On the night which it was feared would be Tom Robinson's last, Miss Franklin would no longer be denied her place among the watchers. She had
[364]
been kept away in obedience6 to poor Tom's express orders, that in the attempt to minimize the fever no communication should be kept up on his account between the Corn Exchange where he lay and either his house or "Robinson's," notwithstanding the proofs that the disease did not spread by contagion7 or infection.
Miss Franklin did not desire to dispossess Annie of the post which, in spite of every remonstrance8, she was holding latterly almost night and day. Miss Franklin had no faculty9 for nursing, and small experience to guide her. She was rather a nervous woman in her impulsiveness10, and after one look at what was like the mask of Tom Robinson, utterly11 incapable12 of recognizing her or communicating with her, she was so much overcome that she was fain to retire to another room and submit to be gently ministered to by Dora.
Miss Franklin was only too thankful to be suffered to stay there in the background. It did not strike her as odd that nobody in the house except the other patients should go to sleep that night when her cousin was hovering13 between life and death—nearer death than life. Neither had the outspoken14, kind-hearted gentlewoman any particular application of her speech in her mind when she said sorrowfully—"Dear! dear! how grieved he would be if he knew how worn out you were, Miss Dora.
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He thought that his coming to the hospital would not only serve as a precedent15, it would be the simplest, safest, least troublesome plan where he himself was concerned, though if he would have let me, I should have been only too glad to have turned my back on 'Robinson's' for a time, and done what I could for him. There is enough difference in our ages, and I have known him all his life, in addition to our being connections if not near relations, so that nobody need have found fault. Not that I pretend for a moment that I could have done what your sister is doing—that is something quite wonderful in every respect" (and here Miss Franklin did draw up her bountiful figure, and fix the rather small eyes, sunk a little in her full cheeks, pointedly16 on Dora). "I dare say he liked to have her about him to the last, so long as he was sensible of her presence. Men are extraordinary creatures—that I should say that now, oh! my poor dear cousin Tom."
After she had recovered from her outburst of grief, and was sipping17 the tea which Dora had made for her, she turned again to her companion. "You look like a ghost yourself, Miss Dora. Will you not lie down in your bedroom and trust me? I shall sit here and bring you word the moment I hear that a change has come;" and at the ill-omened phrase poor Miss Franklin's well-bred,
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distinct enunciation18 got all blurred19 and faltering20. In fact she shrank a good deal from the ordeal21 she was magnanimously proposing for herself. As it happened she had never undergone anything like it before, though she had reached middle age. It was not easy for her to contemplate22 sitting there all alone through the dreary23 small hours, knowing that Tom Robinson's spirit—the spirit of the best friend she had ever known—was passing away without word or sign in the adjoining room. It was a relief to her when Dora Millar, looking as if she had been sitting up in turn with every patient in the ward24, as pale as a moonbeam and as weak as water, yet shook her head decisively against any suggestion of her retiring to rest.
There was a strong contrast between the couple who were to wait together for death or the morning. Miss Franklin herself might be on the eve of dying—but so long as she lived and went through the mundane25 process of dressing26, she must dress exceedingly well. She was a good, kind woman all the same, and this night she bore a sore heart under her carefully contrived27 and nicely put on garments.
Poor young Dora, on the contrary, looked all limp and forlorn. The gingham morning-gown she had not changed was huddled28 on her, and crumpled29 about her. Her neglected hair was pushed back from her little white face. Annie in her
[367]
nurse's spotless apron30 and cap looked a hundred times trimmer, and was altogether a more cheerful object. It was as if the whole world had come to an end for Dora, and she had ceased to notice trifles. Almost the first words Miss Franklin had said to her when the visitor began to recover from the shock she had undergone, were—
"Excuse me, Miss Dora, the lace at your throat is coming undone—let me put it right for you; and an end of your hair has fallen down. I may fasten it up, may I not?"
A delicate, exhausted31 girl was no great support for a woman under the circumstances, still she was better than nobody. She was company in one form, like the domestic cat, when no more available associate is to be found. Besides, in the middle of their dissimilarity, Miss Franklin had a natural liking32 for Dora Millar, and had always excepted her from the grudge33 which the elder woman was inclined to feel against one member of the Millar family. "A nice, well-meaning, gentle girl," Miss Franklin mentally classed Dora. "The most quiet and ladylike of them all." She was a great improvement, in Miss Franklin's estimation, on that too bright and restless Annie, whom everybody cried up as a beauty. She had found, Miss Franklin was creditably informed, a fine vent34 for her dictatorial35 imperious temper as a nurse. Yet she,
[368]
Miss Franklin, ought not to find fault with Annie Millar at this time, when Dr. Capes36 had said her treatment of the fever patients, with dear Tom among them, was admirable; though, by one of the mysterious decrees of Providence37, she might not be permitted to succeed in his case. And she was now ministering to his last wants as she, Barbara Franklin, arrived at mature age, with all the will, had neither the skill nor the courage to minister, much as she owed him, so long as he had other service. She was a captious38, vindictive39 wretch40 to pick holes in Miss Millar's armour41, when she was striving so hard to atone42 to him for any injury she had ever done him by delivering him from the jaws43 of death, or at least smoothing his path to the grave.
The seasons had gone on till the late summer was merging44 into the early autumn. It was the beginning of August, when the days are already not so long as they have been; but, to make up for it, the lengthening45 nights are balmier than they ever were, and the soft dusk remains46 full of summer scents48 and sounds.
It was on such a night that you might imagine a young man, dying long before his time, and yet after he has reached full manhood, and touched the crown of bodily and mental vigour49, without ever feeling the tide on its turn.
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The night was so warm that the windows of the room in which Dora and Miss Franklin sat were wide open. There was a lamp lit within, but it did not render the darkness without so great as to hide the outlines of trees in the nearest garden, and even the dim shape of a bed of late flowering, tall white lilies. Their heavy fragrance50 was on the air; and if ever there is a fragrance which is solemn and tender like the love of the dying and the memory of the dead, it is the all-pervading scent47 of lilies.
Annie Millar could never have been so good a listener as Dora was when Miss Franklin, constitutionally loquacious51, relieved her distress52, and got rid of the dragging hours, by indulging in a long and affectionate oration53 on Tom Robinson, the man who, not so many yards from them, was lying as indifferent to praise and blame as when he first entered this wonderful world, with all its joys and sorrows, from which he was ready to depart.
"You know, he is not really my cousin," the womanly confidence began; "the tie between us hardly counts—it is only that Mr. Robinson's first wife was my mother's sister. But I always called Mr. Charles Robinson and his second wife uncle and aunt. I might well do it, for they were a good uncle and aunt to me. I should have known few pleasures when I was growing up, and long afterwards, if it had not been for them. The Robinsons
[370]
used to go away trips every summer to Devonshire and Derbyshire, the Yorkshire moors56, the Cumberland lakes, Scotland, the Black Forest, Switzerland, and they always took me to see the world, and spend my summer holidays with them. How generous and kind they were in their friendliness57! Tom was usually of the party—first as a child, then as a growing boy; but child or boy, such a nice manly55 little fellow, so much thought of, yet not at all spoilt. He was fond of reading, yet full of quiet fun, and in either light never in anybody's way. He was so considerate of his mother and me, and so helpful to us. The cows he has driven away! the horses going at large he has kept off! the bulls he has held at bay! I confess I am not brave in proportion to my size. I am very timid in such matters, and, strange to say, Aunt Robinson, though a country-woman born and bred, was as great a coward as I where farm animals were in question; but we always knew ourselves safe when Tom was at hand, and he never laughed at us more than we could stand."
"I can understand," said Dora faintly. "He once helped us—May and me—when a strange dog attacked Tray; and now Tray is running about with May full of life and health, while his champion is——" She could not say the words.
Miss Franklin looked at her approvingly, even
[371]
went so far as to stroke one of the cold trembling hands lying nerveless in Dora's lap. "You will allow me to say that you are a dear, tender-hearted girl, Miss Dora. You could have appreciated my cousin Tom. What a tower of strength he was to me when I felt I was getting middle-aged58, and my system of teaching was becoming old-fashioned. I had been in so many homes belonging to other people, with never a home of my own, for upwards60 of thirty years, since my poor father and mother both died before I was twenty. I do not say that I was not for the most part well enough treated, because I hope I did my best, and I believe I generally gave satisfaction. I had my happy hours like other people. But it was all getting so stale, flat, and unprofitable—I suppose because I was growing weary of it all, and longing59 for a change. You see I had not quite come to the age when we cease to want changes, and are resigned just to go on as we are to the end. In reality I could see no end, except the poorest of poor lodgings61 and the most pinching straits, with the very little money I had saved. (My dear, even finishing governesses can save so little now-a-days.) Or perhaps there was the chance of my being taken into some charitable institution. You will admit it was not a cheerful prospect62."
"No, it was not," said Dora, in dreary abstraction.
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"As I said," resumed Miss Franklin, "I had been in so many schoolrooms; I had seen so many pupils grow up, go out into the world, and settle in life, leaving me behind, so that when they came back on visits to their old homes, they were prepared to pity and patronize me. I could not continue cudgelling my poor brains until I had not an original thought in my head, and all to keep up such acquirements as I had, and preserve a place among younger, better equipped girls, certain to outstrip63 me eventually."
"I suppose so," acquiesced64 Dora mechanically.
"Then poor dear Tom came to see me, and I told him what I was thinking. He got me to pay a visit to Redcross, and made a new opening for me. I may say without self-conceit that I was always considered to have a good taste in dress. I know it was a question which had never failed to interest me, to which I could not help giving a great deal of attention—making a study of it, as it were. Tom insisted that I could be of the greatest use to him, and was worth a liberal salary, which I was not likely to lose. And there was a comfortable refined nest, which I could line for myself, awaiting me in the pleasant rooms he had looked out for me."
"I know, Miss Franklin," said Dora, with a faint smile; "you told Phyllis Carey, and she told May,
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who repeated it to me. But I thought it might be a relief to you to speak of it again."
"Yes," cried the eager woman; "and it has all answered so well—the duties not too heavy, and really agreeable to me; the young women and men, under Tom's influence, no doubt, perfectly65 nice and respectful; and within the last six months, dear little Phyllis like a daughter or niece to me. I thought always I should be able to do something in return for him one day, yet with all the will in the world I have been able to do nothing until it has come to this;" and poor Miss Franklin sobbed66 bitterly under the burden of her unrequited obligations, and beneath the dove's neck cluster of feathers in her bonnet67.
It was for Dora in her turn to seek to soothe68 and compose her companion. "I am sure you have been of the greatest service to him, and that he has enjoyed the near neighbourhood of an old friend—his mother's friend. Oh! think what a comfort it will be to you to have that to look back upon," finished Dora, in a voice trembling as much as Miss Franklin's.
Miss Franklin sat up, instinctively70 put her bonnet straight, wiped her eyes with her embroidered71 handkerchief, and gazed pensively72 into the empty air.
"God's ways are not as our ways," she said;
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"and certainly we are told that we are not to look for our reward in this world. Still one would have expected—one would have liked that it had not been so hard all through for Tom—not merely to have been denied the desire of his heart, but to have had to endure in his last moments to be set aside, to lie still and look on at what is going to happen."
Dora sat mystified; but she had not the spirit left to seek an explanation.
Miss Franklin was not aware that an explanation was needed. "I know," she added, "how kind and attentive73 your sister has been to Tom, and I understand nothing can exceed the interest Dr. Ironside has taken in my cousin, while he has made the most unremitting efforts to save him; still you will grant that so long as my poor Tom was conscious, it must have been very, very trying for him to see the terms these two were on. I don't listen much to gossip"—the speaker declared, in a parenthesis74, with a little air of dignity and reserve even at that moment—"but it is the talk of the town that he has followed her down from London, and that they are to be married as soon as the epidemic75 is past. Nobody can say anything against it. They are well matched. They will be a fine-looking couple," she struggled to acknowledge with becoming politeness and impartiality76.
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"This is the first time I have heard of it, I can say with truth," said Dora wearily, without so much as a smile at the characteristic report. She thought the mention of it most unsuitable at such a season. The very word marriage smote77 her. "And even if it were so, what could it have signified to Mr. Tom Robinson?" she was about to add naïvely, when a light flashed upon her. She had often wondered how much Miss Franklin, "Robinson's," the whole town, knew of what had taken place eighteen months ago. She saw now that however little the lady might care for gossip, a distorted version of the truth in which she was interested had reached her. Either there had been a very natural mistake on the part of some of the local newsmongers, or Miss Franklin herself had fallen into the error. The belle78 of the Millar family and not Dora had been believed to be the object of Tom Robinson's pursuit. The blunder had been perpetuated79 in Miss Franklin's case by the good feeling and good breeding which would keep her from discussing Tom Robinson's affairs with her neighbours more than she could help, and would prevent her attempting such a cross-examination of the man himself as might have elicited80 the truth.
"Oh! I know now what you mean," cried Dora, on the impulse of the moment, "and you were altogether wrong. He has been spared such misery81
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—nobody could have been so barbarous as to inflict82 it on him, if it had been as you suppose."
Miss Franklin was sensitive and imaginative on dress, but she was not imaginative or even very observant with regard to anything else. She understood Dora's protest to refer to an actual engagement between Dr. Harry83 Ironside and Miss Millar.
"Well, well," she said a little dryly, "people do exaggerate. Matters may not have gone quite so far, and I can only trust that he, Tom, has not been sensible of what is in the air, though I have always understood love, while it is said to be blind in one sense, is very sharp-sighted in another. I believe every one else sees where the land lies. I saw it myself so far as the gentleman was concerned—he could not keep his eyes off her, though I was not five minutes in their company, and I was full of my poor cousin Tom. I am sure I hope they may be happy," gulping84 down the hope. "Tom would have wished it, quite apart from her having done her duty by him, at the cost of some pain to herself, no doubt; while Dr. Ironside has been more than kind, which nobody had any call to expect. He must be a very fine young man, likely to win what he fancies. Every woman is entitled to her choice, and most people would applaud your sister's choice. The thing that puzzles me—you will forgive me for mentioning it
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just this once, for where is the good of discussion now?—is that as, I have been told, she did not meet Dr. Ironside till she went to her London hospital, how, when she had got no opportunity of contrasting the two men, when she had not even seen one of them, she could yet be so set against Tom's proposal, knowing him to be the man he is—was, alas85! I should say. Why was she so very hard to poor Tom?"
"Oh, don't say that," besought86 Dora, in much agitation87. "Don't bring that forward at this moment."
But Miss Franklin, in the strength of her family affections, felt that she owed it to the manes of Tom Robinson to express to the disdainful damsel's sister a candid88 opinion that he had been summarily and severely89 dealt with. "I was not in his confidence, but I could tell that something was going to happen, and that he was very much cut up when it all came to nothing."
"Oh, don't say that," repeated Dora, clasping her hands over her eyes, and weeping behind them. "What good can it do except to inflict needless torture?"
"I don't mean to reproach you," said Miss Franklin, a little bewildered, but still very hot and sore. "You had nothing to do with it, and I am sure you could not have been so heartless.
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Forgive me for the reflection on your sister, who is so much thought of, whom everybody is praising, with reason, for what she has done in nursing the sick and poor. But young girls ought to be more careful. I don't mean to say that she trifled with my cousin Tom—I have no right to say that—simply that she never gave him a thought. Tom was surely deserving of a thought," cried Miss Franklin indignantly. "Dr. Ironside may be all very well—I have nothing to say against him—quite the reverse. Tom is not to be compared to him in personal appearance, and the one is a professional man, while the other thought fit to continue a linen-draper like his good father before him; but that is by no means to infer that Miss Millar has chosen the better husband of the two. Girls are so foolish—they play with fire, and never look or take it into account where and whom it may burn. Tom Robinson deserved more respectful treatment in Redcross. He has never been like himself since. I used to hear him whistling and humming tunes90 to himself as he worked in the office—there is no more of that, or of his hearty91 interest in everything."
"Miss Franklin, it is you who are pitiless to say this to me to-night," panted Dora, rising against the inhumanity, and totally forgetting that the speaker did not hold the clue which would have told her how her words scourged92 her listener.
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"I am not blaming you, Miss Dora," said the accuser again, more bitterly than she had yet spoken. For she was in her heart accusing Dora Millar of affectation in pretending not to be able to hear a word against her sister, and in declining to listen to the pardonable utterance93 of a reproach directed against what Miss Franklin called in her heart Annie Millar's arrogance94 and callousness95. Tom Robinson's cousin was provoked, not pacified96.
"I dare say Tom would never have had this wretched fever but for the blow he got then," she was tempted97 to persist; "or if he had caught it, he would have thrown it off without any harm done. I can bear witness to his sound constitution to begin with. Everybody knows how disappointment and mortification98 lower the system, and he was never over careful of himself. I cannot quite understand why he took the cool rebuff he received so much to heart; but he did so, and you see the consequence."
"Spare me! spare me!" cried Dora passionately99. "Don't say I have killed him, or I shall die myself, perhaps it is the best thing I can do."
Before Miss Franklin could do more than stare aghast, with a horrified100 inkling of the real facts of the case, and the tremendous mess she had got into, there was the sound of the soft opening of a
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door in the near distance, and a step rapidly approaching.
The two women who had been upbraiding101 each other were mute in an instant, first held their breaths, then sprang up and clung to each other, partners in sorrow, with teeth beginning to chatter102, and eyes to grow large and wild. What had they been doing in the name of a gentle and manly soul, in the face of the awful news on its way, the majesty103 of Death investing the house?
It was only Annie, looking perfectly collected, nay104, a trifle elated. "He is the least shade better—we both think so; and the slightest improvement means so much at this stage—the right crisis, I believe. He has been really sleeping. He swallows with less difficulty. He has roused himself ever so little, but he is fearfully faint and weak. We cannot get him to take more stimulants than we have been giving him. I am afraid there is no toilet-vinegar in the house. I came to see if either of you had a smelling-bottle, which might revive him."
All that Miss Franklin could do was to shake her head. She was so thankful, yet she felt so guilty, so ashamed of herself.
Dora fumbled105 nervously106 in her pocket and gave Annie something, which she carried off in triumph. Miss Franklin sat down again and cried afresh
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between trembling joy and lively vexation. "Oh, won't it be a mercy, for which we can never praise our Maker107 too much, if dear Tom gets over his illness after all?" she managed to say; but she could do no more—even that lame54 speech was made awkwardly. To apologize for the heinous108 offence she had committed would be a greater enormity than the offence itself.
But when Miss Franklin had time to think it over afterwards, she was under the impression that Dora Millar had forgotten all about their altercation109. She sat there with hands clasped, lips parted, and brimming eyes half raised to Heaven, as if in instinctive69 acknowledgment of a thousand piteous prayers in the act of being answered by Him who counts the stars and calls them by name, and heals the broken in heart. Miss Franklin's account of Dora's look was that, for a moment, she was positively110 frightened at the dear girl, Dora seemed so near another world at that moment, and as likely as not to be holding communication with it. Even Tom Robinson could not have been nearer when he was more than half way across the border-land.
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1
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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4
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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7
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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19
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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40
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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41
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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42
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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43
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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44
merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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45
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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48
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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52
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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53
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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54
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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60
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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outstrip
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| v.超过，跑过 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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85
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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90
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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95
callousness
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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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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98
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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99
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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100
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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101
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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102
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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103
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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104
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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105
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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106
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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107
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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108
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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109
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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110
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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