Nothing, however, could have detached John’s mind so completely from its habits of tumult20, nor have fixed21 it so firmly upon the interests of home, as his recovery of his daughter. From the day of Clara’s establishment under his roof he thought of her, and of her only. Whilst working at the filter-factory he remained in imagination by her side, ceaselessly repeating her words of the night before, eagerly looking for the hour that would allow him to return to her. Joy and trouble mingled22 in an indescribable way to constitute his ordinary mood; one moment he would laugh at a thought, and before a companion could glance at him his gladness would be overshadowed as if with the heaviest anxiety. Men who saw him day after day said at this time that he seemed to be growing childish; he muttered to himself a good deal, and looked blankly at you when you addressed him. In the course of a fortnight his state became more settled, but it was not the cheerful impulse that predominated. Out of the multitude of thoughts concerning Clara, one had fixed itself as the main controller of his reflection. Characteristically, John hit upon what seemed an irremediable misfortune, and brooded over it with all his might. If only Sidney Kirkwood were in the same mind as four years ago!
And now was he to believe that what he had been told about Sidney and Jane Snowdon was misleading? Was the impossible no longer so? He almost leapt from his chair when he heard that Sidney was the visitor with whom his daughter had been having her private conversation. How came they to make this appointment? There was something in Clara’s voice that set his nerves a-tremble. That night he could not sleep, and next morning he went to work with a senile quiver in his body. For the first time for more than two months he turned into a public-house on his way, just to give himself a little ‘tone.’ The natural result of such a tonic23 was to heighten the fever of his imagination; goodness knows how far he had got in a drama of happiness before he threw off his coat and settled to his day’s labour.
Clara, in the meanwhile, suffered a corresponding agitation24, more penetrative in proportion to the finer substance of her nature. She did not know until the scene was over how much vital force it had cost her; when she took off the veil a fire danced before her eyes, and her limbs ached and trembled as she lay down in the darkness. All night long she was acting25 her part over and over; when she woke up, it was always at the point where Sidney replied to her, ‘But you are mistaken!’
Acting her part; yes, but a few hours had turned the make-believe into something earnest enough. She could not now have met Kirkwood with the self-possession of last evening. The fever that then sustained her was much the same as she used to know before she had thoroughly26 accustomed herself to appearing in front of an audience; it exalted27 all her faculties28, gifted her with a remarkable29 self-consciousness. It was all very well as long as there was need of it, but why did it afflict30 her in this torturing form now that she desired to rest, to think of what she had gained, of what hope she might reasonably nourish? The purely31 selfish project which, in her desperation, had seemed the only resource remaining to her against a life of intolerable desolateness32, was taking hold upon her in a way she could not understand. Had she not already made a discovery that surpassed all expectation? Sidney Kirkwood was not bound to another woman; why could she not accept that as so much clear gain, and deliberate as to her next step? She had been fully33 prepared for the opposite state of things, prepared to strive against any odds34, to defy all probabilities, all restraints; why not thank her fortune and plot collectedly now that the chances were so much improved?
But from the beginning of her interview with him, Clara knew that something more entered into her designs on Sidney than a cold self-interest. She had never loved him; she never loved anyone; yet the inclinations35 of her early girlhood had been drawn36 by the force of the love he offered her, and to this day she thought of him with a respect and liking37 such as she had for no other man. When she heard from her father that Sidney had forgotten her, had found some one by whom his love was prized, her instant emotion was so like a pang38 of jealousy39 that she marvelled40 at it. Suppose fate had prospered41 her, and she had heard in the midst of triumphs that Sidney Kirkwood, the working man in Clerkenwell, was going to marry a girl he loved, would any feeling of this kind have come to her? Her indifference42 would have been complete. It was calamity43 that made her so sensitive. Self-pity longs for the compassion44 of others. That Sidney, who was once her slave, should stand aloof45 in freedom now that she wanted sympathy so sorely, this was a wound to her heart. That other woman had robbed her of something she could not spare.
Jane Snowdon, too! She found it scarcely conceivable that the wretched little starveling of Mrs. Peckover’s kitchen should have grown into anything that a man like Sidney could love. To be sure, there was a mystery in her lot. Clara remembered perfectly46 how Scawthorne pointed47 out of the cab at the old man Snowdon, and said that he was very rich. A miser48, or what? More she had never tried to discover. Now Sidney himself had hinted at something in Jane’s circumstances which, he professed49, put it out of the question that he could contemplate50 marrying her. Had he told her the truth? Could she in fact consider him free? Might there not be some reason for his wishing to keep a secret?
With burning temples, with feverish51 lips, she moved about her little room like an animal in a cage, finding the length of the day intolerable. She was constrained52 to inaction, when it seemed to her that every moment in which she did not do something to keep Sidney in mind of her was worse than lost. Could she not see that girl, Jane Snowdon? But was not Sidney’s denial as emphatic53 as it could be? She recalled his words, and tried numberless interpretations55. Would anything that he had said bear being interpreted as a sign that something of the old tenderness still lived in him? And the strange thing was, that she interrogated56 herself on these points not at all like a coldly scheming woman, who aims at something that is to be won, if at all, by the subtlest practising on another’s emotions, whilst she remains57 unaffected. Rather like a woman who loves passionately60, whose ardour and jealous dread61 wax moment by moment.
For what was she scheming? For food, clothing, assured comfort during her life? Twenty-four hours ago Clara would most likely have believed that she had indeed fallen to this; but the meeting with Sidney enlightened her. Least of all women could she live by bread alone; there was the hunger of her brain, the hunger of her heart. I spoke62 once, you remember, of her ‘defect of tenderness;’ the fault remained, but her heart was no longer so sterile63 of the tender emotions as when revolt and ambition absorbed all her energies. She had begun to feel gently towards her father; it was an intimation of the need which would presently bring all the forces of her nature into play. She dreaded64 a life of drudgery65; she dreaded humiliation66 among her inferiors; but that which she feared most of all was the barrenness of a lot into which would enter none of the passionate59 joys of existence. Speak to Clara of renunciation, of saintly glories, of the stony67 way of perfectness, and you addressed her in an unknown tongue; nothing in her responded to these ideas. Hopelessly defeated in the one way of aspiration68 which promised a large life, her being, rebellious69 against the martyrdom it had suffered, went forth70 eagerly towards the only happiness which was any longer attainable71. Her beauty was a dead thing; never by that means could she command homage72. But there is love, ay, and passionate love, which can be independent of mere73 charm of face. In one man only could she hope to inspire it; successful in that, she would taste victory, and even in this fallen estate could make for herself a dominion74.
In these few hours she so wrought75 upon her imagination as to believe that the one love of her life had declared itself. She revived every memory she possibly could of those years on the far side of the gulf76, and convinced herself that even then she had loved Sidney. Other love of a certainty she had not known. In standing77 face to face with him after so long an interval78, she recognised the qualities which used to impress her, and appraised79 them as formerly she could not. His features had gained in attractiveness; the refinement80 which made them an index to his character was more noticeable at the first glance, or perhaps she was better able to distinguish it. The slight bluntness in his manner reminded her of the moral force which she had known only as something to be resisted; it was now one of the influences that drew her to him. Had she not always admitted that he stood far above the other men of his class whom she used to know? Between his mind and hers there was distinct kinship; the sense that he had both power and right to judge her explained in a great measure her attitude of defiance81 towards him when she was determined82 to break away from her humble83 conditions. All along, had not one of her main incentives84 to work and strive been the resolve to justify85 herself in his view, to prove to him that she possessed86 talent, to show herself to him as one whom the world admired? The repugnance87 with which she thought of meeting him, when she came home with her father, meant in truth that she dreaded to be assured that he could only shrink from her. All her vital force-setting in this wild current, her self-deception complete, she experienced the humility of supreme88 egoism — that state wherein self multiplies its claims to pity in passionate support of its demand for the object of desire. She felt capable of throwing herself at Sidney’s feet, and imploring89 him not to withdraw from her the love of which he had given her so many assurances. She gazed at her scarred face until the image was blurred90 with tears; then, as though there were luxury in weeping, sobbed91 for an hour, crouching92 down in a corner of her room. Even though his love were as dead as her beauty, must lib not be struck to the heart with compassion, realising her woeful lot? She asked nothing more eagerly than to humiliate93 herself before him, to confess that her pride was broken. Not a charge he could bring against her but Bile would admit its truth. Had she been humble enough last night? When he came again — and he must soon — she would throw aside every vestige94 of dignity, lest he should think that she was strong enough to bear her misery95 alone. No matter how poor-spirited she seemed, if only she could move his sympathies.
Poor rebel heart! Beat for beat, in these moments it matched itself with that of the purest woman who surrenders to a despairing love. Had one charged her with insincerity, how vehemently96 would her conscience have declared against the outrage97! Natures such as hers are as little to be judged by that which is conventionally the highest standard as by that which is the lowest. The tendencies which we agree to call good and bad became in her merely directions of a native force which was at all times in revolt against circumstance. Characters thus moulded may go far in achievement, but can never pass beyond the bounds of suffering. Never is the world their friend, nor the world’s law. As often as our conventions give us the opportunity, we crush them out of being; they are noxious98; they threaten the frame of society. Oftenest the crushing is done in such a way that the hapless creatures seem to have brought about their own destruction. Let us congratulate ourselves; in one way or other it is assured that they shall not trouble us long.
Her father was somewhat later than usual in returning from work. When he entered her room she looked at him anxiously, and as he seemed to have nothing particular to say, she asked if he had seen Mr. Kirkwood.
‘No, my dear, I ain’t seen him.’
Their eyes met for an instant. Clara was in anguish99 at the thought that another night and day must pass and nothing be altered.
‘When did you see him last? A week or more ago, wasn’t it?’
‘About that.’
‘Couldn’t you go round to his lodgings100 to-night? I know he’s got something he wants to speak to you about.’
He assented101. But on his going into the other room Eagles met him with a message from Sidney, anticipating his design, and requesting him to step over to Bed Lion Street in the course of the evening. John instantly announced this to his daughter. She nodded, but said nothing.
In a few minutes John went on his way. The day’s work had tired him exceptionally, doubtless owing to his nervousness, and again on the way to Sidney’s he had recourse to a dose of the familiar stimulant102. With our eyes on a man of Hewett’s station we note these little things; we set them down as a point scored against him; yet if our business were with a man of leisure, who, owing to worry, found his glass of wine at luncheon103 and again at dinner an acceptable support, we certainly should not think of paying attention to the matter. Poverty makes a crime of every indulgence. John himself came out of the public-house in a slinking way, and hoped Kirkwood might not scent104 the twopenny-worth of gin.
Sidney was in anything but a mood to detect this little lapse105 in his visitor. He gave John a chair, but could not sit still himself. The garret was a spacious106 one, and whilst talking he moved from wall to wall.
‘You know that I saw Clara last night? She told me she should mention it to you.’
‘Yes, yes. I was afraid she’d never have made up her mind to it. It was the best way for you to see her alone first, poor girl! You won’t mind comin’ to us now, like you used?’
‘Did she tell you what she wished to speak to me about?’
‘Why, no, she hasn’t. Was there — anything particular?’
‘She feels the time very heavy on her hands. It seems you don’t like the thought of her looking for employment?’
John rose from his chair and grasped the back of it.
‘You ain’t a-goin’ to encourage her to leave us? It ain’t that you was talkin’ about, Sidney?’
‘Leave you? Why, where should she go?’
‘No, no; it’s all right; so long as you wasn’t thinkin’ of her goin’ away again. See, Sidney, I ain’t got nothing to say against it, if she can find some kind of job for home. I know as the time must hang heavy. There she sit, poor thing! from mornin’ to night, an’ can’t get her thoughts away from herself. It’s easy enough to understand, ain’t it? I took a book home for her the other day, but she didn’t seem to care about it. There she sit, with her poor face on her hands, thinkin’ and thinkin’. It breaks my heart to see her. I’d rather she had some work, but she mustn’t go away from home for it.’
Sidney took a few steps in silence.
‘You don’t misunderstand me,’ resumed the other, with suddenness. ‘You don’t think as I won’t trust her away from me. If she went, it ‘ud be because she thinks herself a burden — as if I wouldn’t gladly live on a crust for my day’s food an’ spare her goin’ among strangers! You can think yourself what it ‘ud be to her, Sidney. No, no, it mustn’t be nothing o’ that kind. But I can’t ear to see her livin’ as she does; it’s no life at all. I sit with her when I get back home at night, an’ I’m glad to say she seems to find it a pleasure to have me by her; but it’s the only bit o’ pleasure she gets, an’ there’s all the hours whilst I’m away. You see she don’t take much to Mrs. Eagles; that ain’t her sort of friend. Not as she’s got any pride left about her, poor girl don’t think that. I tell you, Sidney, she’s a dear good girl to her old father. If I could only see her a bit happier, I’d never grumble107 again as long as I lived, I wouldn’t!’
Is there such a thing in this world as speech that has but one simple interpretation54, one for him who utters it and for him who hears? Honester words were never spoken than these in which Hewett strove to represent Clara in a favourable108 light, and to show the pitifulness of her situation; yet he himself was conscious that they implied a second meaning, and Sidney was driven restlessly about the room by his perception of the same lurking109 motive110 in their pathos111. John felt half-ashamed of himself when he ceased; it was a new thing for him to be practising subtleties112 with a view to his own ends. But had he said a word more than the truth?
I suppose it was the association of contrast that turned Sidney’s thoughts to Joseph Snowdon. At all events it was of him he was thinking in the silence that followed. Which silence having been broken by a tap at the door, oddly enough there stood Joseph himself. Hewett, taken by surprise, showed embarrassment113 and awkwardness; it was always hard for him to reconcile his present subordination to Mr. Snowdon with the familiar terms on which they had been not long ago.
‘Ah, you here, Hewett!’ exclaimed Joseph, in a genial114 tone, designed to put the other at his ease. ‘I just wanted a word with our friend. Never mind; some other time.’
For all that, he did not seem disposed to withdraw, but stood with a hand on the door, smiling. Sidney, having nodded to him, walked the length of the room, his head bent115 and his hands behind him.
‘Suppose I look in u bit later,’ said Hewett. ‘Or tomorrow night, Sidney?’
‘Very well, tomorrow night.’
John took his leave, and on the visitor who remained Sidney turned a face almost of anger. Mr. Snowdon seated himself, supremely116 indifferent to the inconvenience he had probably caused. He seemed in excellent humour.
‘Decent fellow, Hewett,’ he observed, putting up one leg against the fireplace. ‘Very decent fellow. He’s getting old, unfortunately. Had a good deal of trouble, I understand; it breaks a man up.’
Sidney scowled117, and said nothing.
‘I thought I’d stay, as I was here,’ continued Joseph, unbuttoning his respectable overcoat and throwing it open. ‘There was something rather particular I had in mind. Won’t you sit down?’
‘No, thank you.’
Joseph glanced at him, and smiled all the more.
‘I’ve had a little talk with the old man about Jane. By-the-by, I’m sorry to say he’s very shaky; doesn’t look himself at all. I didn’t know you had spoken to him quite so — you know what I mean. It seems to be his idea that everything’s at an end between you.’
‘Perhaps so.’
‘Well, now, look here. You won’t mind me just — Do you think it was wise to put it in that way to him? I’m afraid you’re making him feel just a little uncertain about you. I’m speaking as a friend, you know. In your own interest, Kirkwood. Old men get queer ideas into their heads. You know, he might begin to think that you had some sort of — eh?’
It was not the second, nor yet the third, time that Joseph had looked in and begun to speak in this scrappy way, continuing the tone of that dialogue in which he had assumed a sort of community of interest between Kirkwood and himself. But the limit of Sidney’s endurance was reached.
‘There’s no knowing,’ he exclaimed, ‘what anyone may think of me, if people who have their own ends to serve go spreading calumnies118. Let us understand each other, and have done with it. I told Mr. Snowdon that I could never be anything but a friend to Jane. I said it, and I meant it. If you’ve any doubt remaining, in a few days I hope it’ll be removed. What your real wishes maybe I don’t know, and I shall never after this have any need to know. I can’t help speaking in this way, and I want to tell you once for all that there shall never again be a word about Jane between us. Wait a day or two, and you’ll know the reason.’
Joseph affected58 an air of gravity — of offended dignity.
‘That’s rather a queer sort of way to back out of your engagements, Kirkwood. I won’t say anything about myself, but with regard to my daughter —’
‘What do you mean by speaking like that?’ cried the young man, sternly. ‘You know very well that it’s what you wish most of all, to put an end to everything between your daughter and me t You’ve succeeded; be satisfied. If you’ve anything to say to me on any other subject, say it. If not, please let’s have done for the present. I don’t feel in a mood for beating about the bush any longer.’
‘You’ve misunderstood me altogether, Kirkwood,’ said Joseph, unable to conceal119 a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes.
‘No; I’ve understood you perfectly well — too well. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject, and I won’t. It’s over; understand that.’
‘Well, well; you’re a bit out of sorts. I’ll say good-bye for the present.’
He retired120, and for a long time Sidney sat in black brooding.
John Hewett did not fail to present himself next evening. As he entered the room he was somewhat surprised at the cheerful aspect with which Sidney met him; the grasp which his hand received seemed to have a significance. Sidney, after looking at him steadily121, asked if he had not been home.
‘Yes, I’ve been home. Why do you want to know?’
‘Hadn’t Clara anything to tell you?’
‘No. What is it?’
‘Did she know you were coming here?’
‘Why, yes; I mentioned it.’
Sidney again regarded him fixedly122, with a smile.
‘I suppose she preferred that I should tell you. I looked in at the Buildings this afternoon, and had a talk with Clara.’
John hung upon his words, with lips slightly parted, with a trembling in the hairs of his grey beard.
‘You did?’
‘I had something to ask her, so I went when she was likely to be alone. It’s a long while ago since I asked her the question for the first time — but I’ve got the right answer at last.’
John stared at him in pathetic agitation.
‘You mean to tell me you’ve asked Clara to marry you?’
‘There’s nothing very dreadful in that, I should think.’
‘Give us your hand again! Sidney Kirkwood, give us your hand again! If there’s a good-hearted man in this world, if there’s a faithful, honest man, as only lives to do kindness — What am I to say to you? It’s too much for me. I can’t find a word as I’d wish to speak. Stand out and let’s look at you. You make me as I can’t neither speak nor see — I’m just like a child —’
He broke down utterly123, and shook with the choking struggle of laughter and sobs124. His emotion affected Sidney, who looked pale and troubled in spite of the smile still clinging feebly about his lips.
‘If it makes you glad to hear it,’ said the young man, in an uncertain voice, ‘I’m all the more glad myself, on that account.’
‘Makes me glad? That’s no word for it, boy; that’s no word for it! Give us your hand again. I feel as if I’d ought to go down on my old knees and crave125 your pardon. If only she could have lived to see this, the poor woman as died when things was at their worst! If I’d only listened to her there’d never have been them years of unfriendliness between us. You’ve gone on with one kindness after another, but this is more than I could ever a’ thought possible. Why, I took it for certain as you was goin’ to marry that other young girl; they told me as it was all settled.’
‘A mistake.’
‘I’d never have dared to hope it, Sidney. The one thing as I wished more than anything else on earth, and I couldn’t think ever to see it. Glad’s no word for what I feel. And to think as my girl kep’ it from me! Yes, yes; there was something on her face; I remember it now. “I’m just goin’ round to have a word with Sidney,” I says. “Are you, father?” she says. “Don’t stay too long.” And she had a sort o’ smile I couldn’t quite understand. She’ll be a good wife to you, Sidney. Her heart’s softened126 to all as she used to care for. She’ll be a good and faithful wife to you as long as she lives. But I must go back home and speak to her. There ain’t a man livin’, let him be as rich as he may, that feels such happiness as you’ve given me to-night.’
He went stumbling down the stairs, and walked homewards at a great speed, so that when he reached the Buildings he had to wipe his face and stand for a moment before beginning the ascent127. The children were at their home lessons; he astonished them by flinging his hat mirthfully on to the table.
‘Now then, father!’ cried young Tom, the eight-year-old, whose pen was knocked out of his hand.
With a chuckle128 John advanced to Clara’s room. As he closed the door behind him she rose. His face was mottled; there were tear-stains about his eyes, and he had a wild, breathless look.
‘An’ you never told me! You let me go without half a word!’
Clara put her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. ‘I didn’t quite know whether it was true or not, father.’
‘My darling! My dear girl! Come an’ sit on my knee, like you used to when you was a little ’un. I’m a rough old father for such as you, but nobody’ll never love you better than I do, an’ always have done. So he’s been faithful to you, for all they said. There ain’t a better man livin’! “It’s a long time since I first asked the question,” he says, “but she’s give me the right answer at last.” And he looks that glad of it.’
‘He does? You’re sure he does?’
‘Sure? Why, you should a’ seen him when I went into the room! There’s nothing more as I wish for now. I only hope I may live a while longer, to see you forget all your troubles, my dear. He’ll make you happy, will Sidney; he’s got a deal more education than anyone else I ever knew, and you’ll suit each other. But you won’t forget all about your old father? You’ll let me come an’ have a talk with you now and then, my dear, just you an’ me together, you know?’
‘I shall love you and be grateful to you always, father You’ve kept a warm heart for me all this time.’
‘I couldn’t do nothing else, Clara; you’ve always been what I loved most, and you always will be.’
‘If I hadn’t had you to come back to, what would have become of me?’
‘We’ll never think of that. We’ll never speak another word of that.’
‘Father — Oh, if I had my face again! If I had my own face!’
A great anguish shook her; she lay hi his arms and sobbed. It was the farewell, even in her fulness of heart and deep sense of consolation129, to all she had most vehemently desired, Gratitude and self-pity being indivisible in her emotions, she knew not herself whether the ache of regret or the soothing130 restfulness of deliverance made her tears flow. But at least there was no conscious duplicity, and for the moment no doubt that she had found her haven131. It is a virtuous132 world, and our frequent condemnations are invariably based on justice; will it be greatly harmful if for once we temper our righteous judgment133 with ever so little mercy?
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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placid
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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formerly
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obstinate
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perverseness
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obtruding
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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repayment
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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previously
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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fixed
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mingled
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tonic
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agitation
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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30
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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31
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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32
desolateness
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| 孤独 | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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34
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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36
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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37
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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38
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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39
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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40
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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43
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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44
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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45
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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48
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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49
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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50
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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51
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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52
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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53
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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54
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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55
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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57
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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58
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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59
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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60
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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61
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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62
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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63
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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64
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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65
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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66
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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67
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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68
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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69
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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70
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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71
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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72
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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73
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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74
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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75
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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76
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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77
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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78
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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79
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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80
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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81
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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82
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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83
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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84
incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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85
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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86
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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87
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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88
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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89
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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90
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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91
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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92
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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93
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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94
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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95
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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96
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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97
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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98
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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99
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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100
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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101
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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103
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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104
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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105
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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106
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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107
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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108
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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109
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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110
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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111
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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112
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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113
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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114
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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115
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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116
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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117
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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119
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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120
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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121
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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122
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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123
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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124
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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125
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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126
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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127
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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128
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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129
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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130
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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131
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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132
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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133
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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