Such a woman was our Mrs Ray. As her name imports, she had been married in the way most popular among ladies, with bell, book, and parson. She had been like a young peach tree that, in its early days, is carefully taught to grow against a propitious8 southern wall. Her natural prop had been found for her, and all had been well. But her heaven had been made black with storms; the heavy winds had come, and the warm sheltering covert9 against which she had felt herself so safe had been torn away from her branches as they were spreading themselves forth10 to the fullness of life. She had been married at eighteen, and then, after ten years of wedded11 security, she had become a widow.
Her husband had been some years older than herself — a steady, sober, hard-working, earnest man, well fitted to act as a protecting screen to such a woman as he had chosen. They had lived in Exeter, both of them having belonged to Devonshire from their birth; and Mr Ray, though not a clergyman himself, had been employed in matters ecclesiastical. He was a lawyer — but a lawyer of that sort that is so nearly akin12 to the sacerdotal profession, as to make him quite clerical and almost a clergyman. He managed the property of the dean and chapter, and knew what were the rights, and also what were the wrongs, of prebendaries and minor13 canons — of vicars choral, and even of choristers. But he had been dead many years before our story commences, and so much as this is now said of him simply to explain under what circumstances Mrs Ray had received the first tinge14 of that colouring which was given to her life by church matters.
They had been married somewhat over ten years when he died, and she was left with two surviving daughters, the eldest15 and the youngest of the children she had borne. The eldest, Dorothea, was then more than nine years old, and as she took much after her father, being stern, sober, and steady, Mrs Ray immediately married herself to her eldest child. Dorothea became the prop against which she would henceforth grow. And against Dorothea she had grown ever since, with the exception of one short year. In that year Dorothea had taken a husband to herself and had lost him — so that there were two widows in the same house. She, like her mother, had married early, having joined her lot to that of a young clergyman near Baslehurst; but he had lived but a few months, and Mrs Ray’s eldest child had come back to her mother’s cottage, black, and stiff, and stern, in widow’s weeds — Mrs Prime by name. Black, and stiff, and stern, in widow’s weeds, she had remained since, for nine years following, and those nine years will bring us to the beginning of our story.
As regards Mrs Ray herself, I think it was well that poor Mr Prime had died. It assured to her the support which she needed. It must, however, be acknowledged that Mrs Prime was a harder taskmaster than Dorothea Ray had been, and that the mother might have undergone a gentler ruling had the daughter never become a wife. I think there was much in the hardness of the weeds she wore. It seemed as though Mrs Prime in selecting her crape, her bombazine, and the models of her caps, had resolved to repress all ideas of feminine softness — as though she had sworn to herself, with a great oath, that man should never again look on her with gratified eyes. The materials she wore have made other widows very pleasant to be seen — with a sad thoughtful pleasantness indeed, but still very pleasant. There was nothing of that with Mrs Prime. When she came back to her mother’s cottage near Baslehurst she was not yet twenty years old, but she was rough with weeds. Her caps were lumpy, heavy, full of woe17, and clean only as decency18 might require — not nicely clean with feminine care. The very stuff of which they were made was brown, rather than white, and her dress was always the same. It was rough, and black, and clinging — disagreeable to the eye in its shape, as will always be the dress of any woman which is worn day after day through all hours. By nature and education Mrs Prime was a prim16, tidy woman, but it seemed that her peculiar19 ideas of duty required her to militate against her nature and education, at any rate in appearance. And this was her lot in life before she had yet reached her twentieth year!
Dorothea Ray had not been wanting in some feminine attraction. She had ever been brown and homely20, but her features had been well-formed, and her eyes had been bright. Now, as she approached to thirty years of age, she might have been as well-looking as at any earlier period of her life if it had been her wish to possess good looks. But she had had no such wish. On the contrary, her desire had been to be ugly, forbidding, unattractive, almost repulsive21; so that, in very truth, she might be known to be a widow indeed. And here I must not be misunderstood. There was nothing hypocritical about Mrs Prime, nor did she make any attempt to appear before men to be weighted with a deeper sorrow than that which she truly bore; hypocrisy22 was by no means her fault. Her fault was this: that she had taught herself to believe that cheerfulness was a sin, and that the more she became morose23, the nearer would she be to the fruition of those hopes of future happiness on which her heart was set. In all her words and thoughts she was genuine; but, then, in so very many of them she was mistaken! This was the wall against which Mrs Ray had allowed herself to be fastened for many years past, and though the support was strong it must be admitted that it could hardly have been at all times pleasant.
Mrs Ray had become a widow before she was thirty; and she had grieved for her husband with truest sorrow, pouring herself out at first in tears, and afterwards expending24 herself in long hours of vain regrets. But she had never been rough or hard in her widowhood. It had ever been her nature to be soft. She was a woman all over, and had about her so much of a woman’s prettiness, that she had not altogether divested25 herself of it, even when her weepers had been of the broadest. To obtain favour in men’s eyes had never been in her mind since she had first obtained favour in the eyes of him who had been her lord; but yet she had never absolutely divested herself of her womanly charms, of that look, half retreating, half beseeching26, which had won the heart of the ecclesiastical lawyer. Gradually her weeds and her deep heavy crapes had fallen away from her, and then, without much thought on the matter, she dressed herself much as did other women of forty or forty-five — being driven, however, on certain occasions by her daughter to a degree of dinginess27, not by any means rivalling that of the daughter herself, but which she would not have achieved had she been left to her own devices. She was a sweet-tempered, good-humoured, loving, timid woman, ever listening and believing and learning, with a certain aptitude28 for gentle mirth at her heart which, however, was always being repressed and controlled by the circumstances of her life. She could gossip over a cup of tea, and enjoy buttered toast and hot cake very thoroughly29, if only there was no one near her to whisper into her ear that any such enjoyment30 was wicked. In spite of the sorrows she had suffered she would have taught herself to believe this world to be a pleasant place, were it not so often preached into her ears that it is a vale of tribulation31 in which no satisfaction can abide32. And it may be said of Mrs Ray that her religion, though it sufficed her, tormented33 her grievously. It sufficed her; and if on such a subject I may venture to give an opinion, I think it was of a nature to suffice her in that great strait for which it had been prepared. But in this world it tormented her, carrying her hither and thither35, and leaving her in grievous doubt, not as to its own truth in any of its details, but as to her own conduct under its injunctions, and also as to her own mode of believing it. In truth she believed too much. She could never divide the minister from the Bible — nay36, the very clerk in the church was sacred to her while exercising his functions therein. It never occurred to her to question any word that was said to her. If a linen-draper were to tell her that one coloured calico was better for her than another, she would take that point as settled by the man’s word, and for the time would be free from all doubt on that heading. So also when the clergyman in his sermon told her that she should live simply and altogether for heaven, that all thoughts as to this world were wicked thoughts, and that nothing belonging to this world could be other than painful, full of sorrow and vexations, she would go home believing him absolutely, and with tear-laden37 eyes would bethink herself how utterly38 she was a castaway, because of that tea, and cake, and innocent tittle-tattle with which the hours of her Saturday evening had been beguiled39. She would weakly resolve that she would laugh no more, and that she would live in truth in a valley of tears. But then as the bright sun came upon her, and the birds sang around her, and someone that she loved would cling to her and kiss her, she would be happy in her own despite, and would laugh with a low musical sweet tone, forgetting that such laughter was a sin.
And then that very clergyman himself would torment34 her — he that told her from the pulpit on Sundays how frightfully vain were all attempts at worldly happiness. He would come to her on the Monday with a good-natured, rather rubicund40 face, and would ask after all her little worldly belongings41 — for he knew of her history and her means — and he would joke with her, and tell her comfortably of his grown sons and daughters, who were prospering42 in worldly matters, and express the fondest solicitude43 as to their worldly advancement44. Twice or thrice a year Mrs Ray would go to the parsonage, and such evenings would be by no means hours of wailing45. Tea and buttered toast on such occasions would be very manifestly in the ascendant. Mrs Ray never questioned the propriety46 of her clergyman’s life, nor taught herself to see a discrepancy47 between his doctrine48 and his conduct. But she believed in both, and was unconsciously troubled at having her belief so varied49. She never thought about it, or discovered that her friend allowed himself to be carried away in his sermons by his zeal50, and that he condemned51 this world in all things, hoping that he might thereby53 teach his hearers to condemn52 it in some things. Mrs Ray would allow herself the privilege of no such argument as that. It was all gospel to her. The parson in the church, and the parson out of the church, were alike gospels to her sweet, white, credulous54 mind; but these differing gospels troubled her and tormented her.
Of that particular clergyman, I may as well here say that he was the Rev55. Charles Comfort, and that he was rector of Cawston, a parish in Devonshire, about two miles out of Baslehurst. Mr Prime had for a year or two been his curate, and during that term of curacy he had married Dorothea Ray. Then he had died, and his widow had returned from the house her husband had occupied near the church to her mother’s cottage. Mr Prime had been possessed56 of some property, and when he died he left his widow in the uncontrolled possession of two hundred a year. As it was well known that Mrs Ray’s income was considerably57 less than this, the people of Baslehurst and Cawston had declared how comfortable for Mrs Ray would be this accession of wealth to the family. But Mrs Ray had not become much the richer. Mrs Prime did no doubt pay her fair quota58 towards the maintenance of the humble59 cottage at Bragg’s End, for such was the name of the spot at which Mrs Ray lived. But she did not do more than this. She established a Dorcas society at Baslehurst, of which she became permanent president, and spent her money in carrying on this institution in the manner most pleasing to herself. I fear that Mrs Prime liked to be more powerful at these charitable meetings than her sister labourers in the same vineyard, and that she achieved this power by the means of her money. I do not bring this as a heavy accusation60 against her. In such institutions there is generally need of a strong, stirring, leading mind. If someone would not assume power, the power needed would not be exercised. Such a one as Mrs Prime is often necessary. But we all have our own pet temptations, and I think that Mrs Prime’s temptation was a love of power.
It will be understood that Baslehurst is a town — a town with a market, and hotels, and a big brewery61, and a square, and street; whereas Cawston is a village, or rather a rural parish, three miles out of Baslehurst north of it, lying on the river Avon. But Bragg’s End, though within the parish of Cawston, lies about a mile and a half from the Church and village, on the road to Baslehurst, and partakes therefore almost as much of the township of Baslehurst as it does of the rusticity62 of Cawston. How Bragg came to such an end, or why this corner of the parish came to be thus united for ever to Bragg’s name, no one in the parish knew. The place consisted of a little green, and a little wooden bridge, over a little stream that trickled63 away into the Avon. Here were clustered half a dozen labourers’ cottages, and a beer or cider shop. Standing back from the green was the house and homestead of Farmer Sturt, and close upon the green, with its garden hedge running down to the bridge, was the pretty cottage of Mrs Ray. Mr Comfort had known her husband, and he had found for her this quiet home. It was a pretty place, with one small sitting-room64 opening back upon the little garden, and with another somewhat larger fronting towards the road and the green. In the front room Mrs Ray lived, looking out upon so much of the world as Bragg’s End green afforded to her view. The other seemed to be kept with some faint expectation of company that never came. Many of the widow’s neatest belongings were here preserved in most perfect order; but one may say that they were altogether thrown away — unless indeed they afforded solace65 to their owner in the very act of dusting them. Here there were four or five books, prettily66 bound, with gilt67 leaves, arranged in shapes on the small round table. Here also was deposited a spangled mat of wondrous68 brightness, made of short white sticks of glass strung together. It must have taken care and time in its manufacture, but was, I should say, but of little efficacy either for domestic use or domestic ornament69. There were shells on the chimney-piece, and two or three china figures. There was a birdcage hung in the window but without a bird. It was all very clean, but the room conveyed at first glance an overpowering idea of its own absolute inutility and vanity. It was capable of answering no purpose for which men and women use rooms; but he who could have said so to Mrs Ray must have been a cruel and a hardhearted man.
The other room which looked out upon the green was snug70 enough, and sufficed for all the widow’s wants. There was a little bookcase laden with books. There was the family table at which they ate their meals; and there was the little table near the window at which Mrs Ray worked. There was an old sofa, and an old armchair; and there was, also, a carpet, alas71, so old that the poor woman had become painfully aware that she must soon have either no carpet or a new one. A word or two had already been said between her and Mrs Prime on that matter, but the word or two had not as yet been comfortable. Then, over the fire, there was an old round mirror; and, having told of that, I believe I need not further describe the furniture of the sitting-room at Bragg’s End.
But I have not as yet described the whole of Mrs Ray’s family. Had I done so, her life would indeed have been sour, and sorrowful, for she was a woman who especially needed companionship. Though I have hitherto spoken but of one daughter, I have said that two had been left with her when her husband died. She had one whom she feared and obeyed, seeing that a master was necessary to her; but she had another whom she loved and caressed73, and I may declare, that some such object for her tenderness was as necessary to her as the master. She could not have lived without something to kiss, something to tend, something to which she might speak in short, loving, pet terms of affection. This youngest girl, Rachel, had been only two years old when her father died, and now, at the time of this story, was not yet quite twenty. Her sister was, in truth, only seven years her senior, but in all the facts and ways of life she seemed to be the elder by at least half a century. Rachel indeed, at the time, felt herself to be much nearer of an age with her mother. With her mother she could laugh and talk, ay, and form little wicked whispered schemes behind the tyrant’s back, during some of those Dorcas hours, in which Mrs Prime would be employed at Baslehurst; schemes, however, for the final perpetration of which the courage of the elder widow would too frequently be found insufficient74.
Rachel Ray was a fair-haired, well-grown, comely75 girl — very like her mother in all but this, that whereas about the mother’s eyes there was always a look of weakness, there was a shadowing of coming strength of character round those of the daughter. On her brow there was written a capacity for sustained purpose which was wanting to Mrs Ray. Not that the reader is to suppose that she was masterful like her sister. She had been brought up under Mrs Prime’s directions, and had not, as yet, learned to rebel. Nor was she in anyway prone76 to domineer. A little wickedness now and then, to the extent, perhaps, of a vain walk into Baslehurst on a summer evening, a little obstinacy77 in refusing to explain whither she had been and whom she had seen, a yawn in church, or a word of complaint as to the length of the second Sunday sermon — these were her sins; and when rebuked78 for them by her sister, she would of late toss her head, and look slyly across to her mother, with an eye that was not penitent79. Then Mrs Prime would become black and angry, and would foretell80 hard things for her sister, denouncing her as fashioning herself wilfully81 in the world’s ways. On such occasions Mrs Ray would become very unhappy, believing first in the one child and then in the other. She would defend Rachel, till her weak defence would be knocked to shivers, and her poor vacillating words taken from out of her mouth. Then, when forced to acknowledge that Rachel was in danger of backsliding, she would kiss her and cry over her, and beg her to listen to the sermons. Rachel hitherto had never rebelled. She had never declared that a walk into Baslehurst was better than a sermon. She had never said out boldly that she liked the world and its wickedness. But an observer of physiognomy, had such observer been there, might have seen that the days of such rebellion were coming.
She was a fair-haired girl, with hair, not flaxen, but of light-brown tint82 — thick, and full, and glossy83, so that its charms could not all be hidden away let Mrs Prime do what she would to effect such hiding. She was well made, being tall and straight, with great appearance of health and strength. She walked as though the motion were pleasant to her, and easy — as though the very act of walking were a pleasure. She was bright too, and clever in their little cottage, striving hard with her needle to make things look well, and not sparing her strength in giving household assistance. One little maiden84 Mrs Ray employed, and a gardener came to her for half a day once a week — but I doubt whether the maiden in the house, or the gardener out of the house, did as much hard work as Rachel. How she had toiled85 over that carpet, patching it and piecing it! Even Dorothea could not accuse her of idleness. Therefore Dorothea accused her of profitless industry, because she would not attend more frequently at those Dorcas meetings.
“But, Dolly, how on earth am I to make my own things, and look after mamma’s? Charity begins at home.” Then had Dorothea put down her huge Dorcas basket, and explained to her sister, at considerable length, her reading of that text of Scripture86. “One’s own clothes must be made all the same,” Rachel said when the female preacher had finished. “And I don’t suppose even you would like mamma to go to church without a decent gown.” Then Dorothea had seized up her huge basket angrily, and had trudged87 off into Baslehurst at a quick pace — at a pace much too quick when the summer’s heat is considered — and as she went, unhappy thoughts filled her mind. A coloured dress belonging to Rachel herself had met her eye, and she had heard tidings of — a young man!
Such tidings, to her ears, were tidings of iniquity88, of vanity, of terrible sin; they were tidings which hardly admitted of being discussed with decency, and which had to be spoken of below the breath. A young man! Could it be that such disgrace had fallen upon her sister! She had not as yet mentioned the subject to Rachel, but she had given a dark hint to their afflicted89 mother.
“No, I didn’t see it myself, but I heard it from Miss Pucker90.”
“She that was to have been married to William Whitecoat, the baker’s son, only he went away to Torquay and picked up with somebody else. People said he did it because she does squint91 so dreadfully.”
“Mother!’— and Dorothea spoke72 very sternly as she answered —“What does it matter to us about William Whitecoat, or Miss Pucker’s squint? She is a woman eager in doing good.”
“It’s only since he left Baslehurst, my dear.”
“Mother! — does that matter to Rachel? Will that save her if she be in danger? I tell you that Miss Pucker saw her walking with that young man from the brewery!”
Though Mrs Ray had been strongly inclined to throw what odium she could upon Miss Pucker, and though she hated Miss Pucker in her heart — at this special moment — for having carried tales against her darling, she could not deny, even to herself, that a terrible state of things had arrived if it were really true that Rachel had been seen walking with a young man. She was not bitter on the subject as was Mrs Prime and poor Miss Pucker, but she was filled full of indefinite horror with regard to young men in general. They were all regarded by her as wolves — as wolves, either with or without sheep’s clothing. I doubt whether she ever brought it home to herself that those whom she now recognised as the established and well-credited lords of the creation had ever been young men themselves. When she heard of a wedding — when she learned that some struggling son of Adam had taken to himself a wife, and had settled himself down to the sober work of the world, she rejoiced greatly, thinking that the son of Adam had done well to get himself married. But whenever it was whispered into her ear that any young man was looking after a young woman — that he was taking the only step by which he could hope to find a wife for himself — she was instantly shocked at the wickedness of the world, and prayed inwardly that the girl at least might be saved like a brand from the burning. A young man, in her estimation, was a wicked wild beast, seeking after young women to devour92 them, as a cat seeks after mice. This at least was her established idea — the idea on which she worked, unless some other idea on any special occasion were put into her head. When young Butler Cornbury, the eldest son of the neighbouring squire93, came to Cawston after pretty Patty Comfort — for Patty Comfort was said to have been the prettiest girl in Devonshire — and when Patty Comfort had been allowed to go to the assemblies at Torquay almost on purpose to meet him, Mrs Ray had thought it all right, because it had been presented to her mind as all right by the Rector. Butler Cornbury had married Patty Comfort and it was all right. But had she heard of Patty’s dancings without the assistance of a few hints from Mr Comfort himself, her mind would have worked in a different way.
She certainly desired that her own child Rachel should some day find a husband, and Rachel was already older than she had been when she married; or than Mrs Prime had been at her wedding; but, nevertheless, there was something terrible in the very thought of — a young man; and she, though she would fain have defended her child, hardly knew how to do so otherwise than by discrediting94 the words of Miss Pucker. “She always was very ill-natured, you know,” Mrs Ray ventured to hint.
“Mother!” said Mrs Prime, in that peculiarly stern voice of hers. “There can be no reason for supposing that Miss Pucker wishes to malign95 the child. It is my belief that Rachel will be in Baslehurst this evening. If so, she probably intends to meet him again.”
“I know she is going into Baslehurst after tea,” said Mrs Ray, “because she has promised to walk with the Miss Tappitts. She told me so.”
“Exactly — with the brewery girls! Oh, mother!” Now it is certainly true that the three Miss Tappitts were the daughters of Bungall and Tappitt, the old-established brewers of Baslehurst. They were, at least, the actual children of Mr Tappitt, who was the sole surviving partner in the brewery. The name of Bungall had for many years been used merely to give solidity and standing to the Tappitt family. The Miss Tappitts certainly came from the brewery, and Miss Pucker had said that the young man came from the same quarter. There was ground in this for much suspicion, and Mrs Ray became uneasy. This conversation between the two widows had occurred before dinner at the cottage on a Saturday — and it was after dinner that the elder sister had endeavoured to persuade the younger one to accompany her to the Dorcas workshop — but had endeavoured in vain.
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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36
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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39
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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41
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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42
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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43
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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45
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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48
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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49
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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50
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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51
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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53
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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54
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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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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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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61
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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63
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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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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71
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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72
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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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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77
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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80
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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81
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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82
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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83
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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84
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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85
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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86
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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87
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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89
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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91
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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92
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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93
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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94
discrediting
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| 使不相信( discredit的现在分词 )； 使怀疑； 败坏…的名声； 拒绝相信 | |
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95
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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