The spring found Redcross still staggering under the failure of Carey's Bank. Hardly a week passed yet without some painful result of the disaster coming to light. These results had ceased to startle, there had been so many of them; but they still held plenty of interest for the fellow-sufferers, and Dora and May's letters were full of the details.
Bell Hewett had left Miss Burridge's; she had got a situation, or rather, she had been appointed to a junior form in the Girls' Day School at Deweshurst, going in the morning and returning in the afternoon by train. It was a good thing for Bell on the whole. She was more independent, had a recognized position as a public school-mistress, which she would not have had as a private governess; and if she continued to study, and passed various examinations, she might rise to higher and higher
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forms until she blossomed into a head-mistress—fancy Bell a head-mistress! She had quite a handsome salary, more than poor Ned's according to the chroniclers, Dora and May. That was the bright side of it. Unluckily for Bell, as most people thought, there was another. The daily journeys, together with the school-work, constituted a heavy task for a girl. Bell, toiling2 up from the railway station on a rainy day, with her umbrella ready to turn inside out, and her waterproof3 flying open, because her left hand, cramped4 and numb5, was laden6 with a great bundle of exercises to correct at home, presented a dejected figure, tired out and three-fourths beaten. So the Miss Dyers thought as they rolled past her in their carriage, and debated whether they should not stop to pick her up and save her walking the rest of the road. But she was such a fright, positively7 bedraggled with mud enough to soil the cushions, and she could speak of nothing now save the Deweshurst Girls' Day School and her duties there. It was too tiresome8 to be borne with. Poor Bell was not clever, she was one-idea'd and slow at work like Ned, and she had also his conscientiousness9. Probably promotion10 was not for her; she must drudge11 on as best she might. Her great encouragement at this time, next to her father's and sister's approbation12 and sympathy, was, as she told Dora, the
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prospect14 of spending her Easter holidays with Ned at his station-house. What did she care for its being only a station-house? after the fagging school-work it would be great fun to put Ned's small house in order, and play at housekeeping with him for a fortnight. She was bent15 on making him comfortable, and cheering him as well as herself. If the weather would but be fine they might have glorious rambles16 on the Yorkshire moors17 when no trains were due.
Colonel Russell was sailing once more for India, to lay his bones there without fail, the little Doctor prophesied18 sadly. In the meantime he had got, and been glad to get, a subordinate post in his old field. At the last moment, after he had established Mrs. Russell and her children in a cheerful house in Bath, he made up his mind to take his grown-up daughter out with him. But she was not to stay in his bungalow19, for he was going to a small out-of-the-way station where there would be no accommodation or society in the barrack circle for a solitary20 young lady. Fanny was to be left with a cousin of her father's, in the Bombay Presidency21. The lady had offered to take charge of her, and have her for a long visit.
Did Annie and Rose know what that meant? Could they form an indignant, affronted22 guess? "Father said," Dora quoted, "that if Colonel Rus
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sell, an honourable23 gentleman and gallant24 officer, had not lived in the old days and had his feelings blunted to the situation, he would never have consented to such an arrangement for his daughter. But he had seen his sisters come out to India for the well-understood purpose of getting married to any eligible25 man in want of a wife, so why should not Fanny do the same thing, when his pecuniary26 losses rendered it particularly desirable and the opportunity offered itself? It was not in Colonel Russell's eyes an unworthy resource. Of course Fanny was going out to be married and creditably disposed of within a given time, else her father would not have felt justified27 in paying her outfit28 and passage-money. Certainly he had no intention of paying her passage-money home as a single woman."
What would the Millars have done in Fanny's case? For was it not dreadful—particularly when all the young people interested in the subject remembered quite well that there had been "something" between Cyril Carey and Fanny Russell for more than a year back? Annie had always wondered what Fanny could see in a silly, trifling29 fop like Cyril. Rose had not been without a corresponding sense of wonder as to what Cyril could find in Fanny, who, in spite of her grand Norman peasant's carriage and profile, was dawdling30 and discontented with things in general, and
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though she pretended to a little knowledge of art, did not in the least understand what she was talking about. However, Annie's and Rose's opinions were of very little consequence when the matter concerned—not them—but Cyril and Fanny. There had been "something" between them which had changed the whole world to them last summer. They would never entirely32 outlive and forget it—not though Fanny went to far Cathay and married, not one, but half a dozen of Nabobs. For she was going to obey her father, and give herself to the first eligible bidder33 for her hand. No doubt she would do it with set lips, blanched34 face, and great black eyes looking not only twice as large as their natural size, but hollow and worn in the young face, because of the dark rings round them. These were produced by the sleepless35 nights which she pretended were occasioned by the hurry of her preparations, and of her having to say good-bye to all her old friends. But she would do it all the same.
Dora had only once caught Fanny Russell alone, and ventured on a timid, heart-felt expostulation.
"Must you go to India, Fanny? We shall all miss you so much, and it is not as if you were to be with your father, but just to stay with a distant relative whom you have never seen; it does appear such a sacrifice."
"And what should I do if I stayed behind papa,
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Dora?" asked Fanny, turning upon her with those great burning eyes and parched36 lips. "The house here is to be given up and the furniture sold immediately—of course you know that. It will take all that he can spare after discharging his share of the bank debts to keep Mrs. Russell and the children. I am a useless sort of person—a blank in the world. I could not nurse like Annie, or paint like Rose. I could not even be a school-mistress like Bell Hewett. Supposing I were qualified37 I should break down in a month. I was born in India, and spent the first five years of my life there, so that I am idle and languid, without stamina38 or moral courage; I am like the poor Bengalees, whom I can just remember. There is nobody who will undertake to keep me in England," ended Fanny, with a short, hard laugh.
And Dora, thinking of Cyril Carey—still one of the unemployed39, with his old supercilious40 airs lost in the gait that was getting slouching, in keeping with the clothes becoming shabbier and shabbier, and the downcast, moody41 looks—could not find words with which to contradict her.
Indeed, when Dora was betrayed into giving her mother a hint of that "something," unsuspected by the seniors of the circle, which had been between Cyril Carey and Fanny Russell, and rendered Fanny's destination still more heartless and hateful,
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Mrs. Millar took an entirely different view of the circumstances from that taken by her daughters, and was both indignant and intolerant. "What presumption42 in Cyril Carey!" broke out the gentle mother of marriageable daughters, full of righteous wrath43. "To dream of making up to a girl and perhaps engaging her simple affections, with the danger of breaking her heart and spoiling her prospects44, when he had just failed to pass at college, and had not so much as a calling—not to say an income, with which to keep a wife! I shall think worse of him than I did before, after hearing this."
"But you forget, mother," remonstrated45 Dora, "that the bank was in existence then. His father might have been able to do something for Cyril."
"He was not going to live on the bank's capital and credit. There was too much of that going on already with poor James Carey's encroaching, dishonest relations and their friends. And I beg to tell you, Dora, that a man who cannot help himself, but has to wait for his father to do something for him, is a very poor match for any girl. Fanny Russell is well rid of him. I have no doubt she will think so before she is many years older—that is, if this is not all a piece of foolish nonsense such as girls are apt to take into their heads about their companions. If there was anything in it, and she
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had not been going away, her father ought to have been warned, and Cyril Carey spoken to in the way he deserved—selfish scapegrace! As it is, the bare suspicion is enough to reconcile one to Fanny Russell's going out to India, though that custom for girls has fallen into disrepute, and I never had any liking47 for it. Still I hope that Fanny will soon make an excellent marriage, and will learn to laugh at Cyril Carey and his unwarrantable presumption, together with any girlish folly48 of which she may have been guilty."
Mrs. Millar spoke46 in another fashion to the little Doctor. She had happened to be at the railway station on the raw, chill morning when Fanny Russell, in her smart new gray travelling suit—part of her outfit—was put into a railway carriage by her father and left there alone, while he went to look after the luggage and find a smoking-carriage for himself.
Fanny sat like a statue. She did not even raise her veil when she was bidding farewell to Lucy Hewett and Dora, who were seeing her off—not to take a last look at Redcross, where she had spent her youth.
Mrs. Millar understood it better when she stumbled against Cyril Carey half hidden by a lamp-post, watching the vanishing train. She might have taken the opportunity to rebuke49 him
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for his unprincipled recklessness; instead of doing so—after one glance at the young fellow's haggard face—the ordinary words of greeting died away on the kind woman's lips. She turned aside in another direction, making as if she had not seen him, without breathing a word of the encounter until she had her husband's ear all to herself in the privacy of the dining-room.
"O Jonathan!" she said, "I am so glad, so thankful that you did not interfere50 and use any influence, any pressure on Dora about Tom Robinson. I think it would have broken my heart to see any daughter of mine going off as Fanny Russell went to-day, leaving the look I declare I beheld51 on that poor lad's face. I should not wonder though she has given him the last push on the road to destruction."
"Oh, come now; it is not so bad as that," protested Dr. Millar, and then he was guilty of a most audacious paraphrase52 of a piece of schoolboy slang, for which he had some excuse in the habits of his wife—"Keep your cap on, Maria. In the first place, I see no analogy between the cases. Dora had not a private love affair—at least I was never told of it."
"Father, what are you thinking of? A private love affair in this house! It was very different with poor Fanny Russell, who had only her silly,
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selfish young stepmother between her and her father. I dare say she would never have looked at an empty coxcomb53 like Cyril Carey if she had been happy at home."
"And did I not hear you say," asked the gentleman, who had before now been made the recipient54 of the disastrous55 complication of the story, "that the girl was well quit of the jackanapes, for she could not have a worse bargain made for her than she had nearly blundered into on her own account?"
"Yes, I did say so," the lady admitted, when thus brought to book; "and I'd say it again, if I had not seen that miserable56, desperate expression on his face, and he so young, and such a light-hearted, foolish dandy only the other day. I may be sorry for him, I suppose, though I have no son of my own. And I am grieved for poor James Carey, who is breaking up so fast, and for poor, poor Mrs. Carey."
It was a positive relief when Dr. Millar came in one day and announced that he had a piece of good news for the family, by far the best where the Careys were concerned that he had heard for many a day. Cyril had got an appointment at last; he had been offered the command of the mounted police at Deweshurst.
"A policeman. Oh! what a downfall," cried Mrs. Millar and Dora. But when the Doctor reminded
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them that there were policemen and policemen, insisted on the fact that the practice of placing gentlemen at the head of the constabulary was gaining ground, and asked them what they had been in the habit of calling Colonel Shaw and Sir Edmund Henderson when they were the chiefs of the London police, his womankind gave in.
Mrs. Carey did not say there would be another mouth less for her to feed, but she remarked, with the same sardonic57 calmness, that Cyril's clothes would be provided for him, which would be one good thing. Cyril himself was only too glad to get away. He would have something to do, however unpalatable in itself, instead of digging in the garden, and going through the form of helping58 Robinson, his clerks, and cashier, with their books. He would have a good horse under him once more, if he were only to ride it to police drill.
Dora could not be sure whether he experienced a throb59 of thankfulness at the thought that this had not happened till Fanny Russell was gone. Where was constancy to draw the line? A man was not less a man because he was also a mounted policeman. He might even be grandiloquently60 styled, by those who were particular about the names of things, the soldier of peace. Still Dora had an irresistible61 conception of the pained disdain62, the latent superciliousness63, which would have
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sprung into full force in Fanny's dark eyes, if she had ever seen the once magnificent Cyril in the most careful modification64 of a bobby's braided tunic65 and helmet.
Bell Hewett would not look so, if she, in her school-mistress character, met Cyril at Deweshurst. Bell, like Dora, would feel her heart soften66 and warm to Cyril in his misfortunes. She would think of Ned, and hurry up to Ned's old playfellow and chum, to tell him the last news from Yorkshire, and ask what message from him she should send to Ned in her next letter. Dora was tempted67 to go on and wonder whether Cyril's heart would not be touched in turn by the cordial recognition of his Rector's daughter, who had, on the whole, kept her position better than he, with his advantages, had kept his, whose frank greeting had become a kind of credential of gentle birth and breeding afforded to him in full sight of the natives of Deweshurst. If he felt all that, he must recognize how womanly and sweet Bell was, though she was not pretty and not one bit clever, and be full of gratitude68 to her. And gratitude combined with considerable isolation69 on the one hand, and on the other the constantly present possibility of agreeable encounters with a loyal old friend, might lead to anything—to a good deal more than Dora cared to say even to herself, feeling frightened at the
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length to which she had gone on the spur of the moment in this most recklessly unworldly match-making. Yet was it reckless, when Bell would be such a good poor man's wife, and when marriage with a woman like Bell might make another man of Cyril Carey?
However, the Careys' adversity, with its reaction on their old associates, approached a climax70 shortly after Cyril left. His father grew so much more helpless an invalid71 that it was found absolutely necessary to have a resident nurse for him. Then Mrs. Carey, though she continued the nurse-in-chief, stated clearly and dispassionately that she was now sufficiently72 disengaged to look after her house and give her single servant what assistance she required. Therefore, as it was high time that Phyllis should be doing something for herself, Mrs. Carey proposed to put her at once into "Robinson's," under Miss Franklin, if Mr. Robinson would receive Phyllis for an apprentice73.
It was in vain that Phyllis cried and implored74 her mother to take back her resolution, and that all her friends apprised75 of the proposed step remonstrated; Dr. Millar even called expressly to enter his protest.
Mrs. Carey would hear of no objections. Phyllis must do something for herself, and she was not clever or qualified in any way to be a governess.
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Mrs. Carey had every confidence in "Robinson's" as an excellent shop, conducted on the best principles. She had a great respect for both Mr. Robinson and Miss Franklin—she would never find a more desirable place for Phyllis. As to cutting her off from all her connections and the circumstances of her birth and education, that had been done already pretty effectually. The sooner everybody found his or her level the better for the world in general. If Mrs. Carey was not much mistaken, more girls than Phyllis would have to learn that lesson before these hard times were over. No, it was not Phyllis who was to be cut off from her connections—from those who ought to be nearest and dearest to her. It was poor Ella who was separated from the rest of the family, and condemned77 to gilded78 exile. Mrs. Carey was doing her best to keep Phyllis, not only for her mother and her poor father, but for her brothers, who must all start in life in a humble79 way, by putting the girl into "Robinson's," since Mr. Robinson had reluctantly consented to have her.
Dr. Millar retired80 from the field beaten.
The unheard-of destination of her friend Phyllis played the most extraordinary pranks81 with May Millar's mind. The fact was, there were two Mays dwelling82 side by side in one goodly young tabernacle of flesh. There was the May with the
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exceptional scholarly proclivities83. She had a life of her own into which none of the family except her father possessed84 so much as the tools to penetrate85. She cherished dreams of Greece and Rome, with the mighty86 music of the undying voices of their sages87 and poets, and the rich treasures of learning, among which a poor little English girl, far far down in the centuries, could only walk with reverend foot and bated breath.
And there was the other May, hanging about her mother, running to bring her father's slippers88, sitting on his knee to this day, taking possession of Dora, ordering her about like a young tyrant89, adoring Tray—the most guileless, helpless, petted simpleton of a child-woman that ever existed. The second May was at the present date the more prominent and prevailing90 of the two, so much so that all the sharp-tongued, practical-minded ladies in Redcross made a unanimous remark. Dr. and Mrs. Millar's youngest daughter was the most disgracefully spoilt, badly brought-up, childish creature for her years whom the critics knew. It was a poor preparation in view of her having to work to maintain herself. They could not tell what was to become of her.
At first May lamented91, day and night, over the fate of Phyllis Carey, to have to stand behind counters, sort drawers full of ribands, tape,
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and reels of cotton, and wait on her townswomen! May could think of no fitting parallel unless the pathetic one of that miserable young princess apprenticed92 to the button-maker, dying with her cheek on an open Bible, at the text, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
Then, as Phyllis accommodated herself to the new yoke93, and found it not so galling94 as she had expected it to be, her friend May altered her tone with sympathetic quickness, and reflected Phyllis's change of mood almost before the mood was established. Phyllis was in mental constitution like her father, single-hearted and submissive—not bright any more than Bell Hewett was bright, but contented31 and trustful as long as she was suffered to be so. She had been enduring harder and harder lines at home. She found existence actually brightening instead of darkening round her when she was transferred to "Robinson's." For everybody, knowing all about her and her father and mother, with their altered circumstances, began, at least, by treating her with kindly95 respect and forbearance, in spite of Mrs. Carey's austere96 request that she should be dealt with exactly like the other shop-girls.
Shop-work, in which Phyllis was to be gradually trained, felt comparatively easy to a girl who had
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been taken from school and launched into the coarsest drudgery97 of house-work under an inexperienced, flurried, over-burdened maid-of-all-work. Mrs. Carey was sufficiently just to exact no more home-work from Phyllis, and to arrange that she should have her time to herself, like other shop-girls, after "Robinson's" was closed, while the master of "Robinson's" was inflexible98 in setting his face against late hours, except for the elder hands on one evening in the week. Everybody was good to Phyllis, who, in truth, just because she was enough of a little lady to be free from arrogance99 and assumption, while she was willing to do her best to oblige her neighbours, provoked no harsh treatment. Above all Tom Robinson for one person could not be too considerate to her.
Miss Franklin looked on Phyllis Carey as a godsend, a harbinger of other better-class girls going into trade. The woman not only took the girl under her wing, she fell back instinctively100 and inevitably101 on Phyllis for companionship, with a selection flattering in a woman to a girl.
Then a complete revolution was wrought102 in May's opinions and wishes. Nothing would serve her but that she too must go as a shop-girl to "Robinson's," and share the fortunes of her friend.
May did not yet confide76 her purpose to her father and mother, but she poured it in daily and
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nightly outbursts into the startled ears of Dora, to whom the hallucination sounded like a mocking retribution on the young Millars' old scornful estimate of shopkeepers and shops. May stuck to her point with a tenacity103 which, touching104 as it did a tender, trembling chord in Dora's heart, threatened also to subvert105 her judgment106, that was at once sounder and more matured than May's.
The vibrating chord lay in the knowledge that May too was destined107 to quit Redcross at no distant day, with the aching reluctance108 of Dora to give her up, and to find herself in the position that domineering, selfish girls sometimes covet—that of being the only girl at home, having none to share with her in the rights and privileges of the daughter of the house.
A sort of feverish109 anxiety, which was in itself ominous110, had taken hold of Dr. Millar to see all he had projected accomplished111 in so far as it was still possible. That is, he would fain set in motion, at least, the wheels which would carry out his purpose. Perhaps he had reason to distrust his health and life; perhaps it was simply that he was not insensible to the fact, that money had a trick of running through his fingers and those of Mrs. Millar like water, though they did their best to catch it up and arrest it in its rapid course. Mrs. Millar's little private income was still in part free,
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and not engulfed112 in the needs of the household at Redcross, as it might not long continue. Rose had only sixty pounds of it, and Annie fifteen for pocket-money till she should have passed her probation13 and be in a position to receive her nurse's salary, which would be as soon as she had completed her first year in the hospital. There were seventy-five pounds remaining, which might serve to keep May at Thirlwall Hall in St. Ambrose's with the chance of her gaining a scholarship and partly maintaining herself for the rest of her stay in college. "Little May's" maintaining herself in any degree was a notion half to laugh at, half to cry over, while it took possession of Dr. Millar's imagination just as serving in "Robinson's" along with Phyllis Carey had hold of May's.
Another year (who knew?) it might not be in the Millars' power to afford May the opportunity of growing up a scholar, on which her father had set his heart. That consciousness, and the sense of the value which her husband put on May's abilities and their culture, brought round Mrs. Millar. She began to contemplate113 with something like composure what she would otherwise have strongly objected to, the sending forth114 of her youngest darling—the child who so clung to her and to home—into an indifferent or hostile world.
Truth to tell, it was May herself who was the
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great obstacle. She was not cast in the heroic mould of Annie and Rose. It was like tearing up her heart-strings to drag her away from her father and mother, Dora, Tray, the Old Doctor's House, Redcross itself. She had enough perception of what was due to everybody concerned—herself included—and just sufficient self-control not to disgrace herself and vex115 her father by openly opposing and actively116 fighting against his plans for her welfare. But she threw all the discouraging weight of a passive resistance and dumb protest into the scale.
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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cramped
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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moors
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prophesied
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bungalow
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solitary
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presidency
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affronted
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honourable
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gallant
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eligible
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pecuniary
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justified
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outfit
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trifling
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dawdling
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contented
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entirely
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bidder
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34
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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35
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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36
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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37
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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38
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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39
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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40
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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41
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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42
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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43
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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44
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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45
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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46
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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47
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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48
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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49
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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50
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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51
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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52
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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53
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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54
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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58
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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59
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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grandiloquently
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61
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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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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63
superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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64
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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65
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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66
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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67
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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68
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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69
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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71
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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76
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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77
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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79
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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81
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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82
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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83
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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84
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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85
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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87
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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88
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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89
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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90
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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91
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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95
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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96
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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97
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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98
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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99
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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100
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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101
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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102
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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103
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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104
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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105
subvert
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| v.推翻；暗中破坏；搅乱 | |
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106
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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107
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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108
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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109
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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110
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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111
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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112
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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114
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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115
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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116
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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