‘It may be for a few weeks only, or it may be for a longer period,’ she said in a low, tired voice, with an accent of good breeding. ‘I have a difficulty in finding precisely3 what I want. One room would be sufficient, and I ask for very little attendance.’
She had but one room to let, replied the other. It might be inspected.
They went upstairs. The room was at the back of the house, small, but neatly5 furnished. Its appearance seemed to gratify the visitor, for she smiled timidly.
‘What rent should you ask?’
‘That would depend, mum, on what attendance was required.’
‘Yes — of course. I think — will you permit me to sit down? I am really very tired. Thank you. I require very little attendance indeed. My ways are very simple. I should make the bed myself, and — and, do the other little things that are necessary from day to day. Perhaps I might ask you to sweep the room out — once a week or so.’
The landlady6 grew meditative7. Possibly she had had experience of lodgers9 who were anxious to give as little trouble as possible. She glanced furtively10 at the stranger.
‘And what,’ was her question at length, ‘would you be thinking of paying?’
‘Perhaps I had better explain my position. For several years I have been companion to a lady in Hampshire. Her death has thrown me on my own resources — I hope only for a short time. I have come to London because a younger sister of mine is employed here in a house of business; she recommended me to seek for lodgings11 in this part; I might as well be near her whilst I am endeavouring to find another post; perhaps I may be fortunate enough to find one in London. Quietness and economy are necessary to me. A house like yours would suit me very well — very well indeed. Could we not agree upon terms within my — within my power?’
Again the landlady pondered.
‘Would you be willing to pay five and sixpence?’
‘Yes, I would pay five and sixpence — if you are quite sure that you could let me live in my own way with satisfaction to yourself. I— in fact, I am a vegetarian12, and as the meals I take are so very simple, I feel that I might just as well prepare them myself. Would you object to my doing so in this room? A kettle and a saucepan are really all — absolutely all — that I should need to use. As I shall be much at home, it will be of course necessary for me to have a fire.’
In the course of half an hour an agreement had been devised which seemed fairly satisfactory to both parties.
‘I’m not one of the graspin’ ones,’ remarked the landlady. ‘I think I may say that of myself. If I make five or six shillings a week out of my spare room, I don’t grumble13. But the party as takes it must do their duty on their side. You haven’t told me your name yet, mum.’
‘Miss Madden. My luggage is at the railway station; it shall be brought here this evening. And, as I am quite unknown to you, I shall be glad to pay my rent in advance.’
‘Well, I don’t ask for that; but it’s just as you like.’
‘Then I will pay you five and sixpence at once. Be so kind as to let me have a receipt.’
So Miss Madden established herself at Lavender Hill, and dwelt there alone for three months.
She received letters frequently, but only one person called upon her. This was her sister Monica, now serving at a draper’s in Walworth Road. The young lady came every Sunday, and in bad weather spent the whole day up in the little bedroom. Lodger8 and landlady were on remarkably14 good terms; the one paid her dues with exactness, and the other did many a little kindness not bargained for in the original contract.
Time went on to the spring of ‘88. Then, one afternoon, Miss Madden descended15 to the kitchen and tapped in her usual timid way at the door.
‘Are you at leisure, Mrs. Conisbee? Could I have a little conversation with you?’
The landlady was alone, and with no more engrossing16 occupation than the ironing of some linen17 she had recently washed.
‘I have mentioned my elder sister now and then. I am sorry to say she is leaving her post with the family at Hereford. The children are going to school, so that her services are no longer needed.’
‘Indeed, mum?’
‘Yes. For a shorter or longer time she will be in need of a home. Now it has occurred to me, Mrs. Conisbee, that — that I would ask you whether you would have any objection to her sharing my room with me? Of course there must be an extra payment. The room is small for two persons, but then the arrangement would only be temporary. My sister is a good and experienced teacher, and I am sure she will have no difficulty in obtaining another engagement.’
Mrs. Conisbee reflected, but without a shade of discontent. By this time she knew that her lodger was thoroughly18 to be trusted.
‘Well, it’s if you can manage, mum,’ she replied. ‘I don’t see as I could have any fault to find, if you thought you could both live in that little room. And as for the rent, I should be quite satisfied if we said seven shillings instead of five and six.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Conisbee; thank you very much indeed. I will write to my sister at once; the news will be a great relief to her. We shall have quite an enjoyable little holiday together.’
A week later the eldest19 of the three Miss Maddens arrived. As it was quite impossible to find space for her boxes in the bedroom, Mrs. Conisbee allowed them to be deposited in the room occupied by her daughter, which was on the same floor. In a day or two the sisters had begun a life of orderly tenor20. When weather permitted they were out either in the morning or afternoon. Alice Madden was in London for the first time; she desired to see the sights, but suffered the restrictions21 of poverty and ill-health. After nightfall, neither she nor Virginia ever left home.
There was not much personal likeness22 between them.
The elder (now five-and-thirty) tended to corpulence, the result of sedentary life; she had round shoulders and very short legs. Her face would not have been disagreeable but for its spoilt complexion23; the homely24 features, if health had but rounded and coloured them, would have expressed pleasantly enough the gentleness and sincerity25 of her character. Her cheeks were loose, puffy, and permanently26 of the hue27 which is produced by cold; her forehead generally had a few pimples28; her shapeless chin lost itself in two or three fleshy fissures29. Scarcely less shy than in girlhood, she walked with a quick, ungainly movement as if seeking to escape from some one, her head bent30 forward.
Virginia (about thirty-three) had also an unhealthy look, but the poverty, or vitiation, of her blood manifested itself in less unsightly forms. One saw that she had been comely31, and from certain points of view her countenance32 still had a grace, a sweetness, all the more noticeable because of its threatened extinction33. For she was rapidly ageing; her lax lips grew laxer, with emphasis of a characteristic one would rather not have perceived there; her eyes sank into deeper hollows; wrinkles extended their network; the flesh of her neck wore away. Her tall meagre body did not seem strong enough to hold itself upright.
Alice had brown hair, but very little of it. Virginia’s was inclined to be ruddy; it surmounted34 her small head in coils and plaits not without beauty. The voice of the elder sister had contracted an unpleasant hoarseness35, but she spoke36 with good enunciation37; a slight stiffness and pedantry38 of phrase came, no doubt, of her scholastic39 habits. Virginia was much more natural in manner and fluent in speech, even as she moved far more gracefully40.
It was now sixteen years since the death of Dr. Madden of Clevedon. The story of his daughters’ lives in the interval41 may be told with brevity suitable to so unexciting a narrative42.
When the doctor’s affairs were set in order, it was found that the patrimony43 of his six girls amounted, as nearly as possible, to eight hundred pounds.
Eight hundred pounds is, to be sure, a sum of money; but how, in these circumstances, was it to be applied44?
There came over from Cheltenham a bachelor uncle, aged1 about sixty. This gentleman lived on an annuity45 of seventy pounds, which would terminate when he did. It might be reckoned to him for righteousness that he spent the railway fare between Cheltenham and Clevedon to attend his brother’s funeral, and to speak a kind word to his nieces. Influence he had none; initiative, very little. There was no reckoning upon him for aid of any kind.
From Richmond in Yorkshire, in reply to a letter from Alice, wrote an old, old aunt of the late Mrs. Madden, who had occasionally sent the girls presents. Her communication was barely legible; it seemed to contain fortifying46 texts of Scripture47, but nothing in the way of worldly counsel. This old lady had no possessions to bequeath. And, as far as the girls knew, she was their mother’s only surviving relative.
The executor of the will was a Clevedon tradesman, a kind and capable friend of the family for many years, a man of parts and attainments48 superior to his station. In council with certain other well-disposed persons, who regarded the Maddens’ circumstances with friendly anxiety, Mr. Hungerford (testamentary instruction allowing him much freedom of action) decided49 that the three elder girls must forthwith become self-supporting, and that the three younger should live together in the care of a lady of small means, who offered to house and keep them for the bare outlay51 necessitated52. A prudent53 investment of the eight hundred pounds might, by this arrangement, feed, clothe, and in some sort educate Martha, Isabel, and Monica. To see thus far ahead sufficed for the present; fresh circumstances could be dealt with as they arose.
Alice obtained a situation as nursery-governess at sixteen pounds a year. Virginia was fortunate enough to be accepted as companion by a gentlewoman at Weston-super-Mare; her payment, twelve pounds. Gertrude, fourteen years old, also went to Weston, where she was offered employment in a fancy-goods shop — her payment nothing at all, but lodging, board, and dress assured to her.
Ten years went by, and saw many changes.
Gertrude and Martha were dead; the former of consumption, the other drowned by the overturning of a pleasure-boat. Mr. Hungerford also was dead, and a new guardian54 administered the fund which was still a common property of the four surviving daughters. Alice plied4 her domestic teaching; Virginia remained a ‘companion.’ Isabel, now aged twenty, taught in a Board School at Bridgewater, and Monica, just fifteen, was on the point of being apprenticed55 to a draper at Weston, where Virginia abode56. To serve behind a counter would not have been Monica’s choice if any more liberal employment had seemed within her reach. She had no aptitude57 whatever for giving instruction; indeed, had no aptitude for anything but being a pretty, cheerful, engaging girl, much dependent on the love and gentleness of those about her. In speech and bearing Monica greatly resembled her mother; that is to say, she had native elegance58. Certainly it might be deemed a pity that such a girl could not be introduced to one of the higher walks of life; but the time had come when she must ‘do something’, and the people to whose guidance she looked had but narrow experience of life. Alice and Virginia sighed over the contrast with bygone hopes, but their own careers made it seem probable that Monica would be better off ‘in business’ than in a more strictly59 genteel position. And there was every likelihood that, at such a place as Weston, with her sister for occasional chaperon, she would ere long find herself relieved of the necessity of working for a livelihood60.
To the others, no wooer had yet presented himself. Alice, if she had ever dreamt of marriage, must by now have resigned herself to spinsterhood. Virginia could scarce hope that her faded prettiness, her health damaged by attendance upon an exacting61 invalid62 and in profitless study when she ought to have been sleeping, would attract any man in search of a wife. Poor Isabel was so extremely plain. Monica, if her promise were fulfilled, would be by far the best looking, as well as the sprightliest63, of the family. She must marry; of course she must marry! Her sisters gladdened in the thought.
Isabel was soon worked into illness. Brain trouble came on, resulting in melancholia. A charitable institution ultimately received her, and there, at two-and-twenty, the poor hard-featured girl drowned herself in a bath.
Their numbers had thus been reduced by half. Up to now, the income of their eight hundred pounds had served, impartially64, the ends now of this, now of that one, doing a little good to all, saving them from many an hour of bitterness which must else have been added to their lot. By a new arrangement, the capital was at length made over to Alice and Virginia jointly65, the youngest sister having a claim upon them to the extent of an annual nine pounds. A trifle, but it would buy her clothing — and then Monica was sure to marry. Thank Heaven, she was sure to marry!
Without notable event, matrimonial or other, time went on to this present year of 1888.
Late in June, Monica would complete her twenty-first year; the elders, full of affection for the sister, who so notably66 surpassed them in beauty of person, talked much about her as the time approached, devising how to procure67 her a little pleasure on her birthday. Virginia thought a suitable present would be a copy of ‘the Christian68 Year’.
‘She has really no time for continuous reading. A verse of Keble — just one verse at bedtime and in the morning might be strength to the poor girl.’
Alice assented69.
‘We must join to buy it, dear,’ she added, with anxious look. ‘It wouldn’t be justifiable70 to spend more than two or three shillings.’
‘I fear not.’
They were preparing their midday meal, the substantial repast of the day. In a little saucepan on an oil cooking-stove was some plain rice, bubbling as Alice stirred it. Virginia fetched from downstairs (Mrs. Conisbee had assigned to them a shelf in her larder) bread, butter, cheese, a pot of preserve, and arranged the table (three feet by one and a half) at which they were accustomed to eat. The rice being ready, it was turned out in two proportions; made savoury with a little butter, pepper, and salt, it invited them to sit down.
As they had been out in the morning, the afternoon would be spent in domestic occupations. The low cane-chair Virginia had appropriated to her sister, because of the latter’s headaches and backaches, and other disorders71; she herself sat on an ordinary chair of the bedside species, to which by this time she had become used. Their sewing, when they did any, was strictly indispensable; if nothing demanded the needle, both preferred a book. Alice, who had never been a student in the proper sense of the word, read for the twentieth time a few volumes in her possession — poetry, popular history, and half a dozen novels such as the average mother of children would have approved in the governess’s hands. With Virginia the case was somewhat different. Up to about her twenty-fourth year she had pursued one subject with a zeal72 limited only by her opportunities; study absolutely disinterested73, seeing that she had never supposed it would increase her value as a ‘companion’, or enable her to take any better position. Her one intellectual desire was to know as much as possible about ecclesiastical history. Not in a spirit of fanaticism74; she was devout75, but in moderation, and never spoke bitterly on religious topics. The growth of the Christian Church, old sects76 and schisms77, the Councils, affairs of Papal policy — these things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances favouring, she might have become an erudite woman; But the conditions were so far from favourable78 that all she succeeded in doing was to undermine her health. Upon a sudden breakdown79 there followed mental lassitude, from which she never recovered. It being subsequently her duty to read novels aloud for the lady whom she ‘companioned,’ new novels at the rate of a volume a day, she lost all power of giving her mind to anything but the feebler fiction. Nowadays she procured80 such works from a lending library, on a subscription81 of a shilling a month. Ashamed at first to indulge this taste before Alice, she tried more solid literature, but this either sent her to sleep or induced headache. The feeble novels reappeared, and as Alice made no adverse82 comment, they soon came and went with the old regularity83.
This afternoon the sisters were disposed for conversation. The same grave thought preoccupied84 both of them, and they soon made it their subject.
‘Surely,’ Alice began by murmuring, half absently, ‘I shall soon hear of something.’
‘I am dreadfully uneasy on my own account,’ her sister replied.
‘You think the person at Southend won’t write again?’
‘I’m afraid not. And she seemed so very unsatisfactory. Positively85 illiterate86 — oh, I couldn’t bear that.’ Virginia gave a shudder87 as she spoke.
‘I almost wish,’ said Alice, ‘that I had accepted the place at Plymouth.’
‘Oh, my dear! Five children and not a penny of salary. It was a shameless proposal.’
‘It was, indeed,’ sighed the poor governess. ‘But there is so little choice for people like myself. Certificates, and even degrees, are asked for on every hand. With nothing but references to past employers, what can one expect? I know it will end in my taking a place without salary.’
‘People seem to have still less need of me,’ lamented89 the companion. ‘I wish now that I had gone to Norwich as lady-help.’
‘Dear, your health would never have supported it.’
‘I don’t know. Possibly the more active life might do me good. It might, you know, Alice.’
The other admitted this possibility with a deep sigh.
‘Let us review our position,’ she then exclaimed.
It was a phrase frequently on her lips, and always made her more cheerful. Virginia also seemed to welcome it as an encouragement.
‘Mine,’ said the companion, ‘is almost as serious as it could be. I have only one pound left, with the exception of the dividend90.’
‘I have rather more than four pounds still. Now, let us think,’ Alice paused. ‘Supposing we neither of us obtain employment before the end of this year. We have to live, in that case, more than six months — you on seven pounds, and I on ten.’
‘It’s impossible,’ said Virginia.
‘Let us see. Put it in another form. We have both to live together on seventeen pounds. That is —’ she made a computation on a piece of paper —‘that is two pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence a month — let us suppose this month at an end. That represents fourteen shillings and twopence a week. Yes, we can do it!’
She laid down her pencil with an air of triumph. Her dull eyes brightened as though she had discovered a new source of income.
‘We cannot, dear,’ urged Virginia in a subdued91 voice. ‘Seven shillings rent; that leaves only seven and twopence a week for everything — everything.’
‘We could do it, dear,’ persisted the other. ‘If it came to the very worst, our food need not cost more than sixpence a day — three and sixpence a week. I do really believe, Virgie, we could support life on less — say, on fourpence. Yes, we could dear!’
They looked fixedly92 at each other, like people about to stake everything on their courage.
‘Is such a life worthy93 of the name?’ asked Virginia in tones of awe94.
‘We shan’t be driven to that. Oh, we certainly shall not. But it helps one to know that, strictly speaking, we are independent for another six months.’
That word gave Virginia an obvious thrill.
‘Independent! Oh, Alice, what a blessed thing is independence! Do you know, my dear, I am afraid I have not exerted myself as I might have done to find a new place. These comfortable lodgings, and the pleasure of seeing Monica once a week, have tempted95 me into idleness. It isn’t really my wish to be idle; I know the harm it does me; but oh! if one could work in a home of one’s own!’
Alice had a startled, apprehensive96 look, as if her sister were touching97 on a subject hardly proper for discussion, or at least dangerous.
‘I’m afraid it’s no use thinking of that, dear,’ she answered awkwardly.
‘No use; no use whatever. I am wrong to indulge in such thoughts.’
‘Whatever happens, my dear,’ said Alice presently, with all the impressiveness of tone she could command, ‘we must never entrench98 upon our capital — never — never!’
‘Oh, never! If we grow old and useless —’
‘If no one will give us even board and lodging for our services —’
‘If we haven’t a friend to look to,’ Alice threw in, as though they were answering each other in a doleful litany, ‘then indeed we shall be glad that nothing tempted us to entrench on our capital! It would just keep us’— her voice sank —‘from the workhouse.’
After this each took up a volume, and until teatime they read quietly.
From six to nine in the evening they again talked and read alternately. Their conversation was now retrospective; each revived memories of what she had endured in one or the other house of bondage99. Never had it been their lot to serve ‘really nice’ people — this phrase of theirs was anything but meaningless. They had lived with more or less well-to-do families in the lower middle class — people who could not have inherited refinement100, and had not acquired any, neither proletarians nor gentlefolk, consumed with a disease of vulgar pretentiousness101, inflated102 with the miasma103 of democracy. It would have been but a natural result of such a life if the sisters had commented upon it in a spirit somewhat akin88 to that of their employers; but they spoke without rancour, without scandalmongering. They knew themselves superior to the women who had grudgingly104 paid them, and often smiled at recollections which would have moved the servile mind to venomous abuse.
At nine o’clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an hour later they went to bed. Lamp oil was costly105; and indeed they felt glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by.
Their hour of rising was eight. Mrs. Conisbee provided hot water for their breakfast. On descending106 to fetch it, Virginia found that the postman had left a letter for her. The writing on the envelope seemed to be a stranger’s. She ran upstairs again in excitement.
‘Who can this be from, Alice?’
The elder sister had one of her headaches this morning; she was clay colour, and tottered107 in moving about. The close atmosphere of the bedroom would alone have accounted for such a malady108. But an unexpected letter made her for the moment oblivious109 of suffering.
‘Posted in London,’ she said, examining the envelope eagerly.
‘Some one you have been in correspondence with?’
‘It’s months since I wrote to any one in London.’
For full five minutes they debated the mystery, afraid of dashing their hopes by breaking the envelope. At length Virginia summoned courage. Standing110 at a distance from the other, she took out the sheet of paper with tremulous hand, and glanced fearfully at the signature.
‘What do you think? It’s Miss Nunn!’
‘Miss Nunn! Never! How could she have got the address?’
Again the difficulty was discussed whilst its ready solution lay neglected.
‘Do read it!’ said Alice at length, her throbbing111 head, made worse by the agitation112, obliging her to sink down into the chair.
The letter ran thus:—
‘DEAR Miss MADDEN— This morning I chanced to meet with Mrs. Darby, who was passing through London on her way home from the seaside. We had only five minutes’ talk (it was at a railway station), but she mentioned that you were at present in London, and gave me your address. After all these years, how glad I should be to see you! The struggle of life has made me selfish; I have neglected my old friends. And yet I am bound to add that some of them have neglected me. Would you rather that I came to your lodgings or you to mine? Which you like. I hear that your elder sister is with you, and that Monica is also in London somewhere. Do let us all see each other once more. Write as soon as you can. My kindest regards to all of you. — Sincerely yours,
RHODA NUNN.’
‘How like her,’ exclaimed Virginia, when she had read this aloud, ‘to remember that perhaps we may not care to receive visitors! She was always so thoughtful. And it is true that I ought to have written to her.’
‘We shall go to her, of course?’
‘Oh yes, as she gives us the choice. How delightful113! I wonder what she is doing? She writes cheerfully; I am sure she must be in a good position. What is the address? Queen’s Road, Chelsea. Oh, I’m so glad it’s not very far. We can walk there and back easily.’
For several years they had lost sight of Rhoda Nunn. She left Clevedon shortly after the Maddens were scattered114, and they heard she had become a teacher. About the date of Monica’s apprenticeship115 at Weston, Miss Nunn had a chance meeting with Virginia and the younger girl; she was still teaching, but spoke of her work with extreme discontent, and hinted at vague projects. Whether she succeeded in releasing herself the Maddens never heard.
It was a morning of doubtful fairness. Before going to bed last night they had decided to walk out together this morning and purchase the present for Monica’s birthday, which was next Sunday. But Alice felt too unwell to leave the house. Virginia should write a reply to Miss Nunn’s letter, and then go to the bookseller’s alone.
She set forth50 at half-past nine. With extreme care she had preserved an out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby. Her mantle116 was in its second year only; the original fawn117 colour had gone to an indeterminate grey. Her hat of brown straw was a possession for ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a few pence, when that became unavoidable. Yet Virginia could not have been judged anything but a lady. She wore her garments as only a lady can (the position and movement of the arms has much to do with this), and had the step never to be acquired by a person of vulgar instincts.
A very long walk was before her. She wished to get as far as the Strand118 bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this region pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. Past Battersea Park, over Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria Station, and the upward labour to Charing119 Cross. Five miles, at least, measured by pavement. But Virginia walked quickly; at half-past eleven she was within sight of her goal.
A presentable copy of Keble’s work cost less than she had imagined. This rejoiced her. But after leaving the shop she had a singular expression on her face — something more than weariness, something less than anxiety, something other than calculation. In front of Charing Cross Station she stopped, looking vaguely120 about her. Perhaps she had it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was dreading121 the expense. Yet of a sudden she turned and went up the approach to the railway.
At the entrance again she stopped. Her features were now working in the strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed122 her. In her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood apart.
Another quick movement, and she entered the station. She went straight to the door of the refreshment123 room, and looked in through the glass. Two or three people were standing inside. She drew back, a tremor124 passing through her.
A lady came out. Then again Virginia approached the door. Two men only were within, talking together. With a hurried, nervous movement, she pushed the door open and went up to a part of the counter as far as possible from the two customers. Bending forward, she said to the barmaid in a voice just above a whisper —
‘Kindly give me a little brandy.’
Beads125 of perspiration126 were on her face, which had turned to a ghastly pallor. The barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her promptly127 and with a sympathetic look.
Virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing, as she did so, half turned from the bar. Then she sipped128 hurriedly two or three times, and at length took a draught129. Colour flowed to her cheeks; her eyes lost their frightened glare. Another draught finished the stimulant130. She hastily wiped her lips, and walked away with firm step.
In the meantime a threatening cloud had passed from the sun; warm rays fell upon the street and its clamorous131 life. Virginia felt tired in body, but a delightful animation132, rarest of boons133, gave her new strength. She walked into Trafalgar Square and viewed it like a person who stands there for the first time, smiling, interested. A quarter of an hour passed whilst she merely enjoyed the air, the sunshine, and the scene about her. Such a quarter of an hour — so calm, contented134, unconsciously hopeful — as she had not known since Alice’s coming to London.
She reached the house by half-past one, bringing in a paper bag something which was to serve for dinner. Alice had a wretched appearance; her head ached worse than ever.
‘Virgie,’ she moaned, ‘we never took account of illness, you know.’
‘Oh, we must keep that off,’ replied the other, sitting down with a look of exhaustion135. She smiled, but no longer as in the sunlight of Trafalgar Square.
‘Yes, I must struggle against it. We will have dinner as soon as possible. I feel faint.’
If both of them had avowed136 their faintness as often as they felt it, the complaint would have been perpetual. But they generally made a point of deceiving each other, and tried to delude137 themselves; professing138 that no diet could be better for their particular needs than this which poverty imposed.
‘Ah! it’s a good sign to be hungry,’ exclaimed Virginia. ‘You’ll be better this afternoon, dear.’
Alice turned over ‘The Christian Year,’ and endeavoured to console herself out of it, whilst her sister prepared the meal.
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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landlady
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meditative
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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remarkably
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descended
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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19
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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20
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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21
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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22
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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23
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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24
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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25
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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27
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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28
pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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29
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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31
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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34
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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35
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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36
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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37
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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38
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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39
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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40
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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41
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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42
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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43
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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44
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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45
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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46
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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47
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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48
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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49
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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52
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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54
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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55
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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57
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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58
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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59
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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60
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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61
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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62
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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63
sprightliest
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活泼的( sprightly的最高级 ) | |
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64
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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65
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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66
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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67
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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68
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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69
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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71
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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72
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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73
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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74
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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75
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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76
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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77
schisms
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| n.教会分立，分裂( schism的名词复数 ) | |
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78
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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79
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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80
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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81
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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82
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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83
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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84
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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85
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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86
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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87
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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88
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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89
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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91
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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92
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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93
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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94
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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95
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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96
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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97
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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98
entrench
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| v.使根深蒂固；n.壕沟；防御设施 | |
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99
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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100
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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101
pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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102
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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103
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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104
grudgingly
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105
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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106
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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107
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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108
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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109
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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110
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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111
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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112
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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113
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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114
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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115
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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116
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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117
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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118
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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119
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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120
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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121
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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122
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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123
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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124
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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125
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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126
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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127
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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128
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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130
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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131
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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132
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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133
boons
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| n.恩惠( boon的名词复数 )；福利；非常有用的东西；益处 | |
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134
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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135
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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136
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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137
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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138
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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