Quam non aqua bonis praemia dividis.
SENECA.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still.
GOLDSMITH.
Slowly for Lucy waned1 the weeks of a winter which to her was the most dreary2 portion of life she had ever passed. It became the time for the judge to attend one of those periodical visitations so fraught3 with dread4 and dismay to the miserable5 inmates6 of the dark abodes7 which the complex laws of this country so bounteously8 supply — those times of great hilarity9 and eating to the legal gentry10 —
“Who feed on crimes and fatten11 on distress12,
And wring13 vile14 mirth from suffering’s last excess.”
Ah! excellent order of the world, which it is so wicked to disturb! How miraculously15 beautiful must be that system which makes wine out of the scorching16 tears of guilt17; and from the suffocating18 suspense19, the agonized20 fear, the compelled and self-mocking bravery, the awful sentence, the despairing death-pang of one man, furnishes the smirking21 expectation of fees, the jovial22 meeting, and the mercenary holiday to another! “Of Law, nothing less can be said than that her seat is the bosom23 of God.”—[Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity.]— To be sure not; Richard Hooker, you are perfectly24 right. The divinity of a sessions and the inspiration of the Old Bailey are undeniable!
The care of Sir William Brandon had effectually kept from Lucy’s ear the knowledge of her lover’s ignominious25 situation. Indeed, in her delicate health even the hard eye of Brandon and the thoughtless glance of Mauleverer perceived the danger of such a discovery. The earl, now waiting the main attack on Lucy till the curtain had forever dropped on Clifford, proceeded with great caution and delicacy27 in his suit to his purposed bride. He waited with the more patience inasmuch as he had drawn28 in advance on his friend Sir William for some portion of the heiress’s fortune; and he readily allowed that he could not in the mean while have a better advocate than he found in Brandon. So persuasive29, indeed, and so subtle was the eloquence30 of this able sophist, that often in his artful conversations with his niece he left even on the unvitiated and strong though simple mind of Lucy an uneasy and restless impression, which time might have ripened31 into an inclination32 towards the worldly advantages of the marriage at her command. Brandon was no bungling33 mediator34 or violent persecutor35. He seemed to acquiesce36 in her rejection37 of Mauleverer. He scarcely recurred38 to the event. He rarely praised the earl himself, save for the obvious qualities of liveliness and good-nature. But he spoke40, with all the vivid colours he could infuse at will into his words, of the pleasures and the duties of rank and wealth. Well could he appeal alike to all the prejudices and all the foibles of the human breast, and govern virtue41 through its weaknesses. Lucy had been brought up, like the daughters of most country gentlemen of ancient family, in an undue42 and idle consciousness of superior birth; and she was far from inaccessible43 to the warmth and even feeling (for here Brandon was sincere) with which her uncle spoke of the duty of raising a gallant44 name sunk into disrepute, and sacrificing our own inclination for the redecorating the mouldered45 splendour of those who have gone before us. If the confusion of idea occasioned by a vague pomposity46 of phrase, or the infant inculcation of a sentiment that is mistaken for a virtue, so often makes fools of the wise on the subject of ancestry47; if it clouded even the sarcastic48 and keen sense of Brandon himself, we may forgive its influence over a girl so little versed49 in the arts of sound reasoning as poor Lucy, who, it may be said, had never learned to think until she had learned to love. However, the impression made by Brandon, in his happiest moments of persuasion50, was as yet only transient; it vanished before the first thought of Clifford, and never suggested to her even a doubt as to the suit of Mauleverer.
When the day arrived for Sir William Brandon to set out on the circuit, he called Barlow, and enjoined51 on that acute and intelligent servant the strictest caution with respect to Lucy. He bade him deny her to every one, of whatever rank, and carefully to look into every newspaper that was brought to her, as well as to withhold52 every letter, save such as were addressed to her in the judge’s own handwriting. Lucy’s maid Brandon had already won over to silence; and the uncle now pleased himself with thinking that he had put an effectual guard to every chance of discovery. The identity of Lovett with Clifford had not yet even been rumoured53; and Mauleverer had rightly judged of Clifford, when he believed the prisoner would himself take every precaution against the detection of that fact. Clifford answered the earl’s note, and promised, in a letter couched in so affecting yet so manly56 a tone of gratitude57 that even Brandon was touched when he read it. And since his confinement58 and partial recovery of health, the prisoner had kept himself closely secluded59, and refused all visitors. Encouraged by this reflection, and the belief in the safety of his precautions, Brandon took leave of Lucy. “Farewell!” said he, as he embraced her affectionately. “Be sure that you write to me, and forgive me if I do not answer you punctually. Take care of yourself, my sweet niece, and let me see a fresher colour on that soft cheek when I return!”
“Take care of yourself rather, my dear, dear uncle,” said Lucy, clinging to him and weeping, as of late her weakened nerves caused her to do at the least agitation61. “Why may I not go with you? You have seemed to me paler than usual the last three or four days, and you complained yesterday. Do let me go with you. I will be no trouble, none at all; but I am sure you require a nurse.”
“You want to frighten me, my pretty Lucy,” said Brandon, shaking his head with a smile. “I am well, very well. I felt a strange rush of blood towards the head yesterday, it is true; but I feel today stronger and lighter62 than I have done for years. Once more, God bless you, my child!”
And Brandon tore himself away, and commenced his journey.
The wandering and dramatic course of our story now conducts us to an obscure lane in the metropolis63, leading to the Thames, and makes us spectators of an affecting farewell between two persons, whom the injustice64 of fate and the persecutions of men were about perhaps forever to divide.
“Adieu, my friend!” said Augustus Tomlinson, as he stood looking full on that segment of the face of Edward Pepper which was left unconcealed by a huge hat and a red belcher handkerchief. Tomlinson himself was attired67 in the full costume of a dignified68 clergyman. “Adieu, my friend, since you will remain in England — adieu! I am, I exult69 to say, no less sincere a patriot70 than you. Heaven be my witness, how long I looked repugnantly on poor Lovett’s proposal to quit my beloved country. But all hope of life here is now over; and really, during the last ten days I have been so hunted from corner to corner, so plagued with polite invitations, similar to those given by a farmer’s wife to her ducks, ‘Dilly, dilly, dilly, come and be killed!’ that my patriotism71 has been prodigiously72 cooled, and I no longer recoil73 from thoughts of self-banishment. ‘The earth,’ my dear Ned, as a Greek sage74 has very well observed — ‘the earth is the same everywhere!’ and if I am asked for my home, I can point, like Anaxagoras, to heaven!”
“‘Pon my soul, you affect me!” said Ned, speaking thick, either from grief or the pressure of the belcher handkerchief on his mouth; “it is quite beautiful to hear you talk!”
“Bear up, my dear friend,” continued Tomlinson; “bear up against your present afflictions. What, to a man who fortifies75 himself by reason and by reflection on the shortness of life, are the little calamities76 of the body? What is imprisonment77 or persecution65 or cold or hunger? By the by, you did not forget to put the sandwiches into my coat-pocket!”
“Hush!” whispered Ned, and he moved on involuntarily; “I see a man at the other end of the street.”
“Let us quicken our pace,” said Tomlinson; and the pair proceeded towards the river.
“And now,” began Ned, who thought he might as well say something about himself; for hitherto Augustus, in the ardour of his friendship, had been only discussing his own plans — “and now — that is to say, when I leave you — I shall hasten to dive for shelter, until the storm blows over. I don’t much like living in a cellar and wearing a smock frock; but those concealments have something interesting in them, after all! The safest and snuggest78 place I know of is the Pays Bas, about Thames Court; so I think of hiring an apartment underground, and taking my meals at poor Lovett’s old quarters, the Mug — the police will never dream of looking in these vulgar haunts for a man of my fashion.”
“You cannot then tear yourself from England?” said Tomlinson.
“No, hang it! the fellows are so cursed unmanly on the other side of the water. I hate their wine and their parley80 woo. Besides, there is no fun there.”
Tomlinson, who was absorbed in his own thoughts, made no comment on his friend’s excellent reasons against travel; and the pair now approached the brink81 of the river. A boat was in waiting to receive and conduct to the vessel82 in which he had taken his place for Calais the illustrious emigrant83. But as Tomlinson’s eye fell suddenly on the rude boatmen and the little boat which were to bear him away from his native land; as he glanced, too, across the blue waters, which a brisk wind wildly agitated84, and thought how much rougher it would be at sea, where “his soul” invariably “sickened at the heaving wave,”— a whole tide of deep and sorrowful emotions rushed upon him.
He turned away. The spot on which he stood was a piece of ground to be let (as a board proclaimed) upon a building lease; below, descended85 the steps which were to conduct him to the boat; around, the desolate86 space allowed him to see in far and broad extent the spires87 and domes88 and chimneys of the great city whose inhabitants he might never plunder90 more. As he looked and looked, the tears started to his eyes, and with a gust66 of enthusiasm, little consonant91 with his temperate92 and philosophical93 character, he lifted his right hand from his black breeches-pocket, and burst into the following farewell to the metropolis of his native shores:—
“Farewell, my beloved London, farewell! Where shall I ever find a city like you? Never, till now, did I feel how inexpressibly dear you were to me. You have been my father and my brother and my mistress and my tailor and my shoemaker and my hatter and my cook and my wine-merchant! You and I never misunderstood each other. I did not grumble94 when I saw what fine houses and good strong boxes you gave to other men. No! I rejoiced at their prosperity. I delighted to see a rich man — my only disappointment was in stumbling on a poor one. You gave riches to my neighbours; but, O generous London, you gave those neighbours to me! Magnificent streets, all Christian95 virtues96 abide97 within you! Charity is as common as smoke! Where, in what corner of the habitable world, shall I find human beings with so many superfluities? Where shall I so easily decoy, from benevolent98 credulity, those superfluities to myself? Heaven only knows, my dear, dear, darling London, what I lose in you! O public charities! O public institutions! O banks that belie55 mathematical axioms and make lots out of nothing! O ancient constitution always to be questioned! O modern improvements that never answer! O speculations99! O companies! O usury100 laws which guard against usurers, by making as many as possible! O churches in which no one profits, save the parson, and the old women that let pews of an evening! O superb theatres, too small for parks, too enormous for houses, which exclude comedy and comfort, and have a monopoly for performing nonsense gigantically! O houses of plaster, built in a day! O palaces four yards high, with a dome89 in the middle, meant to be invisible!
[We must not suppose this apostrophe to be an anachronism. Tomlinson, Of course, refers to some palace of his day; one of the boxes — Christmas boxes — given to the king by his economical nation of shopkeepers. We suppose it is either pulled down or blown down long ago; it is doubtless forgotten by this time, except by antiquaries. Nothing is so ephemeral as great houses built by the people. Your kings play the deuce with their playthings!]
“O shops worth thousands, and O shopkeepers not worth a shilling! O system of credit by which beggars are princes, and princes are beggars! O imprisonment for debt, which lets the mare101 be stolen, and then locks up the bridle102! O sharpers, bubbles, senators, beaux, taverns103, brothels, clubs, houses private and public! —— O LONDON, in a word, receive my last adieu! Long may you flourish in peace and plenteousness! May your knaves105 be witty106, and your fools be rich! May you alter only two things — your damnable tricks of transportation and hanging! Those are your sole faults; but for those I would never desert you. Adieu!”
Here Tomlinson averted107 his head, and then hastily shaking the hand of Long Ned with a tremulous and warm grasp, he hurried down the stairs and entered the boat. Ned remained motionless for some moments, following him with his eyes as he sat at the end of the boat, waving a white pocket-handkerchief. At length a line of barges108 snatched him from the sight of the lingerer; and Ned, slowly turning away, muttered — “Yes, I have always heard that Dame109 Lobkins’s was the safest asylum110 for misfortune like mine. I will go forthwith in search of a lodging112, and tomorrow I will make my breakfast at the Mug!”
Be it our pleasing task, dear reader, to forestall113 the good robber, and return, at the hour of sunrise on the day following Tomlinson’s departure, to the scene at which our story commenced. We are now once more at the house of Mrs. Margery Lobkins.
The room which served so many purposes was still the same as when Paul turned it into the arena114 of his mischievous115 pranks116. The dresser, with its shelves of mingled117 delf and pewter, occupied its ancient and important station. Only it might be noticed that the pewter was more dull than of yore, and that sundry118 cracks made their erratic119 wanderings over the yellow surface of the delf. The eye of the mistress had become less keen than heretofore, and the care of the hand maid had, of necessity, relaxed. The tall clock still ticked in monotonous120 warning; the blanket-screen, haply innocent of soap since we last described it, many-storied and polyballaded, still unfolded its ample leaves “rich with the spoils of time;” the spit and the musket121 yet hung from the wall in amicable122 proximation. And the long, smooth form, “with many a holy text thereon bestrewn,” still afforded rest to the weary traveller, and an object to the vacant stare of Mrs. Margery Lobkins, as she lolled in her opposite seat and forgot the world. But poor Piggy Lob! —— there was the alteration123! The soul of the woman was gone; the spirit had evaporated from the human bottle! She sat, with open mouth and glassy eye, in her chair, sidling herself to and fro, with the low, peevish124 sound of fretful age and bodily pain; sometimes this querulous murmur125 sharpened into a shrill126 but unmeaning scold: “There now, you gallows127-bird! you has taken the swipes without chalking; you wants to cheat the poor widow; but I sees you, I does! Providence128 protects the aged60 and the innocent — Oh, oh! these twinges will be the death o’ me. Where’s Martha? You jade129, you! you wiperous hussy, bring the tape; does n’t you see how I suffers? Has you no bowels130, to let a poor Christian cretur perish for want o’ help! That’s with ’em, that’s the way! No one cares for I now — no one has respect for the gray ‘airs of the old!” And then the voice dwindled131 into the whimpering “tenor of its way.”
Martha, a strapping132 wench with red hair streaming over her “hills of snow,” was not, however, inattentive to the wants of her mistress. “Who knows,” said she to a man who sat by the hearth133, drinking tea out of a blue mug, and toasting with great care two or three huge rounds of bread for his own private and especial nutriment — “who knows,” said she, “what we may come to ourselves?” And, so saying, she placed a glowing tumbler by her mistress’s elbow.
But in the sunken prostration134 of her intellect, the old woman was insensible even to her consolation135. She sipped136 and drank, it is true; but as if the stream warmed not the benumbed region through which it passed, she continued muttering in a crazed and groaning137 key —
“Is this your gratitude, you sarpent! Why does not you bring the tape, I tells you? Am I of a age to drink water like a ‘oss, you nasty thing! Oh, to think as ever I should live to be desarted!”
Inattentive to these murmurs138, which she felt unreasonable139, the bouncing Martha now quitted the room to repair to her “upper household” avocations140. The man at the hearth was the only companion left to the widow. Gazing at her for a moment, as she sat whining141, with a rude compassion142 in his eye, and slowly munching143 his toast, which he had now buttered and placed in a delf plate on the hob, this person thus soothingly145 began:—
“Ah, Dame Lobkins, if so be as ‘ow little Paul vas a vith you, it would be a gallows comfort to you in your latter hend!”
The name of Paul made the good woman incline her bead146 towards the speaker; a ray of consciousness shot through her bedulled brain.
“Little Paul — eh, sirs! where is Paul? Paul, I say, my ben cull147. Alack! he’s gone — left his poor old nurse to die like a cat in a cellar. Oh, Dummie, never live to be old, man! They leaves us to oursel’s, and then takes away all the lush with ’em! I has not a drop o’ comfort in the ‘varsal world!”
Dummie, who at this moment had his own reasons for soothing144 the dame, and was anxious to make the most of the opportunity of a conversation as unwitnessed as the present, replied tenderly, and with a cunning likely to promote his end, reproached Paul bitterly for never having informed the dame of his whereabout and his proceedings148. “But come, dame,” he wound up, “come, I guess as how he is better nor all that, and that you need not beat your hold brains to think where he lies, or vot he’s a doing. Blow me tight, Mother Lob — I ax pardon, Mrs. Margery, I should say — if I vould not give five bob, ay, and five to the tail o’ that, to know what the poor lad is about; I takes a mortal hinterest in that ’ere chap!”
“Oh! oh!” groaned149 the old woman, on whose palsied sense the astute151 inquiries152 of Dummie Dunnaker fell harmless; “my poor sinful carcass! what a way it be in!”
Artfully again did Dummie Dunnaker, nothing defeated, renew his attack; but fortune does not always favour the wise, and it failed Dummie now, for a twofold reason — first, because it was not possible for the dame to comprehend him; secondly153, because even if it had been, she had nothing to reveal. Some of Clifford’s pecuniary154 gifts had been conveyed anonymously155, all without direction or date; and for the most part they had been appropriated by the sage Martha, into whose hands they fell, to her own private uses. Nor did the dame require Clifford’s grateful charity; for she was a woman tolerably well off in this world, considering how near she was waxing to another. Longer, however, might Dummie have tried his unavailing way, had not the door of the inn creaked on its hinges, and the bulky form of a tall man in a smockfrock, but with a remarkably156 fine head of hair, darkened the threshold. He honoured the dame, who cast on him a lacklustre eye, with a sulky yet ambrosial157 nod, seized a bottle of spirits and a tumbler, lighted a candle, drew a small German pipe and a tobacco-box from his pouch158, placed these several luxuries on a small table, wheeled it to a far corner of the room, and throwing himself into one chair, and his legs into another, he enjoyed the result of his pains in a moody159 and supercilious160 silence. Long and earnestly did the meek161 Dummie gaze on the face of the gentleman before him. It had been some years since he had last beheld162 it; but it was one which did not easily escape the memory; and although its proprietor163 was a man who had risen in the world, and had gained the height of his profession (a station far beyond the diurnal164 sphere of Dummie Dunnaker), and the humble165 purloiner166 was therefore astonished to encounter him in these lower regions, yet Dummie’s recollection carried him back to a day when they had gone shares together without respect of persons, and been right jolly partners in the practical game of beggar my neighbour. While, however, Dummie Dunnaker, who was a little inclined to be shy, deliberated as to the propriety168 of claiming acquaintanceship, a dirty boy, with a face which betokened169 the frost, as Dummie himself said, like a plum dying of the scarlet170 fever, entered the room, with a newspaper in his dexter paw.
“Great news! great news!” cried the urchin171, imitating his vociferous172 originals in the street; “all about the famous Captain Lovett, as large as life!”
“‘Old your blarney, you blattergowl!” said Dummie, rebukingly173, and seizing the journal.
“Master says as how he must have it to send to Clapham, and can’t spare it for more than a ‘our!” said the boy, as he withdrew.
“I ‘members the day,” said Dummie, with the zeal174 of a clansman, “when the Mug took a paper all to itsel’ instead o’ ‘iring it by the job like!”
Thereon he opened the paper with a fillip, and gave himself tip to the lecture. But the tall stranger, half rising with a start, exclaimed —
“Can’t you have the manners to be communicative? Do you think nobody cares about Captain Lovett but yourself?” On this, Dummie turned round on his chair, and, with a “Blow me tight, you’re velcome, I’m sure,” began as follows (we copy the paper, not the diction of the reader):—
“The trial of the notorious Lovett commences this day. Great exertions175 have been made by people of all classes to procure176 seats in the Town Hall, which will be full to a degree never before known in this peaceful province. No less than seven indictments177 are said to await the prisoner; it has been agreed that the robbery of Lord Mauleverer should be the first to come on. The principal witness in this case against the prisoner is understood to be the king’s evidence, MacGrawler. No news as yet have been circulated concerning the suspected accomplices178, Augustus Tomlinson and Edward Pepper. It is believed that the former has left the country, and that the latter is lurking179 among the low refuges of guilt with which the heart of the metropolis abounds180. Report speaks highly of the person and manners of Lovett. He is also supposed to be a man of some talent, and was formerly181 engaged in an obscure periodical edited by MacGrawler, and termed the ‘Althenaeum,’ Or ‘Asinaeum.’ Nevertheless, we apprehend182 that his origin is remarkably low, and suitable to the nature of his pursuits. The prisoner will be most fortunate in a judge. Never did any one holding the same high office as Sir William Brandon earn an equal reputation in so short a time. The Whigs are accustomed to sneer183 at us, when we insist on the private virtues of our public men. Let them look to Sir William Brandon, and confess that the austerest morals maybe linked with the soundest knowledge and the most brilliant genius. The opening address of the learned judge to the jury at ———— is perhaps the most impressive and solemn piece of eloquence in the English language!”
A cause for this eulogium might haply be found in another part of the paper, in which it was said —
“Among the higher circles, we understand, the rumour54 has gone forth111 that Sir William Brandon is to be recalled to his old parliamentary career in a more elevated scene. So highly are this gentleman’s talents respected by his Majesty184 and the ministers, that they are, it is reported, anxious to secure his assistance in the House of Lords!”
When Dummie had spelt his “toilsome march” through the first of the above extracts he turned round to the tall stranger, and, eying him with a sort of winking185 significance, said —
“So MacGrawler peaches — blows the gaff on his pals150, eh! Vel, now, I always suspected that ’ere son of a gun! Do you know, he used to be at the Mug many ‘s a day, a teaching our little Paul, and says I to Piggy Lob, says I, ‘Blow me tight, but that cove26 is a queer one! and if he does not come to be scragged,’ says I, ‘it vill only be because he’ll turn a rusty186, and scrag one of his pals!’ So you sees” (here Dummie looked round, and his voice sank into a whisper) — “so you sees, Meester Pepper, I vas no fool there!”
Long Ned dropped his pipe, and said sourly and with a suspicious frown, “What! you know me?”
“To be sure and sartin I does,” answered little Dummie, walking to the table where the robber sat. “Does not you know I?”
Ned regarded the interrogator187 with a sullen188 glance, which gradually brightened into knowledge. “Ah!” said he, with the air of a Brummel, “Mr. Bummie, or Dummie, I think, eh! Shake a paw — I’m glad to see you. Recollect167 the last time I saw you, you rather affronted189 me. Never mind. I dare say you did not mean it.”
Encouraged by this affable reception from the highwayman, though a little embarrassed by Ned’s allusion190 to former conduct on his part, which he felt was just, Dummie grinned, pushed a stool near Ned, sat himself down, and carefully avoiding any immediate191 answer to Ned’s complaints, rejoined —
“Do you know, Meester Pepper, you struck I all of a heap? I could not have s’posed as how you’d condescend192 nowadays to come to the Mug, vhere I never seed you but once afore. Lord love ye, they says as ‘ow you go to all the fine places in ruffles193, with a pair of silver pops in your vaistcoat pocket! Vy, the boys hereabout say that you and Meester Tomlinson, and this ’ere poor devil in quod, vere the finest gemmen in town; and, Lord, for to think of your ciwility to a pitiful ragmerchant, like I!”
“Ah!” said Ned, gravely, “there are sad principles afloat now. They want to do away with all distinctions in ranks — to make a duke no better than his valet, and a gentleman highwayman class with a filcher194 of fogles.’ But, damme, if I don’t think misfortune levels us all quite enough; and misfortune brings me here, little Dummie.”
“Ah! you vants to keep out of the vay of the bulkies!”
“Right. Since poor Lovett was laid by the heels, which I must say was the fault of his own deuced gentlemanlike behaviour to me and Augustus (you’ve heard of Guz, you say), the knot of us seems quite broken. One’s own friends look inclined to play one false; and really, the queer cuffins hover195 so sharply upon us that I thought it safe to duck for a time. So I have taken a lodging in a cellar, and I intend for the next three months to board at the Mug. I have heard that I may be sure of lying snug79 here. Dummie, your health! Give us the baccy.”
“I say, Meester Pepper,” said Dummie, clearing his throat, when he had obeyed the request, “can you tell I, if so be you ‘as met in your travels our little Paul? Poor chap! You knows as ‘ow and vy he was sent to quod by Justice Burnflat. Vel, ven he got out, he vent39 to the devil, or summut like it, and ve have not ‘card a vord of him since. You ‘members the lad — a ‘nation fine cull, tall and straight as a harrow!”
“Why, you fool,” said Ned, “don’t you know”— then checking himself suddenly, “Ah! by the by, that rigmarole oath! I was not to tell; though now it’s past caring for, I fear! It is no use looking after the seal when the letter’s burned.”
“Blow me,” cried Dunnaker, with unaffected vehemence196, “I sees as how you know vot’s come of he! Many’s the good turn I’ll do you, if you vill but tell I.”
“Why, does he owe you a dozen bobs; or what, Dummie?” said Ned.
“Not he — not he,” cried Dummie.
“What then, you want to do him a mischief197 of some sort?”
“Do little Paul a mischief!” ejaculated Dummie; “vy, I’ve known the cull ever since he was that high! No, but I vants to do him a great sarvice, Meester Pepper, and myself too — and you to boot, for aught that I know, Meester Pepper.”
“Humph!” said Ned — “humph! what do you mean? I do, it is true, know where Paul is; but you must tell me first why you wish to know, otherwise you may ask your grandfather for me.”
A long, sharp, wistful survey did Mr. Dummie Dunnaker cast around him before he rejoined. All seemed safe and convenient for confidential198 communication. The supine features of Mrs. Lobkins were hushed in a drowsy199 stupor200; even the gray cat that lay by the fire was curled in the embrace of Morpheus. Nevertheless, it was in a close whisper that Dummie spoke.
“I dares be bound, Meester Pepper, that you ‘members vell ven Harry201 Cook, the great highvayman — poor fellow! he’s gone vhere ve must all go — brought you, then quite a gossoon,’ for the first time to the little back parlour at the Cock and Hen, Dewereux Court?”
Ned nodded assent202.
“And you ‘members as how I met Harry and you there, and I vas all afeard at you — ‘cause vy? I had never seen you afore, and ve vas a going to crack a swell’s crib. And Harry spoke up for you, and said as ‘ow though you had just gone on the town, you was already prime up to gammon. You ‘members, eh?”
“Ay, I remember all,” said Ned; “it was the first and only house I ever had a hand in breaking into. Harry was a fellow of low habits; so I dropped his acquaintance, and took solely203 to the road, or a chance ingenuity204 now and then. I have no idea of a gentleman turning cracksman.”
“Vel, so you vent vith us, and ve slipped you through a pane205 in the kitchen-vindow. You vas the least of us, big as you be now; and you vent round and opened the door for us; and ven you had opened the door, you saw a voman had joined us, and you were a funked then, and stayed vithout the crib, to keep vatch vhile ve vent in.”
“Well, well,” cried Ned, “what the devil has all this rigmarole got to do with Paul?”
“Now don’t be glimflashy, but let me go on smack206 right about. Vell, ven ve came out, you minds as ‘ow the voman had a bundle in her arms, and you spake to her; and she answered you roughly, and left us all, and vent straight home; and ve vent and fenced the swag’ that wery night and afterwards napped the regulars. And sure you made us laugh ‘artily, Meester Pepper, when you said, says you, ‘That ’ere voman is a rum blo” en.’ So she vas, Meester Pepper!”
[The reader has probably observed the use made by Dummie and Mrs. Lobkins of Irish phraseology or pronunciation, This is a remarkable207 trait in the dialect of the lowest orders in London, owing, we suppose, to their constant association with emigrants208 from “the first flower of the earth.” Perhaps it is a modish209 affectation among the gentry of St. Giles’s, just as we eke210 out our mother-tongue with French at Mayfair.]
“Oh, spare me,” said Ned, affectedly211, “and make haste; you keep me all in the dark. By the way, I remember that you joked me about the bundle; and when I asked what the woman had wrapped in it, you swore it was a child. Rather more likely that the girl, whoever she was, would have left a child behind her than carried one off!” The face of Dummie waxed big with conscious importance.
“Vell, now, you would not believe us; but it vas all true. That ’ere bundle vas the voman’s child — I s’pose an unnatural212 von by the gemman; she let us into the ’ouse on condition we helped her off vith it. And, blow me tight, but ve paid ourselves vel for our trouble. That ’ere voman vas a strange cretur; they say she had been a lord’s blowen; but howsomever, she was as ‘ot-‘eaded and hodd as if she had been. There vas old Nick’s hown row made on the matter, and the revard for our [de]tection vas so great, that as you vas not much tried yet, Harry thought it best for to take you vith ’im down to the country, and told you as ‘ow it vas all a flam about the child in the bundle!”
“Faith,” said Ned, “I believed him readily enough; and poor Harry was twisted shortly after, and I went into Ireland for safety, where I stayed two years — and deuced good claret I got there!”
“So, vhiles you vas there,” continued Dummie, “poor Judy, the voman, died — she died in this very ’ouse, and left the horphan to the [af]fection of Piggy Lob, who was ‘nation fond of it surely! Oh! but I ‘members vot a night it vas ven poor Judy died; the vind vistled like mad, and the rain tumbled about as if it had got a holiday; and there the poor creature lay raving213 just over ‘ed of this room we sits in! Laus-a-me, vat104 a sight it vas!”
Here Dummie paused, and seemed to recall in imagination the scene he had witnessed; but over the mind of Long Ned a ray of light broke slowly.
“Whew!” said he, lifting up his forefinger214, “whew! I smell a rat; this stolen child, then, was no other than Paul. But, pray, to whom did the house belong? For that fact Harry never communicated to me. I only heard the owner was a lawyer, or parson, or some such thing.”
“Vy now, I’ll tell you, but don’t be glimflashy. So, you see, ven Judy died, and Harry was scragged, I vas the only von living who vas up to the secret; and vhen Mother Lob vas a taking a drop to comfort her vhen Judy vent off, I hopens a great box in which poor Judy kept her duds and rattletraps, and surely I finds at the bottom of the box hever so many letters and sick like — for I knew as ‘ow they vas there; so I vhips these off and carries ’em ‘ome with me, and soon arter, Mother Lob sold me the box o’ duds for two quids —‘cause vy? I vas a rag-merchant. So now I ‘solved, since the secret vas all in my hown keeping, to keep it as tight as vinkey; for first, you sees as ‘ow I vas afeard I should be hanged if I vent for to tell — ‘cause vy? I stole a vatch, and lots more, as vell as the hurchin; and next I vas afeard as ‘ow the mother might come back and haunt me the same as Sall haunted Villy, for it vas a ‘orrid night ven her soul took ving. And hover and above this, Meester Pepper, I thought summut might turn hup by and by, in vhich it vould be best for I to keep my hown counsel and nab the revard, if I hever durst make myself known.”
Here Dummie proceeded to narrate215 how frightened he had been lest Ned should discover all, when (as it may be remembered, Pepper informed Paul at the beginning of this history) he encountered that worthy216 at Dame Lobkins’s house; how this fear had induced him to testify to Pepper that coldness and rudeness which had so enraged217 the haughty218 highwayman; and how great had been his relief and delight at finding that Ned returned to the Mug no more. He next proceeded to inform his new confidant of his meeting with the father (the sagacious reader knows where and when), and of what took place at that event. He said how, in his first negotiation219 with the father, prudently220 resolving to communicate drop by drop such information as he possessed221, he merely, besides confessing to a share in the robbery, stated that he thought he knew the house, etc., to which the infant had been consigned222 — and that, if so, it was still alive; but that he would inquire. He then related how the sanguine223 father, who saw that hanging Dummie for the robbery of his house might not be half so likely a method to recover his son as bribery224 and conciliation225, not only forgave him his former outrage226, but whetted227 his appetite to the search by rewarding him for his disclosure. He then proceeded to state how, unable anywhere to find Paul, or any trace of him, he amused the sire from time to time with forged excuses; how, at first, the sums he received made him by no means desirous to expedite a discovery that would terminate such satisfactory receipts; how at length the magnitude of the proffered228 reward, joined to the threats of the sire, had made him become seriously anxious to learn the real fate and present “whereabout” of Paul; how, the last time he had seen the father, he had, by way of propitiation and first fruit, taken to him all the papers left by the unhappy mother and secreted229 by himself; and how he was now delighted to find that Ned was acquainted with Paul’s address. Since he despaired of finding Paul by his own exertions alone, he became less tenacious230 of his secret; and he now proffered Ned, on discovery of Paul, a third of that reward the whole of which he had once hoped to engross231.
Ned’s eyes and mouth opened at this proposition. “But the name — the name of the father? You have not told me that yet!” cried he, impatiently.
“Noa, noa!” said Dummie, archly, “I does n’t tell you all, till you tells I summut. Vhere’s little Paul, I say; and vhere be us to get at him?”
Ned heaved a sigh.
“As for the oath,” said he, musingly232, “it would be a sin to keep it, now that to break it can do him no harm, and may do him good, especially as, in case of imprisonment or death, the oath is not held to be binding233; yet I fear it is too late for the reward. The father will scarcely thank you for finding his son! —— Know, Dummie, that Paul is in jail, and that he is one and the same person as Captain Lovett!” Astonishment234 never wrote in more legible characters than she now displayed on the rough features of Dummie Dunnaker. So strong are the sympathies of a profession compared with all others, that Dummie’s first confused thought was that of pride. “The great Captain Lovett!” he faltered235.
“Little Paul at the top of the profession! Lord, Lord! I always said as how he’d the hambition to rise!”
“Well, well, but the father’s name?”
At this question the expression of Dummie’s face fell; a sudden horror struggled to his eyes —
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1
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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2
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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3
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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5
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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7
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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8
bounteously
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| adv.慷慨地，丰富地 | |
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9
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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11
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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12
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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13
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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14
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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15
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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16
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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17
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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18
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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19
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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20
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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21
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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22
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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23
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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24
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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25
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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26
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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28
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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29
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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30
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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31
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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33
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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34
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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35
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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36
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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38
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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40
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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41
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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42
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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43
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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44
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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45
mouldered
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| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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46
pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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47
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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48
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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49
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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50
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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51
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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53
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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54
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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55
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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56
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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59
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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60
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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61
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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62
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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63
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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64
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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65
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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66
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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67
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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69
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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70
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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71
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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72
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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73
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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74
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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75
fortifies
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的第三人称单数 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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76
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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77
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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78
snuggest
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| adj.整洁的( snug的最高级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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79
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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80
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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81
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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82
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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83
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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84
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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85
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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86
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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87
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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88
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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89
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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90
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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91
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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92
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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93
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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94
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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95
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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96
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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97
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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98
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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99
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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100
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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101
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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102
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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103
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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104
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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105
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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106
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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107
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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108
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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109
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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110
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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113
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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114
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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115
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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116
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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117
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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118
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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119
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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120
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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121
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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122
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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123
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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124
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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125
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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126
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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127
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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128
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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129
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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130
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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131
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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133
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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134
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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135
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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136
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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137
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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138
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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139
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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140
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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141
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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142
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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143
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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144
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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145
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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146
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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147
cull
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| v.拣选；剔除；n.拣出的东西；剔除 | |
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148
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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149
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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150
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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151
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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152
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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153
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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154
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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155
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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156
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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157
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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158
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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159
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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160
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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161
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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162
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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163
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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164
diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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165
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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166
purloiner
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| [法] 小偷，窃盗者 | |
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167
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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168
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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169
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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171
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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172
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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173
rebukingly
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174
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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175
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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176
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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177
indictments
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| n.（制度、社会等的）衰败迹象( indictment的名词复数 )；刑事起诉书；公诉书；控告 | |
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178
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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179
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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180
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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181
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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182
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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183
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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184
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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185
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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186
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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187
interrogator
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| n.讯问者；审问者；质问者；询问器 | |
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188
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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189
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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190
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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191
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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192
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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193
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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194
filcher
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| 小偷 | |
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195
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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196
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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197
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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198
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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199
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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200
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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201
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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202
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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203
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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204
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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205
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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206
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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207
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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208
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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209
modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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210
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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211
affectedly
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212
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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213
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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214
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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215
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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216
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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217
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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218
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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219
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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220
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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221
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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222
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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223
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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224
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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225
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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226
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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227
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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228
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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230
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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231
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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232
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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233
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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234
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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235
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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