Of this class of men, of hot passions, with rash advisers6, who meditated7 wrong, but not the last wrong, victims of a narrow, imperious code of honour, only to-day expunged8 from military and social etiquette9, was the Laird of the [Page 2]Ewes. Many of us may have seen such another—a tall, lithe10 figure, rather bent11, and very white-headed for his age, with a wistful eye; but otherwise a most composed, intelligent, courteous12 gentleman of a laird's degree. Take any old friend aside, and he will tell, with respectful sympathy, that the quiet, sensible, well-bred Laird, has suffered agonies in the course of his life, though too wise and modest a man to hold up his heart for daws to peck at, and you will believe him. Look narrowly at the well-preserved, well-veiled exterior13, and you will be able to detect, through the nicely adjusted folds, or even when it is brightened by smiles, how remorse14 has sharpened the flesh, and grief hollowed it, and long abiding15 regret shaded it.
Twenty years before this time, Crawfurd of the Ewes, more accomplished16 than many of the lairds, his contemporaries, and possessed17 of the sly humour on which Scotchmen pride themselves, had been induced to write a set of lampoons19 against a political opponent of his special chief. He was young then, and probably had his literary vanity; at least he executed his task to the satisfaction of his side of the question; and without being particularly broad and offensive, or perhaps very fine in their edge, his caricatures excited shouts of laughter in the parish, and in the neighbouring town.
But he laughs best who laughs last. A brother laird, blind with fury, and having more of the old border man in him than the Laird of the Ewes, took to his natural arms, and dispatched Mr. Crawfurd a challenge to fight him on the Corn-Cockle Moor20. No refusal was possible then, none except for a man of rare principle, nerve, and temper. The [Page 3]Laird of the Ewes had no pretensions21 to mighty22 gifts; so he walked out with his second one autumn morning when his reapers23 were flourishing their sickles24, met his foe25, and though without the skill to defend himself, he shot his man right through the head. He was tried and acquitted26. He was the challenged, not the challenger; he might have given the provocation27, but no blame was suffered to attach to him. His antagonist28, with a foreboding of his fate, or by way of clearing his conscience, as the knights29 used to confess of a morning before combat, had exonerated30 Mr. Crawfurd before he came upon the ground. The Court was strongly in his favour, and he was sent back to his family and property without anything more severe than commiseration31; but that could never reach his deep sore.
How was this gentle, nervous, humorous Laird to look out upon the world, from which he had sent the soul of a companion who had never even harmed him? The widow, whom he had admired as a gay young matron, dwelt not a mile from him in her darkened dwelling32; the fatherless boy would constantly cross the path of his well-protected, well-cared-for children. How bear the thousand little memories—the trifling33 dates, acts, words, pricking34 him with anguish35? They say the man grew sick at the mere36 sight of the corn-cockle, which, though not plentiful37 on other moors38, chanced to abound39 on this uncultivated tract40, and bestowed41 on it its name; and he shivered as with an ague fit, morning after morning, when the clock struck the hour at which he had left his house. He did in some measure overcome this weakness, for he was a man of ordinary courage and extraordinary reserve, but it [Page 4]is possible that he endured the worst of his punishment when he made no sign.
The Laird was a man of delicate organism, crushed by a blow from which he could not recover. Had he lived a hundred years earlier, or been a soldier on active service, or a student walking the hospitals, he might have been more hardened to bloodshed. Had his fate been different, he might have borne the brunt of the offence as well as his betters; but the very crime which he was least calculated to commit and survive encountered him in the colours he had worn before the eventful day.
Yet there was nothing romantic about Crawfurd of the Ewes, or about the details of his deed, with one singular exception, and this was connected with his daughter Joanna. The rest of the family were commonplace, prosperous young people, honest enough hearts, but too shallow to be affected42 by the father's misfortune. The father's sour grapes had not set these children's teeth on edge. Joanna—Jack43, or Joe, as they called her in sport—whom they all, without any idea of selfishness or injustice44, associated with the Laird, as one member of the family is occasionally chosen to bear the burdens of the others,—Joanna was papa's right hand, papa's secretary, steward45, housekeeper46, nurse. It had always been so; Joanna had been set aside to the office, and no one thought of depriving her of it, any more than she dreamt of resigning it.
Joanna was the child born immediately after the duel47, and on the waxen brow of the baby was a crimson48 stain, slight but significant, which two fingers might have co[Page 5]vered. Was this the token of retribution—the threat of vengeance49? The gossips' tongues wagged busily. Some said it was Cain's brand, "the iniquity50 of the fathers visited on the children;" others alleged51 more charitably that it ought to prove a sign in the Laird's favour, to have the symbol of his guilt52 transferred to a scape-goat—the brow of a child. However, the gossips need not have hidden the child's face so sedulously53 for the first few days from the mother. Mrs. Crawfurd took the matter quite peaceably, and was relieved that no worse misfortune had befallen her or her offspring. "Poor little dear!" it was sad that she should carry such a trace; but she daresayed she would outgrow54 it, or she must wear flat curls—it was a pity that they had gone quite out of fashion. It was the father who kissed the mark passionately55, and carried the child oftenest in his arms, and let her sit longest on his knee; and so she became his darling, and learnt all his ways, and could suit herself to his fancies, and soothe57 his pains, from very youthful years. The public recognised this peculiar58 property of her father in Joanna, and identified her with the sorrowful period of his history. She was pointed59 out in connexion with the story—the tragedy of the county,—and she knew instinctively60 that there would be a whispered reference to her whenever it was told in society.
The Crawfurds had a cousin visiting them—an English cousin, Polly Musgrave—from the luxury and comparative gaiety of her rich, childless aunt's house in York. Polly was a well-endowed orphan61, had no near family ties, and had been educated in the worldly wisdom and epicurean philosophy of a fashionable girls' school. She had come [Page 6]to spend a few weeks, and get acquainted with her Scotch18 country cousins. Polly had not found her heart, but it was to the credit of her sense and good-nature that she made the very best of a sojourn62 that had threatened to be a bore to her. She dazzled the girls, she romped63 with the boys, she entered with the greatest glee into rural occupations, rode on the roughest pony64, saw sunset and sunrise from Barnbougle, and threatened to learn to milk cows and cut corn. She brought inconceivable motion and sparkle into the rather stagnant65 country house, and she was the greatest possible contrast to Joanna Crawfurd. Joanna was a natural curiosity to Polly, and the study amused her, just as she made use of every other variety and novelty, down to the poultry-yard and kitchen-garden at the Ewes.
The girls were out on the moor, in the drowsy66 heat of a summer day, grouped idly and prettily67 into such a cluster as girls will fall into without effort. Susan, the beauty—there is always a beauty among several girls—in languid propriety68, with her nice hair, and her scrupulously69 falling collar and sleeves, and her blush of a knot of ribbon; Lilias, the strong-minded, active person, sewing busily at charity work, of which all estimable households have now their share; Constantia, the half-grown girl, lying in an awkward lump among the hay, intently reading her last novel, and superlatively scorning the society of her grown-up relatives; Joanna, sitting thoughtfully, stroking old Gyp, the ragged70 terrier, that invariably ran after either Joanna or her father; and Polly, who had been riding with Oliver, standing71 with her tucked-up habit, picturesque72 hat and feathers, smart little gentleman's riding-gloves [Page 7]and whip, and very espiègle face—a face surrounded by waves of silky black hair, with a clear pale skin, and good eyes and teeth, which Polly always declared were her fortune in the way of good looks; but her snub nose was neither of a vulgar nor coarse tendency—it was a very lively, coquettish, handsomely cut, irresistible73 cock nose.
If these girls on the moor had been tried in the fire heated seven times, it would not have been to the strong-minded, broad-chested, dark-browed Lilias that they would have clung. They would have come crouching74 in their extremity75 and taken hold of the skirt of round, soft, white Joanna, with the little notable stain on her temple.
Polly was detailing her adventures and repeating her news with a relish76 that was appetizing.
"We went as far as Lammerhaugh, when Oliver remembered that he had a commission for your father at Westcotes, just when my love, Punch, was broken off his trot77, and promised to canter, and the morning was so fresh then—a jewel of a morning. It was provoking; I wanted Noll to continue absent in mind, or prove disobedient, or something, but you good folks are so conscientious78."
"Duty first, and then pleasure," said Lilias emphatically.
"That was a Sunday-school speech, Lilias, and spoken out of school; you ought to pay a forfeit80; fine her, Susie."
"Aren't you hot, Polly?" asked Susan, without troubling herself to take up the jest.
"Not a bit—no more than you are; I'm up to a great deal yet; I'll go to the offices and gather the eggs. No, [Page 8]I am warm though, and I don't want to be blowsy to-night; I think I'll go into the house to the bath-room, and have a great icy splash of a shower-bath."
"You'll hurt your health, Polly, for ever bathing at odd hours, as you do," remonstrated81 Joanna.
"All nonsense, my dear; I always do what is pleasantest, and it agrees with me perfectly82. In winter, I do toast my toes; and you know I eat half-a-dozen peaches and plums at a time like a South Sea Islander, only I believe they feast on cocoa-nut and breadfruit; don't they, Conny? You are the scholar; you know you have your geography at your finger-ends yet."
"Oh, don't tease me, Polly!" protested Conny impatiently.
"Dear Jack, hand me a sprig of broom to stick in Conny's ear," persisted Polly in a loud whisper.
Constantia shook her head furiously, as if she were already horribly tickled83, and that at the climax84 of her plot.
"Never mind, Conny, I'll protect you. What a shame, Polly, to spoil her pleasure!" cried Joanna indignantly.
"I beg your pardon, Donna Quixotina."
"I wonder you girls can waste your time in this foolish manner," lectured Lilias, with an air of superiority; "you are none of you better than another, always pursuing amusement."
"What a story, Lilias!" put in Polly undauntedly; "you know I sew yard upon yard of muslin-work, and embroider85 ells of French merino, and task myself to get done within a given time. Aunt Powis says I make myself a slave."
[Page 9]"Because you like it," declared Lilias disdainfully; "you happen to be a clever sewer86, and you are fond of having your fingers busy and astonishing everybody—besides, you admire embroidery87 in muslin and cloth; and even your pocket-money—what with gowns and bonnets88, tickets to oratorios89 and concerts, and promenades91, and 'the kid shoes and perfumery,' which are papa's old-fashioned summing up of our expenses, bouquets92 and fresh gloves would be nearer the truth—won't always meet the claims upon your gold and silver showers; and Susan," added Lilias, not to be cheated out of her diatribe93, and starting with new alacrity94, "practising attitudes and looking at her hands; and Conny reading her trashy romances."
"It is not a romance, Lilias," complained Conny piteously; "it is a tale of real life."
"It is all the same," maintained the inexorable Lilias; "one of the most aggravating95 novels I ever read was a simple story."
"Oh, Lilias, do lend it to me!" begged Polly; "I'm not literary, but it is delightful96 to be intensely interested until the very hair rises on the crown of one's head."
"I don't know that you would like it," put in Joanna; "it is not one of the modern novels, and it has only one dismal97 catastrophe98; it is the fine old novel by Mrs. Inchbald."
"Then I don't want it; I don't care for old things, since I have not a palate for old wines or an eye for old pictures. I hate the musty, buckram ghosts of our fathers."
"Oh! but Mrs. Inchbald never raised ghosts, Polly; she [Page 10]manœuvred stately, passionate56 men and women of her own day."
"The wiser woman she. But they would be ghosts to me, Jack, unless they were in the costume of the present day; there is not an inch of me given to history."
"And you, Joanna," concluded Lilias, quite determined99 to breast every interruption and finish her peroration100, "you have listened, and smiled, and frowned, and dreamt for an hour."
"I was waiting in case papa should want me," apologized Joanna, rather humbly101.
"That need not have hindered you from hemming102 round the skirt of this frock."
"Oh, Lilias! I am sorry for you, girl," cried Polly. "You're in a diseased frame of mind; you are in a fidget of work; you don't know the enjoyment103 of idleness, the luxury of laziness. You'll spoil your complexion104; your hair will grow grey; no man will dare to trifle with such a notable woman!"
"I don't care!" exclaimed Lilias bluntly and magnanimously. "I don't want to be trifled with; I don't value men's admiration105."
"Now! Now!! Now!!! Now!!!!" protested Polly; "I don't value men's admiration either, of course, but I like partners, and I would not be fond of being branded as a strong-minded female, a would-be Lady Bountiful, a woman going a-tracking; that's what men say of girls who don't care to be trifled with. But, Lilias, are you quite sure you don't believe in any of the good old stories—the 'goody' stories I would call them if I were a man[Page 11]—of the amiable106 girl who went abroad in the old pelisse, and who was wedded107 to the enthusiastic baronet? My dears, you must have observed they were abominably108 untrue; the baronet, weak and false, always, since the world began, marries the saucy109, spendthrift girl, who is prodigal110 in rich stuffs, and bright colours, and becoming fits, and neat boots and shoes—who thinks him worth listening to, and laughing with, and thinking about—the fool."
"Really, Polly, you are too bad," cried both Susan and Lilias at once; their stock-in-trade exhausted111, and not knowing very well what they meant, or what they should suggest further if this sentence were not answer enough.
"Now, I believe Joanna does not credit the goody stories, or does not care for them, rather; but we are not all heroines, we cannot all afford an equal indifference112."
Joanna coloured until the red stain became undistinguishable, and even Polly felt conscious that her allusion113 was too flippant for the cause.
"So you see, Lilias," she continued quickly, "I'm not the least ashamed of having been caught fast asleep in my room before dinner the other rainy day. I always curl myself up and go to sleep when I've got nothing better to do, and I count the capacity a precious gift; besides, I will let you into a secret worth your heads: it improves your looks immensely after you've been gadding114 about for a number of days, and horribly dissipated in dancing of nights at Christmas, or in the oratorio90 week, or if you are in a town when the circuit is sitting—not present as a prisoner, Conny."
"Polly!" blazed out Constantia, who, on the plea of the needle-like [Page 12] sharpness and single-heartedness which sometimes distinguishes her fifteen years, was permitted to be more plain-spoken and ruder than her sisters; "I hate to hear you telling of doing everything you like with such enjoyment. I think, if you had been a man, you would have been an abominable115 fellow, and you are only harmless because you are a girl."
Polly laughed immoderately. "Such a queer compliment, Conny!"
"Hold your tongue, Conny."
"Go back to your book; we'll tell mamma," scolded the elder girls; and Conny hung her head, scarlet116 with shame and consternation117.
Conny had truth on her side; yet Polly's independence and animal delight in life, in this artificial world, was not to be altogether despised either.
Polly maintained honestly that the girl had done no harm. She was glad she had never had to endure senior sisters, and if she had been afflicted118 with younger plagues, she would have made a point of not snubbing them, on the principle of fair play.
"And you were a little heathenish, Polly," suggested Joanna, "not giving fair play to the heroism119 of the ancients."
But Susan had long been waiting her turn, testifying more interest in her right to speak than she usually wasted on the affairs of the state. She wished to cross-examine Polly on a single important expression, and although Susan at least was wonderfully harmless, her patience could hold out no longer.
[Page 13]"Why are you afraid of being blowsy to-night, Polly?"
"I'm not frightened, I would not disturb myself about a risk; but you've kept an invitation all this time under my tongue, not in my pockets, I assure you;" and Polly elaborately emptied them, the foppish120 breast pocket, and that at the waist.
"It is only from Mrs. Maxwell," sighed Susan; "we are never invited anywhere except to Hurlton, in this easy way."
"But there is company; young Mr. Jardine has come home to Whitethorn, and he is to dine with the Maxwells, and we are invited over to Hurlton in the evening lest the claret or the port should be too much for him."
The girls did not say "Nonsense!" they looked at each other; Joanna was very pale, the red stain was very clear now. At last Lilias spoke79, hesitating a little to begin with, "It is so like Mrs. Maxwell—without a moment's consideration—so soon after his return, before we had met casually121, as we must have done. I dare say she is sorry now, when she comes to think over it. I hope Mr. Maxwell will be angry with her—the provoking old goose," ran on Lilias, neither very reverently122 nor very gratefully for an excellent, exemplary girl.
"There is one thing, we can't refuse," said Susan with marvellous decision; "it would be out of the question for us to avoid him; it would be too marked for us to stay away."
"Read your book, Conny," commanded Lilias fiercely; "you were sufficiently123 intent upon it a moment ago; girls should not be made acquainted with such troubles."
[Page 14]"I don't want to be a bar upon you," cried the belated Conny, rising and walking away sulkily, but pricking her ears all the time.
"Joanna, you had better mention the matter to papa."
"Don't you think you're making an unnecessary fuss?" remarked Polly. "Of course, I remembered uncle's misfortune," she admitted candidly124, "though none of you speak of it, and I noticed Oliver stammer125 dreadfully when Mrs. Maxwell mentioned Mr. Jardine; but I thought that at this time of day, when everybody knew there was no malice126 borne originally, and Uncle Crawfurd might have been killed, you might have been polite and neighbourly with quiet consciences. I tell you, I mean to set my cap at young Mr. Jardine of Whitethorn, and when I marry him, and constitute him a family connexion, of course the relics127 of that old accident will be scattered128 to the winds."
"Oh! Polly, Polly!" cried the girls, "you must never, never speak so lightly to papa."
"Of course not, I am not going to vex129 my uncle; I can excuse him, but Joanna need not look so scared. There is not such a thing as retribution and vengeance, child, in Christian130 countries; it is you who are heathenish. Or have you nursed a vain imagination of encountering Mr. Jardine, unknown to each other, and losing your hearts by an unaccountable fascination131, and being as miserable132 as the principals in the second last chapter of one of Conny's three volumes? or were you to atone133 to him in some mysterious, fantastic, supernatural fashion, for the unintentional wrong? Because if you have done so, I'm afraid it is all mist and moonshine, poor Jack, quite as much as the twaddling goody stories."
[Page 15]"Polly," said Joanna angrily, but speaking low, "I think you might spare us on so sad a subject."
"I want you to have common sense; I want you to be comfortable; no wonder my uncle has never recovered his spirits."
"Indeed, Polly, I don't think you've any reason to interfere134 in papa's concerns."
"I don't see that you are entitled to blame Joanna," defended sister Lilias, stoutly;—Lilias, who was so swift to find fault herself.
"There, I'll say no more; I beg your pardon, I merely intended to show you your world in an ordinary light."
"Do you know, Polly, that Mrs. Jardine has never visited us since?" asked Susan.
"Very likely, she was entitled to some horror. But she is a reasonable woman. Mr. Maxwell told me—every third party discusses the story behind your backs whenever it chances to come up, I warn you—Mr. Maxwell informed me that she never blamed Uncle Crawfurd, and that she sent her son away from her because she judged it bad for him to be brought up among such recollections, and feared that when he was a lad he might be tampered135 with by the servants, and might imbibe136 prejudices and aversions that would render him gloomy and vindictive137, and unlike other people for the rest of his life; she could not have behaved more wisely. I am inclined to suppose that Mrs. Jardine of Whitethorn has more knowledge of the world and self-command than the whole set of my relations here, unless, perhaps, my Aunt Crawfurd—she will only speculate on your dresses—that is the question, Susan."
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1
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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possessed
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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pretensions
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mighty
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reapers
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sickles
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foe
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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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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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exonerated
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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dwelling
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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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pricking
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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plentiful
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moors
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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40
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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41
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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43
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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44
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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45
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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46
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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47
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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48
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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49
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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50
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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51
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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52
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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53
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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54
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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55
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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56
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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57
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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59
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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60
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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61
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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62
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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63
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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64
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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65
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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66
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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67
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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68
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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69
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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70
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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71
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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72
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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73
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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74
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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75
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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76
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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77
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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78
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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79
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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80
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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81
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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84
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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85
embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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86
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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87
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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88
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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89
oratorios
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| n.（以宗教为主题的）清唱剧，神剧( oratorio的名词复数 ) | |
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90
oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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91
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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93
diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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94
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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95
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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96
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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97
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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98
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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99
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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100
peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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101
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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102
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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103
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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104
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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107
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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109
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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110
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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111
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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112
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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113
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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114
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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115
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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116
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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117
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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118
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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120
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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121
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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122
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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123
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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124
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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125
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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126
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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127
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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128
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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129
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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132
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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133
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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134
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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135
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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136
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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137
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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