disappointed her.
‘I shouldn’t have thought myself he was quite cut out for a missionary,’ said Aunt Grace gravely, though her eyes could not help twinkling a little, ‘but go on.’
[230]
Emmeline went on to tell of all the plans for Diamond Jubilee’s welfare, of the Feudal36 Castle where he was to dwell, and the chocolate and monkey-nuts on which he was to live, and of all their plots and contrivances. Once or twice she noticed that her listener looked away quickly, but she did not pay much attention to this, and was continuing her tale quite gravely and sorrowfully, when all at once Aunt Grace broke into one of those clear, ringing laughs which Emmeline had been wont37 to consider so frivolous38 and unsuitable for an aunt. For a moment Emmeline stared at her, puzzled and half offended; then suddenly it struck her for the first time that the whole affair really was rather funny, and she too laughed, though a little doubtfully.
‘I’m so sorry, Emmeline,’ said Aunt Grace; ‘I didn’t mean to laugh, but you raised such an absurd picture in my mind that I simply couldn’t help it!’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Emmeline, and it was the truth, though a week ago she would have been greatly displeased39 at anyone’s venturing to be amused at her.
‘Well, go on with your story,’ said Aunt Grace, and Emmeline began to relate the troubles and adventures of yesterday. Aunt Grace listened so sympathetically that it must be owned that her niece quite enjoyed giving a graphic40 description[231] of the past perils41 of Green Ginger Land and of her horror at seeing Micky in the hands of the policeman. It was only when she had come to the end of her tale and Aunt Grace remained silent that she remembered it had really been in the nature of a confession42.
‘Are you going to scold me, Aunt Grace?’ she asked at the end, a little uneasily.
There was a moment’s pause before Aunt Grace answered: ‘No, I don’t think I will scold you. Of course, it was very wrong to adopt the child without leave, but I think what has happened has taught you just how wrong and foolish it was better than anything I could say. And in itself it was a good and beautiful thing to want to help poor little Diamond Jubilee to a better life.’
Again there was a silence. Then Emmeline said timidly: ‘Do you know, Aunt Grace, I always thought you didn’t care about such things.’
‘What made you think I didn’t?’ asked Aunt Grace, who did not seem at all offended.
‘Because—because’—Emmeline stammered43 and turned rather red, ‘you seemed almost to dislike that wonderful little girl Mr. Faulkner told us about—I mean the one who was so very good to the poor children.’
‘I’m sure she was a little prig,’ said Aunt Grace, quickly, ‘and, anyhow, she wasn’t worthy44 of all the fuss Mr. Faulkner was making about her. But it[232] doesn’t follow, because I don’t think very much of that particular little girl, that I don’t like other little girls trying to do unselfish things, even if they make mistakes sometimes, for I do’; and once more she bent down and kissed Emmeline. A sudden recollection stung Emmeline.
‘You wouldn’t think nearly so well of me if you knew everything,’ she blurted45 out; ‘there’s something ever so much worse I was forgetting to tell you. We had spent all our money that day we went to the Fair, and—and I thought we might use the extra money-box money to buy Diamond Jubilee’s food with. You see we had collected it for children like him.’ She broke off, not knowing how to tell the rest.
‘You had collected it on the understanding that it was for the Home, not to buy chocolates and monkey-nuts for any ragged46 little boy you chanced to come across,’ said Aunt Grace gently, ‘so I’m afraid you’ll have to pay it back gradually out of your pocket-money. By the way, did you buy your railway ticket out of the extra money-box fund?’
‘Oh no, I borrowed that from the chickens’ money, and I did mean to pay it back next Saturday. But that isn’t all I was going to tell you’—she turned away her head—‘I as good as told a story about the extra money-box money afterwards’—her voice grew choky—‘Jane found[233] out it was empty, like the prying47 old thing she is, and said she was sure Alice had taken the money, as she had been doing my room.’
‘And you didn’t tell her you’d taken it yourself?’ said Aunt Grace quietly, as Emmeline hid her face in the pillow.
A stifled48 sound that could just be distinguished49 as ‘No!’ came from the depths of the pillow.
‘Well, I’m very sorry indeed about this,’ said Aunt Grace, ‘far more sorry than about anything else that’s happened. But I’m glad you’ve told me. You’ll have to tell Jane as soon as you get home.’
Emmeline hated the idea of telling Jane, but she saw that it was the only honourable50 thing to be done, and resolved to do it on the first possible opportunity; a resolution which she bravely carried out when the right time came.
That was all Aunt Grace said in the way of reproof51. For the rest of the visit she spoke52 chiefly of Miss King, telling Emmeline about the last few hours of her life as though she found comfort in the child’s sympathy.
‘I can’t grieve very much,’ she said simply. ‘For years we had been dreading the end, and when it really came she suffered so very little. Of course, there must always be one’s selfish sorrow at the loss, but I can’t feel she is at all far off.’
A few minutes later Aunt Grace went away, and for the rest of the morning Emmeline was left alone except for a short visit from the Doctor. She did not feel at all dull or lonely, however, for there seemed so much to think and wonder over.
‘It’s very odd how different people are from what you expect them to be,’ was the upshot of her reflections. ‘Mary was dear and kind, as she always is, but she didn’t understand a bit. It was Aunt Grace who understood that adopting Diamond Jubilee wasn’t all naughtiness. Well, that plan’s been a great failure, and I don’t suppose we shall ever see him again, but anyhow, there’s one good thing come of it. If it hadn’t been for Diamond Jubilee I might never have known how good and nice Aunt Grace really is!’
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1
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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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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4
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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6
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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7
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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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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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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pluckily
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| adv.有勇气地，大胆地 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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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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33
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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35
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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41
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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42
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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43
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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48
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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51
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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52
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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