But why did he take so much thought for Lucia? And why, at the first intimation of her wish, did he attend to it so diligently16, as if it were a call from the Father Provincial17? And who was this Father Cristoforo? — It will be necessary to answer all these inquiries18.
Father Cristoforo of . . . was a man nearer sixty than fifty years of age. His shaven head, circled with a narrow line of hair, like a crown, according to the fashion of the Capuchin tonsure19, was raised from time to time with a movement that betrayed somewhat of disdain20 and disquietude, and then quickly sank again in thoughts of lowliness and humility21. His long, gray beard, covering his cheeks and chin, contrasted markedly with the prominent features of the upper part of his face, to which a long and habitual22 abstinence had rather given an air of gravity, than effaced23 the natural expression. His sunken eyes, usually bent24 on the ground, sometimes brightened up with a momentary25 fire, like two spirited horses, under the hand of a driver whom they know by experience they cannot overcome; yet occasionally they indulge in a few gambols26 and prancings, for which they are quickly repaid by a smart jerk of the bit.
Father Cristoforo had not always been thus: nor had he always been Cristoforo: his baptismal name was Ludovico. He was the son of a merchant of . . ., (these asterisks27 are all inserted by the circumspection28 of our anonymous29 author,) who, in his latter years, being considerably30 wealthy, and having only one son, had given up trade, and retired31 as an independent gentleman.
In his new state of idleness he began to entertain a great contempt for the time he had spent in making money, and being useful in the world. Full of this fancy, he used every endeavour to make others forget that he had been a merchant; in fact, he wished to forget it himself. But the warehouse32, the bales, the journal, the measure, were for ever intruding33 upon his mind, like the shade of Banquo to Macbeth, even amidst the honours of the table and the smiles of flatterers. It is impossible to describe the care of these poor mortals to avoid every word that might appear like an allusion34 to the former condition of their patron. One day, to mention a single instance, towards the end of dinner, in the moment of liveliest and most unrestrained festivity, when it would be difficult to say which was the merriest, the company who emptied the table, or the host who filled it, he was rallying with friendly superiority one of his guests, the most prodigious35 eater in the world. He, meaning to return the joke, with the frankness of a child, and without the least shade of malice36, replied, ‘Ah, I’m listening like a merchant.’1 The poor offender37 was at once conscious of the unfortunate word that had escaped his lips; he cast a diffident glance towards his patron’s clouded face, and each would gladly have resumed his former expression; but it was impossible. The other guests occupied themselves, each in his own mind, in devising some plan of remedying the mistake, and making a diversion; but the silence thus occasioned only made the error more apparent. Each individual endeavoured to avoid meeting his companion’s eye; each felt that all were occupied in the thought they wished to conceal38. Cheerfulness and sociability39 had fled for that day, and the poor man, not so much imprudent as unfortunate, never again received an invitation. In this manner, Ludovico’s father passed his latter years, continually subject to annoyances40, and perpetually in dread41 of being despised; never reflecting that it was no more contemptuous to sell than to buy, and that the business of which he was now so much ashamed, had been carried on for many years before the public without regret. He gave his son an expensive education, according to the judgment42 of the times, and as far as he was permitted by the laws and customs of the country; he procured43 him masters in the different branches of literature and in exercises of horsemanship, and at last died, leaving the youth heir to a large fortune. Ludovico had acquired gentlemanly habits and feelings, and the flatterers by whom he had been surrounded had accustomed him to be treated with the greatest respect. But when he endeavoured to mix with the first men of the city, he met with very different treatment to what he had been accustomed to, and he began to perceive that, if he would be admitted into their society, as he desired, he must learn, in a new school, to be patient and submissive, and every moment to be looked down upon and despised.
Such a mode of life accorded neither with the education of Ludovico, nor with his disposition44, and he withdrew from it, highly piqued45. Still he absented himself unwillingly; it appeared to him that these ought really to have been his companions, only he wanted them to be a little more tractable46. With this mixture of dislike and inclination47, not being able to make them his familiar associates, yet wishing in some way to be connected with them, he endeavoured to rival them in show and magnificence, thus purchasing for himself enmity, jealousy49, and ridicule50. His disposition, open and at the same time violent, had occasionally engaged him in more serious contentions52. He had a natural and sincere horror of fraud and oppression — a horror rendered still more vivid by the rank of those whom he saw daily committing them — exactly the persons he hated. To appease53 or to excite all these passions at once, he readily took the part of the weak and oppressed, assumed the office of arbitrator, and intermeddling in one dispute, drew himself into others; so that by degrees he established his character as a protector of the oppressed, and a vindicator54 of injuries. The employment, however, was troublesome; and it need not be asked whether poor Ludovico met with enemies, untoward55 accidents, and vexations of spirit. Besides the external war he had to maintain, he was continually harassed56 by internal strifes; for, in order to carry out his undertakings57, (not to speak of such as never were carried out,) he was often obliged to make use of subterfuges58, and have recourse to violence which his conscience could not approve. He was compelled to keep around him a great number of bravoes; and, as much for his own security as to ensure vigorous assistance, he had to choose the most daring, or, in other words, the most unprincipled, and thus to live with villains59 for the sake of justice. Yet on more than one occasion, either discouraged by ill success, or disquieted60 by imminent61 danger, wearied by a state of constant defence, disgusted with his companions, and in apprehension62 of dissipating his property, which was daily drawn63 upon largely, either in a good cause or in support of his bold enterprises — more than once he had taken a fancy to turn friar; for in these times, this was the commonest way of escaping difficulties. This idea would probably have been only a fancy all his life, had it not been changed to a resolution by a more serious and terrible accident than he had yet met with.
He was walking one day along the streets, in company with a former shopkeeper, whom his father had raised to the office of steward64, and was followed by two bravoes. The steward, whose name was Cristoforo, was about fifty years old, devoted65 from childhood to his master, whom he had known from his birth, and by whose wages and liberality he was himself supported, with his wife and eight children. Ludovico perceived a gentleman at a distance, an arrogant67 and overbearing man, whom he had never spoken to in his life, but his cordial enemy, to whom Ludovico heartily69 returned the hatred70; for it is a singular advantage of this world, that men may hate and be hated without knowing each other. The Signor, followed by four bravoes, advanced haughtily71 with a proud step, his head raised, and his mouth expressive72 of insolence73 and contempt. They both walked next to the wall, which (be it observed) was on Ludovico’s right hand; and this, according to custom, gave him the right (how far people will go to pursue the right of a case!) of not moving from the said wall to give place to any one, to which custom at that time, great importance was attached. The Signor, on the contrary, in virtue74 of another custom, held that this right ought to be conceded to him in consideration of his rank, and that it was Ludovico’s part to give way. So that in this, as it happens in many other cases, two opposing customs clashed, the question of which was to have the preference remaining undecided, thus giving occasions of dispute, whenever one hard head chanced to come in contact with another of the same nature. The foes75 approached each other, both close to the wall, like two walking figures in bas-relief, and on finding themselves face to face, the Signor, eyeing Ludovico with a haughty76 air and imperious frown, said, in a corresponding tone of voice, ‘Go to the outside.’
‘You go yourself,’ replied Ludovico; ‘the path is mine.’
‘With men of your rank the path is always mine.’
‘Yes, if the arrogance77 of men of your rank were a law for men of mine.’
The two trains of attendants stood still, each behind its leader, fiercely regarding each other with their hands on their daggers78 prepared for battle, while the passers-by stopped on their way and withdrew into the road, placing themselves at a distance to observe the issue; the presence of these spectators continually animating80 the punctilio of the disputants.
‘To the outside, vile81 mechanic! or I’ll quickly teach you the civility you owe a gentleman.’
‘You lie: I am not vile.’
‘You lie, if you say I lie.’ This reply was pragmatical. ‘And if you were a gentleman, as I am,’ added the Signor, ‘I would prove with the sword that you are the liar48.’
‘That is a capital pretext82 for dispensing83 with the trouble of maintaining the insolence of your words by your deeds.’
‘Throw this rascal84 in the mud,’ said the Signor, turning to his followers85.
‘We shall see,’ said Ludovico, immediately retiring a step, and laying his hand on his sword.
‘Rash man! cried the other, drawing his own, ‘I will break this when it is stained with your vile blood.’
At these words they flew upon one another, the attendants of the two parties fighting in defence of their masters. The combat was unequal, both in number, and because Ludovico aimed rather at parrying the blows of, and disarming86 his enemy than killing87 him, while the Signor was resolved upon his foe’s death at any cost. Ludovico had already received a blow from the dagger79 of one of the bravoes in his left arm, and a slight wound on his cheek, and his principal enemy was pressing on to make an end of him, when Cristoforo, seeing his master in extreme peril88, went behind the Signor with his dagger, who, turning all his fury upon his new enemy, ran him through with his sword. At this sight Ludovico, as if beside himself, buried his own in the body of his provoker, and laid him at his feet, almost at the same moment as the unfortunate Cristoforo. The followers of the Signor, seeing him on the ground, immediately betook themselves to flight: those of Ludovico, wounded and beaten, having no longer any one to fight with, and not wishing to be mingled89 in the rapidly increasing multitude, fled the other way, and Ludovico was left alone in the midst of the crowd, with these two ill-fated companions lying at his feet.
‘What’s the matter? — There’s one — There are two. — They have pierced his body. — Who has been murdered? — That tyrant90. — Oh, Holy Mary, what a confusion! — Seek, and you shall find. — One moment pays all. — So he is gone! — What a blow! — It must be a serious affair. — And this other poor fellow! — Mercy! what a sight! — Save him, save him! — It will go hard with him too. — See how he is mangled91! he is covered with blood. — Escape, poor fellow, escape! — Take care you are not caught.’
These words predominating over the confused tumult92 of the crowd, expressed their prevailing93 opinion, while assistance accompanied the advice. The scene had taken place near a Capuchin convent, an asylum94 in those days, as every one knows, impenetrable to bailiffs and all that complication of persons and things which went by the name of justice. The wounded and almost senseless murderer was conducted, or rather carried by the crowd, and delivered to the monks95 with the recommendation, ‘He is a worthy96 man who has made a proud tyrant cold; he was provoked to it, and did it in his own defence.’
Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although homicide was in those times so common that every one was accustomed to hear of and witness it, yet the impression made on his mind by the sight of one man murdered for him, and another by him, was new and indescribable; — a disclosure of sentiments before unknown. The fall of his enemy, the sudden alteration97 of the features, passing in a moment from a threatening and furious expression to the calm and solemn stillness of death, was a sight that instantly changed the feelings of the murderer. He was dragged to the convent almost without knowing where he was, or what they were doing to him; and when his memory returned, he found himself on a bed in the infirmary, attended by a surgeon-friar, (for the Capuchins generally had one in each convent,) who was applying lint98 and bandages to the two wounds he had received in the contest. A father, whose special office it was to attend upon the dying, and who had frequently been called upon to exercise his duties in the street, was quickly summoned to the place of combat. He returned a few minutes afterwards, and entering the infirmary, approached the bed where Ludovico lay. ‘Comfort yourself,’ said he, ‘he has at least died calmly, and has charged me to ask your pardon, and to convey his to you.’ These words aroused poor Ludovico, and awakened99 more vividly100 and distinctly the feelings which confusedly crowded upon his mind; sorrow for his friend, consternation101 and remorse102 for the blow that had escaped his hand, and at the same time a bitterly painful compassion103 for the man he had slain104. ‘And the other?’ anxiously demanded he of the friar.
‘The other had expired when I arrived.’
In the mean while, the gates and precincts of the convent swarmed105 with idle and inquisitive106 people; but on the arrival of a body of constables107, they dispersed108 the crowd, and placed themselves in ambush109 at a short distance from the doors, so that none might go out unobserved. A brother of the deceased, however, accompanied by two of his cousins and an aged51 uncle, came, armed cap-à-pié, with a powerful retinue110 of bravoes, and began to make the circuit of the convent, watching with looks and gestures of threatening contempt the idle by-standers, who did not dare say, He is out of your reach, though they had it written on their faces.
As soon as Ludovico could collect his scattered thoughts, he asked for a Father Confessor, and begged that he would seek the widow of Cristoforo, ask forgiveness in his name for his having been the involuntary cause of her desolation, and at the same time assure her that he would undertake to provide for her destitute111 family. In reflecting on his own condition, the wish to become a friar, which he had often before revolved112 in his mind, revived with double force and earnestness; it seemed as if God himself, by bringing him to a convent just at this juncture113, had put it in his way, and given him a sign of His will, and his resolution was taken. He therefore called the guardian114, and told him of his intention. The superior replied, that he must beware of forming precipitate115 resolutions, but that if, on consideration, he persisted in his desire he would not be refused. He then sent for a notary116, and made an assignment of the whole of his property (which was no insignificant117 amount) to the family of Cristoforo, a certain sum to the widow, as if it were an entailed118 dowry, and the remainder to the children.
The resolution of Ludovico came very apropos119 for his hosts, who were in a sad dilemma120 on his account. To send him away from the convent, and thus expose him to justice, that is to say, to the vengeance121 of his enemies, was a course on which they would not for a moment bestow122 a thought. It would have been to give up their proper privileges, disgrace the convent in the eyes of the people, draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the Capuchins in the universe for suffering their common rights to be infringed123 upon, and arouse all the ecclesiastical authorities, who at that time considered themselves the lawful124 guardians125 of these rights. On the other hand, the kindred of the slain, powerful themselves, and strong in adherents126, were prepared to take vengeance, and denounced as their enemy any one who should put an obstacle in their way. The history does not tell us that much grief was felt for the loss of the deceased, nor even that a single tear was shed over him by any of his relations: it merely says that they were all on fire to have the murderer, dead or living, in their power. But Ludovico’s assuming the habit of a Capuchin settled all these difficulties; he made atonement in a manner, imposed a penance128 on himself, tacitly confessed himself in fault, and withdrew from the contest; he was, in fact, an enemy laying down his arms. The relatives of the dead could also, if they pleased, believe and make it their boast he had turned friar in despair, and through dread of their vengeance. But in any case, to oblige a man to relinquish129 his property, shave his head, and walk barefoot, to sleep on straw, and to live upon alms, was surely a punishment fully130 equivalent to the most heinous131 offence.
The Superior presented himself with an easy humility to the brother of the deceased, and after a thousand protestations of respect for his most illustrious house, and of desire to comply with his wishes as far as was possible, he spoke68 of Ludovico’s penitence132, and the determination he had made, politely making it appear that his family ought to be therewith satisfied, and insinuating133, yet more courteously134, and with still greater dexterity135, that whether he were pleased or not, so it would be. The brother fell into a rage, which the Capuchin patiently allowed to evaporate, occasionally remarking that he had too just cause of sorrow. The Signor also gave him to understand, that in any case his family had it in their power to enforce satisfaction, to which the Capuchin, whatever he might think, did not say no; and finally he asked, or rather required as a condition, that the murderer of his brother should immediately quit the city. The Capuchin, who had already determined136 upon such a course, replied that it should be as he wished, leaving the nobleman to believe, if he chose, that his compliance137 was an act of obedience138: and thus the matter concluded to the satisfaction of all parties. The family were released from their obligation; the friars had rescued a fellow-creature, and secured their own privileges, without making themselves enemies; the dilettante139 in chivalry140 gladly saw the affair terminated in so laudable a manner; the populace rejoiced at a worthy man’s escaping from danger, and at the same time marvelled141 at his conversion142; finally, and above all, in the midst of his sorrow, it was a consolation143 to poor Ludovico himself, to enter upon a life of expiation144, and devote himself to services, which, though they could not remedy, might at least make some atonement, for his unhappy deed, and alleviate145 the intolerable pangs146 of remorse. The idea that his resolution might be attributed to fear pained him for a moment, but he quickly consoled himself by the remembrance that even this unjust imputation147 would be a punishment for him, and a means of expiation. Thus, at the age of thirty, Ludovico took the monastic habit, and being required, according to custom, to change his name, he chose one that would continually remind him of the fault he had to atone127 for — the name of friar Cristoforo.
Scarcely was the ceremony of taking the religious habit completed, when the guardian told him that he must keep his novitiate at . . ., sixty miles distant, and that he must leave the next day. The novice148 bowed respectfully, and requested a favour of him. ‘Allow me, Father,’ said he, ‘before I quit the city where I have shed the blood of a fellow-creature, and leave a family justly offended with me, to make what satisfaction I can by at least confessing my sorrow, begging forgiveness of the brother of the deceased, and so removing, please God, the enmity he feels towards me.’ The guardian, thinking that such an act, besides being good in itself, would also serve still more to reconcile the family to the convent, instantly repaired to the offended Signor’s house, and communicated to him Friar Cristoforo’s request. The Signor, greatly surprised at so unexpected a proposal, felt a rising of anger, mingled perhaps with complacency, and after thinking a moment, ‘Let him come tomorrow,’ said he, mentioning the hour, and the Superior returned to the monastery149 to acquaint the novice with the desired permission.
The gentleman soon remembered that the more solemn and notorious the submission150 was, the more his influence and importance would be increased among his friends and the public; and it would also, (to use a fashionable modern expression,) make a fine page in the history of the family. He therefore hastily sent to inform all his relatives, that the next day at noon they must hold themselves engaged to come to him, for the purpose of receiving a common satisfaction. At midday the palace swarmed with the nobility of both sexes and of every age; occasioning a confused intermingling of large cloaks, lofty plumes151, and pendent jewels; a vibrating movement of stiffened152 and curled ribbons, an impeded153 trailing of embroidered155 trains. The ante-rooms, court-yards, and the roads overflowed156 with servants, pages, bravoes, and inquisitive gazers. On seeing all this preparation, Friar Cristoforo guessed the motive157, and felt a momentary perturbation; but he soon recovered himself, and said:—‘Be it so; I committed the murder publicly, in the presence of many of his enemies; that was an injury; this is reparation.’— So, with the Father, his companion, at his side, and his eyes bent on the ground, he passed the threshold, traversed the court-yard among a crowd who eyed him with very unceremonious curiosity, ascended158 the stairs, and in the midst of another crowd of nobles, who save way at his approach, was ushered159, with a thousand eyes upon him, into the presence of the master of the mansion160, who, surrounded by his nearest relatives, stood in the centre of the room with a downcast look, grasping in his left hand the hilt of his sword, while with the right he folded the collar of his cloak over his breast.
There is sometimes in the face and behaviour of a person so direct an expression, such an effusion, so to speak, of the internal soul, that in a crowd of spectators there will be but one judgment and opinion of him. So was it with Friar Cristoforo; his face and behaviour plainly expressed to the bystanders that he had not become a friar, nor submitted to that humiliation161, from the fear of man; and the discovery immediately conciliated all hearts. On perceiving the offended Signor, he quickened his steps, fell on his knees at his feet, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his shaved head, said, ‘I am the murderer of your brother. God knows how gladly I would restore him to you at the price of my own blood, but it cannot be: I can only make inefficacious and tardy162 excuses, and implore163 you to accept them for God’s sake.’ All eyes were immovably fixed164 upon the novice and the illustrious personage he was addressing; all ears were attentively165 listening; and when Friar Cristoforo ceased, there was a murmur166 of compassion and respect throughout the room. The gentleman, who stood in an attitude of forced condescension167 and restrained anger, was much moved at these words, and bending towards the supplicant168, ‘Rise,’ said he, in an altered tone. ‘The offence — the act certainly — but the habit you bear — not only so, but also yourself — Rise, Father — My brother — I cannot deny it — was a cavalier — was rather a — precipitate man — rather hasty. But all happens by God’s appointment. Speak of it no more . . . But, Father, you must not remain in this posture169.’ And taking him by the arm, he compelled him to rise. The friar, standing170 with his head bowed, and his eyes fixed on the ground, replied, ‘I may hope then that I have your forgiveness? And if I obtain it from you, from whom may I not hope it? Oh! if I might hear from your lips that one word — pardon!’
‘Pardon!’ said the gentleman. ‘You no longer need it. But since you desire it, certainly . . . certainly, I pardon you with my whole heart, and all . . . ’
‘All! all!’ exclaimed the bystanders, with one voice. The countenance171 of the friar expanded with grateful joy, under which, however, might be traced an humble172 and deep compunction for the evil which the forgiveness of men could not repair. The gentleman, overcome by this deportment, and urged forward by the general feeling, threw his arms round Cristoforo’s neck, and gave and received the kiss of peace.
‘Bravo! well done!’ burst forth173 from all parts of the room: there was a general movement, and all gathered round the friar. Servants immediately entered, bringing abundance of refreshment174. The Signor, again addressing Cristoforo, who was preparing to retire, said, ‘Father, let me give you some of these trifles; afford me this proof of your friendship;’ and was on the point of helping175 him before any of the others; but he, drawing back with a kind of friendly resistance, ‘These things,’ said he, ‘are no longer for me; but God forbid that I should refuse your gifts. I am about to start on my journey! allow me to take a loaf of bread, that I may be able to say I have shared your charity, eaten of your bread, and received a token of your forgiveness.’ The nobleman, much affected176, ordered it to be brought, and shortly a waiter entered in full dress, bearing the loaf on a silver dish, and presented it to the Father, who took it with many thanks, and put it in his basket. Then, obtaining permission to depart, he bade farewell to the master of the house and those who stood nearest to him, and with difficulty made his escape as they endeavoured for a moment to impede154 his progress; while, in the ante-rooms, he had to struggle to free himself from the servants, and even from the bravos, who kissed the hem7 of his garment, his rope, and his hood66. At last he reached the street, borne along as in triumph, and accompanied by a crowd of people as far as the gate of the city, from whence he commenced his pedestrian journey towards the place of his novitiate.
The brother and other relatives of the deceased, who had been prepared in the morning to enjoy the sad triumph of pride, were left instead full of the serene joy of a forgiving and benevolent177 disposition. The company entertained themselves some time longer, with feelings of unusual kindness and cordiality, in discussions of a very different character to what they had anticipated on assembling. Instead of satisfaction enforced, insults avenged178, and obligations discharged, praises of the novice, reconciliation179, and meekness181, were the topics of conversation. And he who, for the fiftieth time, would have recounted how Count Muzio, his father, had served the Marquis Stanislao, (a violent, boastful man, as every one is aware,) in a well-known encounter of the same kind, related, instead, the penitence and wonderful patience of one Friar Simone, who had died many years before. When the party had dispersed, the Signor, still considerably agitated182, reconsidered with surprise what he had heard and had himself expressed, and muttered between his teeth, ‘The devil of a friar! (we must record his exact words) ‘The devil of a friar! — if he had knelt there a few moments longer, I should almost have begged his pardon for his having murdered my brother.’— Our story expressly notes that from that day forward he became a little less impetuous, and rather more tractable.
Father Cristoforo pursued his way with a peace of mind such as he had never experienced since that terrible event, to make atonement for which his whole life was henceforth to be consecrated183. He maintained the silence usually imposed upon novices184 without difficulty, being entirely185 absorbed in the thought of the labours, privations, and humiliations he would have to undergo for the expiation of his fault. At the usual hour of refreshment, he stopped at the house of a patron, and partook almost voraciously186 of the bread of forgiveness, reserving, however, a small piece, which he kept in his basket as a perpetual remembrancer.
It is not our intention to write the history of his cloistral187 life: it will suffice to say, that while he willingly and carefully fulfilled the duties customarily assigned to him, to preach and to attend upon the dying, he never suffered an opportunity to pass of executing two other offices which he had imposed upon himself — the composing of differences, and the protection of the oppressed. Without being aware of it, he entered upon these undertakings with some portion of his former zeal188, and a slight remnant of that courageous189 spirit which humiliation and mortifications had not been able entirely to subdue190. His manner of speaking was habitually191 meek180 and humble; but when truth and justice were at stake, he was immediately animated192 with his former warmth, which, mingled with and modified by a solemn emphasis acquired in preaching, imparted to his language a very marked character. His whole countenance and deportment indicated a long-continued struggle between a naturally hasty, passionate193 temper, and an opposing and habitually victorious194 will, ever on the watch, and directed by the highest principles and motives195. One of the brotherhood196, his friend, who knew him well, likened him, on one occasion, to those too-expressive words — too expressive, that is, in their natural state, which some persons, well-behaved enough on ordinary occasions, pronounce, when overcome by anger, in half-and-half sort of way, with a slight change of letters — words which even thus transformed bear about them much of their primitive197 energy.
If one unknown to him, in Lucia’s sad condition, had implored198 the aid of Father Cristoforo, he would immediately have attended to the request; when it concerned Lucia, however, he hastened to her with double solicitude199, since he knew and admired her innocence200. He had already trembled for her danger, and felt a lively indignation at the base persecution201 of which she was the object. Besides this, he feared that by advising her to say nothing about it, and keep quiet, he might have been the cause of some sad consequences; so that in this case there was added to the kind solicitude, which was, as it were, natural to him, that scrupulous202 perplexity which often torments203 the innocent.
But while we have been relating the early history of Father Cristoforo, he has arrived at the village, and reached the door; and the women, leaving the harsh-toned spinning-wheel at which they were engaged, have risen and exclaimed with one voice, ‘Oh, Father Cristoforo! God reward you!’
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[计]被修饰的 | |
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adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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3 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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4 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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5 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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6 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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7 hem | |
n.贴边,镶边;vt.缝贴边;(in)包围,限制 | |
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8 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9 emaciated | |
adj.衰弱的,消瘦的 | |
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10 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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11 solicit | |
vi.勾引;乞求;vt.请求,乞求;招揽(生意) | |
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adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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13 niggardly | |
adj.吝啬的,很少的 | |
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15 presentiment | |
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16 diligently | |
ad.industriously;carefully | |
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17 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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18 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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19 tonsure | |
n.削发;v.剃 | |
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20 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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21 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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22 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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23 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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24 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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25 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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26 gambols | |
v.蹦跳,跳跃,嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27 asterisks | |
n.星号,星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28 circumspection | |
n.细心,慎重 | |
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29 anonymous | |
adj.无名的;匿名的;无特色的 | |
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30 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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31 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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32 warehouse | |
n.仓库;vt.存入仓库 | |
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33 intruding | |
v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的现在分词);把…强加于 | |
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34 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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35 prodigious | |
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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36 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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37 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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38 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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39 sociability | |
n.好交际,社交性,善于交际 | |
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40 annoyances | |
n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 );烦恼;打扰;使人烦恼的事 | |
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41 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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42 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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43 procured | |
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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44 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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45 piqued | |
v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 );激起(好奇心) | |
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46 tractable | |
adj.易驾驭的;温顺的 | |
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47 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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48 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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49 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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50 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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51 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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52 contentions | |
n.竞争( contention的名词复数 );争夺;争论;论点 | |
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53 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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54 vindicator | |
n.维护者,辩护者,辩明者 | |
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55 untoward | |
adj.不利的,不幸的,困难重重的 | |
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56 harassed | |
adj. 疲倦的,厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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57 undertakings | |
企业( undertaking的名词复数 ); 保证; 殡仪业; 任务 | |
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58 subterfuges | |
n.(用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的)花招,遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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59 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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60 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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62 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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63 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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64 steward | |
n.乘务员,服务员;看管人;膳食管理员 | |
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65 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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66 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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67 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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68 spoke | |
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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69 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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70 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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71 haughtily | |
adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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72 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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73 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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74 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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75 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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76 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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77 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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78 daggers | |
匕首,短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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79 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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80 animating | |
v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 );驱动;使栩栩如生地动作;赋予…以生命 | |
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81 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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82 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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83 dispensing | |
v.分配( dispense的现在分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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84 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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85 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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86 disarming | |
adj.消除敌意的,使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 );使息怒 | |
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87 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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88 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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89 mingled | |
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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90 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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91 mangled | |
vt.乱砍(mangle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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92 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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93 prevailing | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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94 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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95 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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96 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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97 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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98 lint | |
n.线头;绷带用麻布,皮棉 | |
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99 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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100 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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101 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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102 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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103 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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104 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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105 swarmed | |
密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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106 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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107 constables | |
n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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108 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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109 ambush | |
n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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110 retinue | |
n.侍从;随员 | |
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111 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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112 revolved | |
v.(使)旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 );细想 | |
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113 juncture | |
n.时刻,关键时刻,紧要关头 | |
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114 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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115 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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116 notary | |
n.公证人,公证员 | |
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117 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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118 entailed | |
使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 ); 需要; 限定继承; 使必需 | |
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119 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
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120 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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121 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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122 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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123 infringed | |
v.违反(规章等)( infringe的过去式和过去分词 );侵犯(某人的权利);侵害(某人的自由、权益等) | |
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124 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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125 guardians | |
监护人( guardian的名词复数 ); 保护者,维护者 | |
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126 adherents | |
n.支持者,拥护者( adherent的名词复数 );党羽;徒子徒孙 | |
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127 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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128 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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129 relinquish | |
v.放弃,撤回,让与,放手 | |
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130 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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131 heinous | |
adj.可憎的,十恶不赦的 | |
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132 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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133 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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134 courteously | |
adv.有礼貌地,亲切地 | |
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135 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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136 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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137 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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138 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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139 dilettante | |
n.半瓶醋,业余爱好者 | |
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140 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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141 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
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143 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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144 expiation | |
n.赎罪,补偿 | |
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145 alleviate | |
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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146 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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147 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
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148 novice | |
adj.新手的,生手的 | |
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149 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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150 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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151 plumes | |
羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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152 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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153 impeded | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154 impede | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,阻止 | |
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155 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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156 overflowed | |
溢出的 | |
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157 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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158 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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161 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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162 tardy | |
adj.缓慢的,迟缓的 | |
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163 implore | |
vt.乞求,恳求,哀求 | |
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164 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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165 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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166 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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167 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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168 supplicant | |
adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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169 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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170 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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171 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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172 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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173 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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174 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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175 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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176 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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177 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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178 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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179 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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180 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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181 meekness | |
n.温顺,柔和 | |
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182 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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183 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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184 novices | |
n.新手( novice的名词复数 );初学修士(或修女);(修会等的)初学生;尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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185 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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186 voraciously | |
adv.贪婪地 | |
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187 cloistral | |
adj.修道院的,隐居的,孤独的 | |
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188 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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189 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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190 subdue | |
vt.制服,使顺从,征服;抑制,克制 | |
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191 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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192 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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193 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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194 victorious | |
adj.胜利的,得胜的 | |
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195 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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196 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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197 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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198 implored | |
恳求或乞求(某人)( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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200 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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201 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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202 scrupulous | |
adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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203 torments | |
(肉体或精神上的)折磨,痛苦( torment的名词复数 ); 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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