The great Irish families have, as is well known, a banshee, or familiar spirit, who, previous to misfortune or death, flits moaning round the ancestral castle. Now although the Ravenshoes, like all respectable houses, have an hereditary lawsuit8; a feud9, (with the Humbys, of Hele); a ghost (which the present Ravenshoe claims to have repeatedly seen in early youth); and a buried treasure: yet I have never heard that they had a banshee. Had such been the case, that unfortunate spirit would have had no sinecure10 of it, but rather must have kept howling night and day for nine hundred years or so, in order to have got through her work at all. For the Ravenshoes were almost always in trouble, and yet had a facility of getting out again, which, to one not aware of the cause, was sufficiently11 inexplicable12. Like the Stuarts, they had always taken the losing side, and yet, unlike the Stuarts, have always kept their heads on their shoulders, and their house over their heads. Lady Ascot says that, if Ambrose Ravenshoe had been attainted in 1745, he’d have been hung as sure as fate: there was evidence enough against him to hang a dozen men. I myself, too, have heard Squire13 Densil declare, with great pride, that the Ravenshoe of King John’s time was the only Baron14 who did not sign Magna Charta; and, if there were a Ravenshoe at Runnymede, I have not the slightest doubt that such was the case. Through the Rose wars, again, they were always on the wrong side, whichever that might have been, because your Ravenshoe, mind you, was not bound to either side in those times, but changed as he fancied fortune was going. As your Ravenshoe was the sort of man who generally joined a party just when their success was indubitable — that is to say, just when the reaction against them was about to set in — he generally found himself among the party which was going down hill, who despised him for not joining them before, and opposed to the rising party, who hated him because he had declared against them. Which little game is common enough in this present century among some men of the world, who seem, as a general rule, to make as little by it as ever did the Ravenshoes.
Well, whatever your trimmers make by their motion now-a-days, the Ravenshoes were not successful either at liberal conservatism, or conservative liberalism. At the end of the reign15 of Henry VII. they were as poor as Job, or poorer. But, before you have time to think of it, behold16, in 1530, there comes you to court a Sir Alured Ravenshoe, who incontinently begins cutting in at the top of the tune7, swaggering, swearing, dressing17, fighting, dicing18, and all that sort of thing, and, what is more, paying his way in a manner which suggests successful burglary as the only solution. Sir Alured, however, as I find, had done no worse than marry an old maid (Miss Hincksey, one of the Staffordshire Hinckseys) with a splendid fortune; which fortune set the family on its legs again for some generations. This Sir Alured seems to have been an audacious rogue19. He made great interest with the king, who was so far pleased with his activity in athletic20 sports that he gave him a post in Ireland. There our Ravenshoe was so fascinated by the charming manners of the Earl of Kildare that he even accompanied that nobleman on a visit to Desmond; and, after a twelvemonth’s unauthorized residence in the interior of Ireland, on his return to England he was put into the Tower for six months to “consider himself.”
This Alured seems to have been a deuce of a fellow, a very good type of the family. When British Harry21 had that difference we wot of with the Bishop22 of Rome, I find Alured to have been engaged in some five or six Romish plots, such as, had the king been in possession of facts, would have consigned23 him to a rather speedy execution. However, the king seems to have looked on this gentleman with a suspicious eye, and to have been pretty well aware what sort of man he was, for I find him writing to his wife, on the occasion of his going to Court — “The King’s Grace looked but sourly upon me, and said it should go hard, but that the pitcher24 which went so oft to the well should be broke at last. Thereto I making answer, ‘that that should depend on the pitcher, whether it were iron or clomb,’ he turned on his heel, and presently departed from me.”
He must have been possessed25 of his full share of family audacity26 to sharpen his wits on the terrible Harry, with such an unpardonable amount of treason hanging over him. I have dwelt thus long on him, as he seems to have possessed a fair share of the virtues27 and vices28 of his family — a family always generous and brave, yet always led astray by bad advisers29. This Alured built Ravenshoe House, as it stands to this day, and in which much of the scene of this story is laid.
They seem to have got through the Gunpowder30 Plot pretty well, though I can show you the closet where one of the minor31 conspirators32, one Watson, lay perdu for a week or so after that gallant33 attempt, more I suspect from the effect of a guilty conscience than any thing else, for I never heard of any distinct charge being brought against him. The Forty-five, however, did not pass quite so easily, and Ambrose Ravenshoe went as near to lose his head as any one of the family since the Conquest. When the news came from the north about the alarming advance of the Highlanders, it immediately struck Ambrose that this was the best opportunity for making a fool of himself that could possibly occur. He accordingly, without hesitation35 or consultation36 with any mortal soul, rang the bell for his butler, sent for his stud-groom37, mounted every man about the place (twenty or so), armed them, grooms38, gardeners, and all, with crossbows and partizans from he armoury, and rode into the cross, at Stonnington, on a market day, and boldly proclaimed the Pretender king. It soon got about that “the Squire ” was making a fool of himself, and that there was some fun going; so he shortly found himself surrounded by a large and somewhat dirty rabble39, who, with cries of “Well done, old rebel!” and “Hurrah for the Pope!” escorted him, his terror-stricken butler and his shame-stricken grooms, to the Crown and Sceptre. As good luck would have it, there happened to be in the town that day no less a person than Lord Segur, the leading Roman Catholic nobleman of the county. He, accompanied by several of the leading gentlemen of the same persuasion40, burst into the room where the Squire sat, overpowered him, and, putting him bound into a coach, carried him off to Segur Castle, and locked him up. It took all the strength of the Popish party to save him from attainder. The Church rallied right bravely round the old house, which had always assisted her with sword and purse, and never once had wavered in its allegiance. So, while nobler heads went down, Ambrose Ravenshoe’s remained on his shoulders.
Ambrose died in 1759.
John (Monseigneur) in 1771.
Howard in 1800. He first took the Claycomb hounds.
Petre in 1820. He married Alicia, only daughter of Charles, third Earl of Ascot, and was succeeded by Densil, the first of our dramatis personae — the first of all this shadowy line that we shall see in the flesh. He was born in the year 1783, and married, first in 1812, at his father’s desire, a Miss Winkleigh, of whom I know nothing; and second, at his own desire, in 1823, Susan, fourth daughter of Lawrence Petersham, Esq., of Fairford Grange, county Worcester, by whom he had issue —
Cuthbert, born 1826.
Charles, born 1831.
Densil was an only son. His father, a handsome, careless, good-humoured, but weak and superstitious42 man, was entirely43 in the hands of the priests, who during his life were undisputed masters of Ravenshoe. Lady Alicia was, as I have said, a daughter of Lord Ascot, a Staunton, as staunchly Protestant a house as any in England. She, however, managed to fall in love with the handsome young Popish Squire, and to elope with him, changing not only her name, but, to the dismay of her family, her faith also, and becoming, pervert-like, more actively44 bigoted45 than her easy-going husband. She brought little or no money into the family; and, from her portrait, appears to have been exceedingly pretty, and monstrously46 silly.
To this strong-minded couple was born, two years after their marriage, a son, who was called Densil.
This young gentleman seems to have got on much like other young gentlemen till the age of twenty-one, when it was determined47 by the higher powers in conclave48 assembled that he should go to London and see the world; and so, having been cautioned duly how to avoid the flesh and the devil, to see the world he went. In a short time intelligence came to the confessor of the family, and through him to the father and mother, that Densil was seeing the world with a vengeance49; that he was the constant companion of the Right Honourable50 Viscount Saltire, the great dandy of the Radical51 Atheist52 set, with whom no man might play picquet and live; that he had been upset in a tilbury with Mademoiselle Vaurien of Drury-lane at Kensington turnpike; that he had fought the French emigre, a Comte De Hautenbas, apropos53 of the Vaurien aforementioned — in short, that he was going on at a deuce of a rate: and so a hurried council was called to deliberate what was to be done.
“He will lose his immortal54 soul,” said the priest.
“He will dissipate his property,” said his mother.
“He will go to the devil,” said his father.
So Father Clifford, good man, was despatched to London, with post horses, and ordered to bring back the lost sheep vi et armis. Accordingly, at ten o’clock one night, Densil’s lad was astounded55 by having to admit Father Clifford, who demanded immediately to be led to his master.
Now this was awkward, for James well knew what was going on upstairs; but he knew also what would happen sooner or later to a Ravenshoe servant who trifled with the priest, and so he led the way.
The lost sheep which the good father had come to ind was not exactly sober this evening, and certainly not in a very good temper. He was playing ecarte with a singularly handsome, though supercilious-looking man, dressed in the height of fashion, who, judging from the heap of gold beside him, had been winning heavily. The priest trembled and crossed himself — this man was the terrible, handsome, wicked, witty56, Atheistical57, radical Lord Saltire, whose tongue no woman could withstand, and whose pistol no man dared face; who was currently believed to have sold himself to the deuce, or, indeed, as some said, to be the deuce himself.
A more cunning man than poor simple Father Clifford would have made some commonplace remark and withdrawn59, after a short greeting, taking warning by the impatient scowl60 that settled on Densil’s handsome face, Not so he. To be defied by the boy whose law had been his word for ten years past never entered into his head, and he sternly advanced towards the pair.
Densil inquired if anything were the matter at home. And Lord Saltire, anticipating a scene, threw himself back in his chair, stretched out his elegant legs, and looked on with the air of a man who knows he is going to be amused, and composes himself thoroughly61 to appreciate the entertainment.
“Thus much, my son,” said the priest; “your mother is wearing out the stones of the oratory62 with her knees, praying for her first-born, while he is wasting his substance, and perilling63 his soul, with debauched atheistic58 companions, the enemies of God and man.”
Lord Saltire smiled sweetly, bowed elegantly, and took snuff.
“Why do you intrude64 into my room and insult my guests?” said Densil, casting an angry glance at the priest, who stood calmly like a black pillar, with his hands folded before him. “It is unendurable.”
“Quern Deus vult” &c. Father Clifford had seen that scowl once or twice before, but he would not take warning. He said —
“I am ordered not to go westward65 without you. I command you to come.”
“Command me! command a Ravenshoe!” said Densil, furiously.
Father Clifford, by way of mending matters, now began to lose his temper.
“You would not be the first Ravenshoe who has been commanded by a priest; ay, and has had to obey too,” said he.
“And you will not be the first jack-priest who has felt the weight of a Ravenshoe’s wrath,” replied Densil, brutally66.
Lord Saltire leant back, and said to the ambient air, “I’ll back the priest, five twenties to one.”
This was too much. Densil would have liked to quarrel with Saltire, but that was death — he was the deadest shot in Europe. He grew furious, and beyond all control. He told the priest to go to (further than purgatory); grew blasphemous67, emphatically renouncing68 the creed69 of his forefathers70, and, in fact, all other reeds. The priest grew hot and furious too, retaliated71 in no measured terms, and finally left the room with his ears stopped, shaking the dust off his feet as he went. Then Lord Saltire drew up to the table again, laughing.
“Your estates are entailed72, Ravenshoe, I suppose?” said he.
“No.”
“Oh! It’s your deal, my dear fellow.”
Densil got an angry letter from his father in a few days, demanding full apologies and recantations, and an immediate34 return home. Densil had no apologies to make, and did not intend to return till the end of the season. His father wrote, declining the honour of his further acquaintance, and sending him a draft for fifty pounds to pay his outstanding bills, which he very well knew amounted to several thousands. In a short time the great Catholic tradesmen, with whom he had been dealing73, began to press for money in a somewhat insolent74 way; and now Densil began to see that, by defying and insulting the faith and the party to which he belonged, he had merely cut himself off from rank, wealth, and position. He had defied the partie pretre, and had yet to feel their power. In two months he wain the Fleet prison.
His servant (the title “tiger” came in long after this), a half groom, half valet, such as men kept in those days — a simple lad from Ravenshoe, James Horton by name — for the first time in his life disobeyed orders; or, on being told to return home by Densil, he firmly declined doing so, and carried his top boots and white neckcloth triumphantly75 into the Fleet, there pursuing his usual avocations76 with the utmost nonchalance77.
“A very distinguished78 fellow that of yours, Curly ” (they all had nicknames for one another in those days), said Lord Saltire. “If I were not Saltire, I think I would be Jim. To own the only clean face among six hundred fellow-creatures is a preeminence79, a decided80 preeminence. I’ll buy him of you.”
For Lord Saltire came to see him, snuff-box and all. That morning Densil was sitting brooding in the dirty room with the barred windows, and thinking what a wild free wind would be sweeping81 across the Downs this fine November day, when the door was opened, and in walks me my lord, with a sweet smile on his face.
He was dressed in the extreme of fashion — a long-tailed blue coat with gold buttons, a frill to his shirt, a white cravat82, a wonderful short waistcoat, loose short nankeen trousers, low shoes, no gaiters, and a low-crowned hat. I am pretty correct, for I have seen his picture, dated 1804?. But you must please to remember that his lordship was in the very van of the fashion, and that probably such a dress was not universal for two or three years afterwards. I wonder if his well-known audacity would be sufficient to make him walk along one of the public thoroughfares in such a dress, tomorrow, for a heavy bet — I fancy not.
He smiled sardonically83 — “My dear fellow,” he said, “when a man comes on a visit of condolence, I know it is the most wretched taste to say, ‘I told you so;' but do me the justice to allow that I offered to back the priest five to one. I had been coming to you all the week, but Tuesday and Wednesday I was at Newmarket; Thursday I was shooting at your cousin Ascot’s; yesterday I did not care about boring myself with you; so I have come today because I was at leisure and had nothing better to do.”
Densil looked up savagely84, thinking he had come to insult him; but the kindly85 compassionate86 look in the piercing grey eye belied87 the cynical88 curl of the mouth, and disarmed89 him. He leant his head upon the table, and sobbed90.
Lord Saltire laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said —
“You have been a fool, Ravenshoe; you have denied the faith of your forefathers. Pardieu, if I had such an article, I would not have thrown it so lightly away.”
“You talk like this? Who next? It was your conversation led me to it. Am I worse than you? What faith have you, in God’s name?”
“The faith of a French Lycee, my friend; the only one I ever had. I have been sufficiently consistent to that, I think.”
“Consistent, indeed,” groaned91 poor Densil.
“Now, look here,” said Saltire; “I may have been to blame in this. But I give you my honour,
I had no more idea that you would be obstinate92 enough to bring matters to this pass, than I had that you would burn down Ravenshoe House because I laughed at it for being old-fashioned. Go home, my poor little Catholic pipkin, and don’t try to swim with iron pots like Wrekin and me. Make submission93 to that singularly distingue-looking old turkey-cock of a priest, kiss your mother, and get your usual autumn’s hunting and shooting.”
“Too late! too late, now!” sobbed Densil.
“Not at all, my dear fellow,” said Saltire, taking a pinch of snuff; “the partridges will be a little wild of course — that you must expect; but you ought to get some very pretty pheasant and cock-shooting. Come, say yes. Have your debts paid, and get out of this infernal hole. A week of this would tame the devil, I should think.”
“If you think you could do anything for me, Saltire.”
Lord Saltire immediately retired94, and reappeared, leading in a lady by her hand. She raised the veil from her head, and he saw his mother. In a moment she was crying on his neck; and, as he looked over her shoulder, he saw a blue coat passing out of the door, and that was the last of Lord Saltire for the present.
It was no part of the game of the priests to give Densil a cold welcome home. Twenty smiling faces were grouped in the porch to welcome him back; and among them all none smiled more brightly than the old priest and his father. The dogs went wild with joy, and is favourite peregrine scolded on the falconer’s wrist, and struggled with her jesses, shrilly95 reminding him of the merry old days by the dreary96 salt marsh97, or the lonely lake.
The past was never once alluded98 to in any way by any one in the house. Only Squire Petre shook hands with faithful James, and gave him a watch, ordering him to ride a certain colt next day, and see how well forward he could get him. So next day they drew the home covers, and the fox, brave fellow, ran out to Parkside, making for the granite99 walls of Hessitor. And, when Densil felt his nostrils100 filled once more by the free rushing mountain air, he shouted aloud for joy, and James’s voice along side of him said —
“This is better than the Fleet, sir.”
And so Densil played a single-wicket match with the Holy Church, and, like a great many other people, got bowled out in the first innings. He returned to his allegiance in the most exemplary manner, and settled down into the most humdrum101 of young country gentlemen. He did exactly what every one else about him did. He was not naturally a profligate102 or vicious man; but there was a wild devil of animal passion in him, which had broken out in London, and which was now quieted by dread103 of consequences, but which he felt and knew was there, and might break out again. He was a changed man. There was a gulf104 between him and the life he had led before he went to London. He had tasted of liberty (or rather, not to profane105 that Divine ord, of licentiousness), and yet not drunk long enough to make him weary of the draught106. He had heard the dogmas he was brought up to believe infallible turned to unutterable ridicule107 by men like Saltire and Wrekin; men who, as he had the wit to see, were a thousand times cleverer and better informed than Father Clifford or Father Dennis. In short, he had found out, as a great many others have, that Popery won’t hold water, and so, as a pis alter, he adopted Saltire’s creed — that religion was necessary for the government of States, that one religion was as good as another, and that, ceteris paribus, the best religion was the one which secured the possessor ￡10,000 a year; and therefore Densil was a devout108 Catholic.
It was thought by the allied41 powers that he ought to marry. He had no objection, and so he married a young lady, a Miss Winkleigh — Catholic, of course — about whom I can get no information whatever. Lady Ascot says that she was a pale girl, with about as much air as a milkmaid; on which two facts I can build no theory as to her personal character. She died in 1816, childless; and in 1820 Densil lost both his father and mother, and found himself, at the age of thirty-seven, master of Ravenshoe, and master of himself.
He felt the loss of the old folks most keenly, more keenly than that of his wife. He seemed without a stay or holdfast in the world, for he was a poorly-educated man, without resources; and so he went on moping and brooding until good old Father Clifford, who loved him early, got alarmed, and recommended travels. He recommended Rome, the cradle of the faith, and to Rome he went.
He stayed in Rome a year; at the end of which time he appeared suddenly at home with a beautiful young wife on his arm. As Father Clifford, trembling and astonished, advanced to lay his hand upon her head, she drew up, laughed, and said, “Spare yourself the trouble, my dear sir; I am a Protestant.”
I have had to tell you all this, in order to show you how it came about that Densil, though a Papist, bethought of marrying a Protestant wife to keep up a balance of power in his house. For, if he had not married this lady, the hero of this book would never have been born; and this greater proposition contains the less, “that, if he had never been born, his history would never have been written, and so this book would have had no existence.”
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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dicing
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| n.掷骰子，（皮革上的）菱形装饰v.将…切成小方块，切成丁（ dice的现在分词 ） | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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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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pitcher
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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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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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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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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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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42
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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45
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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46
monstrously
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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49
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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50
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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51
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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52
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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53
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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57
atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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58
atheistic
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| adj.无神论者的 | |
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59
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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60
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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62
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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63
perilling
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| 置…于危险中（peril的现在分词形式） | |
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64
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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65
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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retaliated
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entailed
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| 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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73
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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78
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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preeminence
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| n.卓越,杰出 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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82
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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83
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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84
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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85
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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86
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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87
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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88
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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89
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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93
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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94
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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95
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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96
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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97
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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98
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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100
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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101
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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102
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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103
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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104
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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105
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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106
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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107
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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108
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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