The room in which our friend sat at breakfast was of such very modest appearance that it seemed to argue but poor remuneration for the services rendered by him in the office of Messrs. Percival & Peel. It was a parlour on the second floor of a lodging-house in Chelsea; Scawthorne’s graceful2 person and professional bearing were out of place amid the trivial appointments. He lived here for the simple reason that in order to enjoy a few of the luxuries of civilisation3 he had to spend as little as possible on bare necessaries. His habits away from home were those of a man to whom a few pounds are no serious consideration; his pleasant dinner at the restaurant, his occasional stall at a theatre, his easy acquaintance with easy livers of various kinds, had become indispensable to him, and as a matter of course his expenditure4 increased although his income kept at the same figure. That figure was not contemptible5, regard had to the path by which he had come thus far; Mr. Percival esteemed6 his abilities highly, and behaved to him with generosity7. Ten years ago Scawthorne would have lost his senses with joy at the prospect8 of such a salary; today he found it miserably9 insufficient10 to the demands he made upon life. Paltry11 debts harassed12 him; inabilities fretted13 his temperament14 and his pride; it irked him to have no better abode15 than this musty corner to which he could never invite an acquaintance. And then, notwithstanding his mental endowments, his keen social sense, his native tact17, in all London not one refined home was open to him, not one domestic circle of educated people could he approach and find a welcome.
Scawthorne was passing out of the stage when a man seeks only the gratification of his propensities18; he began to focus his outlook upon the world, and to feel the significance of maturity19. The double existence he was compelled to lead — that of a laborious20 and clear-brained man of business in office hours, that of a hungry rascal21 in the time which was his own — not only impressed him with a sense of danger, but made him profoundly dissatisfied with the unreality of what he called his enjoyments22. What, he asked himself, had condemned23 him to this kind of career? Simply the weight under which he started, his poor origin, his miserable24 youth. However carefully regulated his private life had been, his position today could not have been other than it was; no degree of purity would have opened to him the door of a civilised house. Suppose he had wished to marry; where, pray, was he to find his wife? A barmaid? Why, yes, other men of his standing16 wedded25 barmaids and girls from the houses of business, and so on; but they had neither his tastes nor his brains. Never had it been his lot to exchange a word with an educated woman — save in the office on rare occasions. There is such a thing as self-martyrdom in the cause of personal integrity; another man might have said to himself, ‘Providence forbids me the gratification of my higher instincts, and I must be content to live a life of barrenness, that I may at least be above reproach.’ True, but Scawthorne happened not to be so made. He was of the rebels of the earth. Formerly26 he revolted because he could not indulge his senses to their full; at present his ideal was changed, and the past burdened him.
Yesterday he had had an interview with old Mr. Percival which, for the first time in his life, opened to him a prospect of the only kind of advancement27 conformable with his higher needs. The firm of Percival & Peel was, in truth, Percival & Son, Mr. Peel having been dead for many years; and the son in question lacked a good deal of being the capable lawyer whose exertions28 could supplement the failing energy of the senior partner. Mr. Percival having pondered the matter for some time, now proposed that Scawthorne should qualify himself for admission as a solicitor30 (the circumstances required his being under articles for three years only), and then, if everything were still favourable31, accept a junior partnership32 in the firm. Such an offer was a testimony33 of the high regard in which Scawthorne was held by his employer; it stirred him with hope he had never dared to entertain since his eyes were opened to the realities of the world, and in a single day did more for the ripening34 of his prudence35 than years would have effected had his position remained unaltered. Scawthorne realised more distinctly what a hazardous36 game he had been playing.
And here was this brief note, signed ‘C. V.’ An ugly affair to look back upon, all that connected itself with those initials. The worst of it was, that it could not be regarded as done with. Had he anything to fear from ‘C. V.’ directly? The meeting must decide that. He felt now what a fortunate thing it was that his elaborate plot to put an end to the engagement between Kirkwood and Jane Snowdon had been accidentally frustrated37 — a plot which might have availed himself nothing, even had it succeeded. But was he, in his abandonment of rascality38 in general, to think no more of the fortune which had so long kept his imagination uneasy? Had he not, rather, a vastly better chance of getting some of that money into his own pocket? It really seemed as if Kirkwood — though he might be only artful — had relinquished39 his claim on the girl, at all events for the present; possibly he was an honest man, which would explain his behaviour. Michael Snowdon could not live much longer; Jane would be the ward40 of the Percivals, and certainly would be aided to a position more correspondent with her wealth. Why should it then be impossible for him to become Jane’s husband? Joseph, beyond a doubt, could be brought to favour that arrangement, by means of a private understanding more advantageous41 to him than anything he could reasonably hope from the girl’s merely remaining unmarried. This change in his relations to the Percivals would so far improve his social claims that many of the difficulties hitherto besieging42 such a scheme as this might easily be set aside. Come, come; the atmosphere was clearing. Joseph himself, now established in a decent business, would become less a fellow-intriguer than an ordinary friend bound to him, in the way of the world, by mutual43 interests. Things must be put in order; by some device the need of secrecy44 in his intercourse45 with Joseph must come to an end. In fact, there remained but two hazardous points. Could the connection between Jane and Kirkwood be brought definitely to an end. And was anything to be feared from poor ‘C. V.’?
Waterloo Station is a convenient rendezvous46; its irregular form provides many corners of retirement47, out-of-the-way recesses48 where talk can be carried on in something like privacy. To one of these secluded49 spots Scawthorne drew aside with the veiled woman who met him at the entrance from Waterloo Road. So closely was her face shrouded50, that he had at first a difficulty in catching51 the words she addressed to him. The noise of an engine getting up steam, the rattle52 of cabs and porters’ barrows, the tread and voices of a multitude of people made fitting accompaniment to a dialogue which in every word presupposed the corruptions53 and miseries54 of a centre of modern life.
‘Why did you send that letter to my father?’ was Clara’s first question.
‘Letter? What letter?’
‘Wasn’t it you who let him know about me?’
‘Certainly not, How should I have known his address? When I saw the newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries55. When I heard your father had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him. Otherwise, I should, of course, have tried to be useful to you in some way. As it was, I supposed you would scarcely thank me for coming forward.’
It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to decide. Possibly the information had come from some one else. She knew him well enough to be assured by his tone that nothing more could be elicited56 from him on that point.
‘You are quite recovered, I hope?’ Scawthorne added, surveying her as she stood in the obscurity. ‘In your general health?’
He was courteous57, somewhat distant.
‘I suppose I’m as well as I shall ever be,’ she answered coldly. ‘I asked you to meet me because I wanted to know what it was you spoke58 of in your last letters. You got my answer, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I received your answer. But — in fact, it’s too late. The time has gone by; and perhaps I was a little hasty in the hopes I held out. I had partly deceived myself.’
‘Never mind. I wish to know what it was,’ she said impatiently.
‘It can’t matter now. Well, there’s no harm in mentioning it. Naturally you went out of your way to suppose it was something dishonourable. Nothing of the kind; I had an idea that you might come to terms with an Australian who was looking out for actresses for a theatre in Melbourne — that was all. But he wasn’t quite the man I took him for. I doubt whether it could have been made as profitable as I thought at first.’
‘You expect me to believe that story?’
‘Not unless you like. It’s some time since you put any faith in my goodwill59. The only reason I didn’t speak plainly was because I felt sure that the mention of a foreign country would excite your suspicions. You have always attributed evil motives60 to me rather than good. However, this is not the time to speak of such things. I sympathise with you — deeply. Will you tell me if I can — can help you at all?’
‘No, you can’t. I wanted to make quite sure that you were what I thought you, that’s all.’
‘I don’t think, on the whole, you have any reason to complain of ill-faith on my part. I secured you the opportunities that are so hard to find.’
‘Yes, you did. We don’t owe each other anything — that’s one comfort. I’ll just say that you needn’t have any fear I shall trouble you in future; I know that’s what you’re chiefly thinking about.’
‘You misjudge me; but that can’t be helped. I wish very much it were in my power to be of use to you.’
‘Thank you.’
On that last note of irony61 they parted. True enough, in one sense, that there remained debt on neither side. But Clara, for all the fierce ambition which had brought her life to this point, could not divest62 herself of a woman’s instincts. That simple fact explained various inconsistencies in her behaviour to Scawthorne since she had made herself independent of him; it explained also why this final interview became the bitterest charge her memory preserved against him.
Her existence for some three weeks kept so gloomy a monotony that it was impossible she should endure it much longer. The little room which she shared at night with Annie and Amy was her cell throughout the day. Of necessity she had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Eagles, but they scarcely saw more of each other than if they had lived in different tenements63 on the same staircase; she had offered to undertake a share of the housework, but her father knew that everything of the kind was distasteful to her, and Mrs. Eagles continued to assist Amy as hitherto. To save trouble, she came into the middle room for her meals, at these times always keeping as much of her face as possible hidden. The children could not overcome a repulsion, a fear, excited by her veil and the muteness she preserved in their presence; several nights passed before little Annie got to sleep with any comfort. Only with her father did Clara hold converse65; in the evening he always sat alone with her for an hour. She went out perhaps every third day, after dark, stealing silently down the long staircase, and walking rapidly until she had escaped the neighbourhood — like John Hewett when formerly he wandered forth66 in search of her. Her strength was slight; after half-an-hour’s absence she came back so wearied that the ascent67 of stairs cost her much suffering.
The economy prevailing68 in today’s architecture takes good care that no depressing circumstance shall be absent from the dwellings69 in which the poor find shelter. What terrible barracks, those Farringdon Road Buildings! Vast, sheer walls, unbroken by even an attempt at ornament70; row above row of windows in the mud-coloured surface, upwards71, upwards, lifeless eyes, murky72 openings that tell of bareness, disorder73, comfortlessness within. One is tempted74 to say that Shooter’s Gardens are a preferable abode. An inner courtyard, asphalted, swept clean — looking up to the sky as from a prison. Acres of these edifices75, the tinge76 of grime declaring the relative dates of their erection; millions of tons of brute77 brick and mortar78, crushing the spirit as you gaze. Barracks, in truth; housing for the army of industrialism, an army fighting with itself, rank against rank, man against man, that the survivors79 may have whereon to feed. Pass by in the night, and strain imagination to picture the weltering mass of human weariness, of bestiality, of unmerited dolour, of hopeless hope, of crushed surrender, tumbled together within those forbidding walls.
Clara hated the place from her first hour in it. It seemed to her that the air was poisoned with the odour of an unclean crowd. The yells of children at play in the courtyard tortured her nerves; the regular sounds on the staircase, day after day repeated at the same hours, incidents of the life of poverty, irritated her sick brain and filled her with despair to think that as long as she lived she could never hope to rise again above this world to which she was born. Gone for ever, for ever, the promise that always gleamed before her whilst she had youth and beauty and talent. With the one, she felt as though she had been robbed of all three blessings80; her twenty years were now a meaningless figure; the energies of her mind could avail no more than an idiot’s mummery. For the author of her calamity81 she nourished no memory of hatred82: her resentment83 was against the fate which had cursed her existence from its beginning.
For this she had dared everything, had made the supreme84 sacrifice. Conscience had nothing to say to her, but she felt herself an outcast even among these wretched toilers whose swarming85 aroused her disgust. Given the success which had been all but in her grasp, and triumphant86 pride would have scored out every misgiving87 as to the cost at which the victory had been won. Her pride was unbroken; under the stress of anguish88 it became a scorn for goodness and humility89; but in the desolation of her future she read a punishment equal to the daring wherewith she had aspired90. Excepting her poor old father, not a living soul that held account of her. She might live for years and years. Her father would die, and then no smallest tribute of love or admiration91 would be hers for ever. More than that; perforce she must gain her own living, and in doing so she must expose herself to all manner of insulting wonder and pity. Was it a life that could be lived?
Hour after hour she sat with her face buried in her hands. She did not weep; tears were trivial before a destiny such as this. But groans92 and smothered93 cries often broke the silence of her solitude94 — cries of frenzied95 revolt, wordless curses. Once she rose up suddenly, passed through the middle room, and out on to the staircase; there a gap in the wall, guarded by iron railings breast-high, looked down upon the courtyard. She leaned forward over the bar and measured the distance that separated her from the ground; a ghastly height! Surely one would not feel much after such a fall? In any case, the crashing agony of but an instant. Had not this place tempted other people before now?
Some one coming upstairs made her shrink back into her room, She had felt the horrible fascination96 of that sheer depth, and thought of it for days, thought of it until she dreaded97 to quit the tenement64, lest a power distinct from will should seize and hurl98 her to destruction. She knew that that must not happen here; for all her self-absorption, she could not visit with such cruelty the one heart that loved her. And thinking of him, she understood that her father’s tenderness was not wholly the idle thing that it had been to her at first; her love could never equal his, had never done so in her childhood, but she grew conscious of a soothing99 power in the gentle and timid devotion with which he tended her. His appearance of an evening was something more than a relief after the waste of hours which made her day. The rough, passionate100 man made himself as quiet and sympathetic as a girl when he took his place by her. Compared with her, his other children were as nothing to him. Impossible that Clara should not be touched by the sense that he who had everything to forgive, whom she had despised and abandoned, behaved now as one whose part it is to beseech101 forgiveness. She became less impatient when he tried to draw her into conversation; when he hold her thin soft hand in those rude ones of his, she knew a solace102 in which there was something of gratitude103.
Yet it was John who revived her misery104 in its worst form. Pitying her unoccupied loneliness, he brought home one day a book that he had purchased from a stall in Farringdon Street; it was a novel (with a picture on the cover which seemed designed to repel105 any person not wholly without taste), and might perhaps serve the end of averting106 her thoughts from their one subject. Clara viewed it contemptuously, but made a show of being thankful, and on the next day she did glance at its pages. The story was better than its illustration; it took a hold upon her; she read all day long. But when she returned to herself, it was to find that she had been exasperating107 her heart’s malady108. The book dealt with people of wealth and refinement109, with the world to which she had all her life been aspiring110, and to which she might have attained111. The meanness of her surroundings became in comparison more mean, the bitterness of her fate more bitter. You must not lose sight of the fact that since abandoning her work-girl existence Clara had been constantly educating herself, not only by direct study of books, but through her association with people, her growth in experience. Where in the old days of rebellion she had only an instinct, a divination112 to guide her, there was now just enough of knowledge to give occupation to her developed intellect and taste. Far keener was her sense of the loss she had suffered than her former longing113 for what she knew only in dream. The activity of her mind received a new impulse when she broke free from Scawthorne and began her upward struggle in independence. Whatever books were obtainable she read greedily; she purchased numbers of plays in the acting-editions, and studied with the utmost earnestness such parts as she knew by repute; no actress entertained a more superb ambition, none was more vividly114 conscious of power. But it was not only at stage-triumph that Clara aimed; glorious in itself, this was also to serve her as a means of becoming nationalised among that race of beings whom birth and breeding exalt115 above the multitude. A notable illusion; pathetic to dwell upon. As a work-girl, she nourished envious116 hatred of those the world taught her to call superiors; they were then as remote and unknown to her as gods on Olympus. From her place behind the footlights she surveyed the occupants of boxes and stalls in a changed spirit; the distance was no longer insuperable; she heard of fortunate players who mingled117 on equal terms with men and women of refinement. There, she imagined, was her ultimate goal. ‘It is to them that I belong! Be my origin what it may, I have the intelligence and the desires of one born to freedom, Nothing in me, nothing, is akin118 to that gross world from which I have escaped!’ So she thought — with every drop of her heart’s blood crying its source from that red fountain of revolt whereon never yet did the upper daylight gleam! Brain and pulses such as hers belong not to the mild breed of mortals fostered in sunshine. But for the stroke of fate, she might have won that reception which was in her dream, and with what self-mockery when experience had matured itself! Never yet did true rebel, who has burst the barriers of social limitation, find aught but ennui119 in the trim gardens beyond.
When John asked if the book had given her amusement, she said that reading made her eyes ache. He noticed that her hand felt feverish120, and that the dark mood had fallen upon her as badly as ever to-night.
‘It’s just what I said,’ she exclaimed with abruptness121, after long refusal to speak. ‘I knew your friend would never come as long as I was here.’
John regarded her anxiously. The phrase ‘your friend’ had a peculiar122 sound that disturbed him. It made him aware that she had been thinking often of Sidney Kirkwood since his name had been dismissed from their conversation. He, too, had often turned his mind uneasily in the same direction, wondering whether he ought to have spoken of Sidney so freely. At the time it seemed best, indeed almost inevitable123; but habit and the force of affection were changing his view of Clara in several respects. He recognised the impossibility of her continuing to live as now, yet it was as difficult as ever to conceive a means of aiding her. Unavoidably he kept glancing towards Kirkwood. He knew that Sidney was no longer a free man; he knew that, even had it been otherwise, Clara could be nothing to him. In spite of facts, the father kept brooding on what might have been. His own love was perdurable; how could it other than intensify124 when its object was so unhappy? His hot, illogical mood all but brought about a revival125 of the old resentment against Sidney.
‘I haven’t seen him for a week or two,’ he replied, in an embarrassed way.
‘Did he tell you be shouldn’t come?’
‘No. After we’d talked about it, you know — when you told me you didn’t mind — I just said a word or two; and he nodded, that was all.’
She became silent. John, racked by doubts as to whether he should say more of Sidney or still hold his peace, sat rubbing the back of one hand with the other and looking about the room.
‘Father,’ Clara resumed presently, ‘what became of that child at Mrs. Peckover’s, that her grandfather came and took away? Snowdon; yes, that was her name; Jane Snowdon.’
‘You remember they went to live with somebody you used to know,’ John replied, with hesitation126. ‘They’re still in the same house.’
‘So she’s grown up. Did you ever hear about that old man having a lot of money?’
‘Why, my dear, I never heard nothing but what them Peckovers talked at the time. But there was a son of his turned up as seemed to have some money. He married Mrs. Peckover’s daughter.’
Clara expressed surprise.
‘A son of his? Not the girl’s father?
‘Yes; her father. I don’t know nothing about his history. It’s for him, or partly for him, as I’m workin’ now, Clara. The firm’s Lake, Snowdon & Go.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it before?’
‘I don’t hardly know, my dear.’
She looked at him, aware that something was being kept back.
‘Tell me about the girl. What does she do?’
‘She goes to work, I believe; but I haven’t heard much about her since a good time. Sidney Kirkwood’s a friend of her grandfather. He often goes there, I believe.’
‘What is she like?’ Clara asked, after a pause. ‘She used to be such a weak, ailing29 thing, I never thought she’d grow up. What’s she like to look at?’
‘I can’t tell you, my dear. I don’t know as ever I see her since those times.’
Again a silence.
‘Then it’s Mr. Kirkwood that has told you what you know of her?’
‘Why, no. It was chiefly Mrs. Peckover told me. She did say, Clara — but then I can’t tell whether it’s true or not — she did say something about Sidney and her.’
He spoke with difficulty, feeling constrained127 to make the disclosure, but anxious as to its result. Clara made no movement, seemed to have heard with indifference128.
‘It’s maybe partly ‘cause of that,’ added John, in a low voice, ‘that he doesn’t like to come here.’
‘Yes; I understand.’
They spoke no more on the subject.
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1
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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6
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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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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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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42
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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43
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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44
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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45
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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46
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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47
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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48
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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49
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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50
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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51
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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52
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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53
corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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54
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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55
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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56
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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58
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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59
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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60
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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61
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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62
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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63
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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64
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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65
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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68
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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69
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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70
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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71
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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72
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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73
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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74
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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75
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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76
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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77
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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78
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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79
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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80
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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81
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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82
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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83
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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84
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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85
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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86
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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87
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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88
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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89
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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90
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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92
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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93
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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94
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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95
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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96
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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97
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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98
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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99
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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100
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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101
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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102
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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103
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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104
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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105
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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106
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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107
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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108
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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109
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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110
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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111
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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112
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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113
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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114
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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115
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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116
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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117
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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118
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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119
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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120
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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121
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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122
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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123
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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124
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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125
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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126
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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127
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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128
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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