It was a cloudy day, and nearing dusk. Arno ran dark and shivering; the hills were mournful; and Florence with its girdling stone towers had that silent, tomb-like look, which unbroken shadow gives to a city seen from above. Santa Croce, where her father lay, was dark amidst that darkness, and slowly crawling over the bridge, and slowly vanishing up the narrow street, was the white load, like a cruel, deliberate Fate carrying away her father’s lifelong hope to bury it in an unmarked grave. Romola felt less that she was seeing this herself than that her father was conscious of it as he lay helpless under the imprisoning5 stones, where her hand could not reach his to tell him that he was not alone.
She stood still even after the load had disappeared, heedless of the cold, and soothed6 by the gloom which seemed to cover her like a mourning garment and shut out the discord7 of joy. When suddenly the great bell in the palace-tower rang out a mighty8 peal9: not the hammer-sound of alarm, but an agitated10 peal of triumph; and one after another every other bell in every other tower seemed to catch the vibration11 and join the chorus. And, as the chorus swelled12 and swelled till the air seemed made of sound — little flames, vibrating too, as if the sound had caught fire, burst out between the turrets13 of the palace and on the girdling towers.
That sudden clang, that leaping light, fell on Romola like sharp wounds. They were the triumph of demons14 at the success of her husband’s treachery, and the desolation of her life. Little more than three weeks ago she had been intoxicated15 with the sound of those very bells; and in the gladness of Florence, she had heard a prophecy of her own gladness. But now the general joy seemed cruel to her: she stood aloof16 from that common life — that Florence which was flinging out its loud exultation17 to stun18 the ears of sorrow and loneliness. She could never join hands with gladness again, but only with those whom it was in the hard nature of gladness to forget. And in her bitterness she felt that all rejoicing was mockery. Men shouted paeans19 with their souls full of heaviness, and then looked in their neighbours’ faces to see if there was really such a thing as joy. Romola had lost her belief in the happiness she had once thirsted for: it was a hateful, smiling, soft-handed thing, with a narrow, selfish heart.
She ran down from the loggia, with her hands pressed against her ears, and was hurrying across the ante-chamber, when she was startled by unexpectedly meeting her husband, who was coming to seek her.
His step was elastic20, and there was a radiance of satisfaction about him not quite usual.
‘What! the noise was a little too much for you?’ he said; for Romola, as she started at the sight of him, had pressed her hands all the closer against her ears. He took her gently by the wrist, and drew her arm within his, leading her into the saloon surrounded with the dancing nymphs and fauns and then went on speaking: ‘Florence is gone quite mad at getting its Great Council, which is to put an end to all the evils under the sun; especially to the vice22 of merriment. You may well look stunned23, my Romola, and you are cold. You must not stay so late under that windy loggia without wrappings. I was coming to tell you that I am suddenly called to Rome about some learned business for Bernardo Rucellai. I am going away immediately, for I am to join my party at San Gaggio to-night, that we may start early in the morning. I need give you no trouble; I have had my packages made already. It will not be very long before I am back again.’
He knew he had nothing to expect from her but quiet endurance of what he said and did. He could not even venture to kiss her brow this evening, but just pressed her hand to his lips, and left her. Tito felt that Romola was a more unforgiving woman than he had imagined; her love was not that sweet clinging instinct, stronger than all judgments24, which, he began to see now, made the great charm of a wife. Still, this petrified25 coldness was better than a passionate26, futile27 opposition28. Her pride and capability29 of seeing where resistance was useless had their convenience.
But when the door had closed on Tito, Romola lost the look of cold immobility which came over her like an inevitable30 frost whenever he approached her. Inwardly she was very far from being in a state of quiet endurance, and the days that had passed since the scene which had divided her from Tito had been days of active planning and preparation for the fulfilment of a purpose.
The first thing she did now was to call old Maso to her.
‘Maso,’ she said, in a decided31 tone, ‘we take our journey to-morrow morning. We shall be able now to overtake that first convoy32 of cloth, while they are waiting at San Piero. See about the two mules33 to-night, and be ready to set off with them at break of day, and wait for me at Trespiano.’
She meant to take Maso with her as far as Bologna, and then send him back with letters to her godfather and Tito, telling them that she was gone and never meant to return. She had planned her departure so that its secrecy34 might be perfect, and her broken love and life be hidden away unscanned by vulgar eyes. Bernardo del Nero had been absent at his villa35, willing to escape from political suspicions to his favourite occupation of attending to his land, and she had paid him the debt without a personal interview. He did not even know that the library was sold, and was left to conjecture36 that some sudden piece of good fortune had enabled Tito to raise this sum of money. Maso had been taken into her confidence only so far that he knew her intended journey was a secret; and to do just what she told him was the thing he cared most for in his withered37 wintry age.
Romola did not mean to go to bed that night. When she had fastened the door she took her taper38 to the carved and painted chest which contained her wedding-clothes. The white silk and gold lay there, the long white veil and the circlet of pearls. A great sob39 rose as she looked at them: they seemed the shroud40 of her dead happiness. In a tiny gold loop of the circlet a sugar-plum had lodged41 — a pink hailstone from the shower of sweets: Tito had detected it first, and had said that it should always remain there. At certain moments — and this was one of them — Romola was carried, by a sudden wave of memory, back again into the time of perfect trust, and felt again the presence of the husband whose love made the world as fresh and wonderful to her as to a little child that sits in stillness among the sunny flowers: heard the gentle tones and saw the soft eyes without any lie in them, and breathed again that large freedom of the soul which comes from the faith that the being who is nearest to us is greater than ourselves. And in those brief moments the tears always rose: the woman’s lovingness felt something akin21 to what the bereaved42 mother feels when the tiny fingers seem to lie warm on her bosom43, and yet are marble to her lips as she bends over the silent bed.
But there was something else lying in the chest besides the wedding-clothes: it was something dark and coarse, rolled up in a close bundle. She turned away her eyes from the white and gold to the dark bundle, and as her hands touched the serge, her tears began to be checked. That coarse roughness recalled her fully44 to the present, from which love and delight were gone. She unfastened the thick white cord and spread the bundle out on the table. It was the grey serge dress of a sister belonging to the third order of St Francis, living in the world but especially devoted45 to deeds of piety46 — a personage whom the Florentines were accustomed to call a Pinzochera. Romola was going to put on this dress as a disguise, and she determined47 to put it on at once, so that, if she needed sleep before the morning, she might wake up in perfect readiness to be gone. She put off her black garment, and as she thrust her soft white arms into the harsh sleeves of the serge mantle48 and felt the hard girdle of rope hurt her fingers as she tied it, she courted those rude sensations: they were in keeping with her new scorn of that thing called pleasure which made men base — that dexterous49 contrivance for selfish ease, that shrinking from endurance and strain, when others were bowing beneath burdens too heavy for them, which now made one image with her husband.
Then she gathered her long hair together, drew it away tight from her face, bound it in a great hard knot at the back of her head, and taking a square piece of black silk, tied it in the fashion of a kerchief close across her head and under her chin; and over that she drew the cowl. She lifted the candle to the mirror. Surely her disguise would be complete to any one who had not lived very near to her. To herself she looked strangely like her brother Dino: the full oval of the cheek had only to be wasted; the eyes, already sad, had only to become a little sunken. Was she getting more like him in anything else? Only in this, that she understood now how men could be prompted to rush away for ever from earthly delights, how they could be prompted to dwell on images of sorrow rather than of beauty and joy.
But she did not linger at the mirror: she set about collecting and packing all the relics50 of her father and mother that were too large to be carried in her small travelling-wallet. They were all to be put in the chest along with her wedding-clothes, and the chest was to be committed to her godfather when she was safely gone. First she laid in the portraits; then one by one every little thing that had a sacred memory clinging to it was put into her wallet or into the chest.
She paused. There was still something else to be stript away from her, belonging to that past on which she was going to turn her back for ever. She put her thumb and her forefinger51 to her betrothal52 ring; but they rested there, without drawing it off. Romola’s mind had been rushing with an impetuous current towards this act for which she was preparing: the act of quitting a husband who had disappointed all her trust, the act of breaking an outward tie that no longer represented the inward bond of lore4. But that force of outward symbols by which our active life is knit together so as to make an inexorable external identity for us, not to be shaken by our wavering consciousness, gave a strange effect to this simple movement towards taking off her ring — a movement which was but a small sequence of her energetic resolution. It brought a vague but arresting sense that she was somehow violently rending53 her life in two: a presentiment54 that the strong impulse which had seemed to exclude doubt and make her path clear might after all be blindness, and that there was something in human bonds which must prevent them from being broken with the breaking of illusions.
If that beloved Tito who had placed the betrothal ring on her finger was not in any valid55 sense the same Tito whom she had ceased to love, why should she return to him the sign of their union, and not rather retain it as a memorial? And this act, which came as a palpable demonstration56 of her own and his identity, had a power unexplained to herself, of shaking Romola. It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live, that it only haunts us and makes dull pulsations that are never born into sound. But there was a passionate voice speaking within her that presently nullified all such muffled57 murmurs58.
‘It cannot be! I cannot be subject to him. He is false. I shrink from him. I despise him!’
She snatched the ring from her finger and laid it on the table against the pen with which she meant to write. Again she felt that there could be no law for her but the law of her affections. That tenderness and keen fellow-feeling for the near and the loved which are the main outgrowth of the affections, had made the religion of her life: they had made her patient in spite of natural impetuosity; they would have sufficed to make her heroic. But now all that strength was gone, or, rather, it was converted into the strength of repulsion. She had recoiled59 from Tito in proportion to the energy of that young belief and love which he had disappointed, of that lifelong devotion to her father against which he had committed an irredeemable offence. And it seemed as if all motive60 had slipped away from her, except the indignation and scorn that made her tear herself asunder61 from him.
She was not acting62 after any precedent63, or obeying any adopted maxims64. The grand severity of the stoical philosophy in which her father had taken care to instruct her, was familiar enough to her ears and lips, and its lofty spirit had raised certain echoes within her; but she had never used it, never needed it as a rule of life. She had endured and forborne because she loved: maxims which told her to feel less, and not to cling close lest the onward66 course of great Nature should jar her, had been as powerless on her tenderness as they had been on her father’s yearning67 for just fame. She had appropriated no theories: she had simply felt strong in the strength of affection, and life without that energy came to her as an entirely68 new problem.
She was going to solve the problem in a way that seemed to her very simple. Her mind had never yet bowed to any obligation apart from personal love and reverence69; she had no keen sense of any other human relations, and all she had to obey now was the instinct to sever65 herself from the man she loved no longer.
Yet the unswerving resolution was accompanied with continually varying phases of anguish70. And now that the active preparation for her departure was almost finished, she lingered: she deferred71 writing the irrevocable words of parting from all her little world. The emotions of the past weeks seemed to rush in again with cruel hurry, and take possession even of her limbs. She was going to write, and her hand fell. Bitter tears came now at the delusion72 which had blighted73 her young years: tears very different from the sob of remembered happiness with which she had looked at the circlet of pearls and the pink hailstone. And now she felt a tingling74 shame at the words of ignominy she had cast at Tito — ‘Have you robbed some one else who is not dead?’ To have had such words wrung75 from her — to have uttered them to her husband seemed a degradation76 of her whole life. Hard speech between those who have loved is hideous77 in the memory, like the sight of greatness and beauty sunk into vice and rags.
That heart-cutting comparison of the present with the past urged itself upon Romola till it even transformed itself into wretched sensations: she seemed benumbed to everything but inward throbbings, and began to feel the need of some hard contact. She drew her hands tight along the harsh knotted cord that hung from her waist. She started to her feet and seized the rough lid of the chest: there was nothing else to go in? No. She closed the lid, pressing her hand upon the rough carving78, and locked it.
Then she remembered that she had still to complete her equipment as a Pinzochera. The large leather purse or scarsella, with small coin in it, had to be hung on the cord at her waist (her florins and small jewels, presents from her godfather and cousin Brigida, were safely fastened within her serge mantle) — and on the other side must hang the rosary.
It did not occur to Romola, as she hung that rosary by her side, that something else besides the mere79 garb80 would perhaps be necessary to enable her to pass as a Pinzochera, and that her whole air and expression were as little as possible like those of a sister whose eyelids81 were used to be bent82, and whose lips were used to move in silent iteration. Her inexperience prevented her from picturing distant details, and it helped her proud courage in shutting out any foreboding of danger and insult. She did not know that any Florentine woman had ever done exactly what she was going to do: unhappy wives often took refuge with their friends, or in the cloister83, she knew, but both those courses were impossible to her; she had invented a lot for herself — to go to the most learned woman in the world, Cassandra Fedele, at Venice, and ask her how an instructed woman could support herself in a lonely life there.
She was not daunted84 by the practical difficulties in the way or the dark uncertainty85 at the end. Her life could never be happy any more, but it must not, could not, be ignoble86. And by a pathetic mixture of childish romance with her woman’s trials, the philosophy which had nothing to do with this great decisive deed of hers had its place in her imagination of the future: so far as she conceived her solitary87 loveless life at all, she saw it animated88 by a proud stoical heroism89, and by an indistinct but strong purpose of labour, that she might be wise enough to write something which would rescue her father’s name from oblivion. After all, she was only a young girl — this poor Romola, who had found herself at the end of her joys.
There were other things yet to be done. There was a small key in a casket on the table — but now Romola perceived that her taper was dying out, and she had forgotten to provide herself with any other light. In a few moments the room was in total darkness. Feeling her way to the nearest chair, she sat down to wait for the morning.
Her purpose in seeking the key had called up certain memories which had come back upon her during the past week with the new vividness that remembered words always have for us when we have learned to give them a new meaning. Since the shock of the revelation which had seemed to divide her for ever from Tito, that last interview with Dino had never been for many hours together out of her mind. And it solicited90 her all the more, because while its remembered images pressed upon her almost with the imperious force of sensations, they raised struggling thoughts which resisted their influence. She could not prevent herself from hearing inwardly the dying prophetic voice saying again and again, — ‘The man whose face was a blank loosed thy hand and departed; and as he went, I could see his face, and it was the face of the great Tempter . . . And thou, Romola, didst wring91 thy hands and seek for water, and there was none . . . and the plain was bare and stony92 again, and thou wast alone in the midst of it. And then it seemed that the night fell, and I saw no more.’ She could not prevent herself from dwelling93 with a sort of agonised fascination94 on the wasted face; on the straining gaze at the crucifix; on the awe95 which had compelled her to kneel; on the last broken words and then the unbroken silence — on all the details of the death-scene, which had seemed like a sudden opening into a world apart from that of her life-long knowledge.
But her mind was roused to resistance of impressions that from being obvious phantoms96, seemed to be getting solid in the daylight. As a strong body struggles against fumes97 with the more violence when they begin to be stifling98, a strong soul struggles against phantasies with all the more alarmed energy when they threaten to govern in the place of thought.
What had the words of that vision to do with her real sorrows? That fitting of certain words was a mere chance; the rest was all vague — nay99, those words themselves were vague; they were determined by nothing but her brother’s memories and beliefs. He believed there was something fatal in pagan learning; he believed that celibacy100 was more holy than marriage; he remembered their home, and all the objects in the library; and of these threads the vision was woven. What reasonable warrant could she have had for believing in such a vision and acting on it? None. True as the voice of foreboding had proved, Romola saw with unshaken conviction that to have renounced101 Tito in obedience102 to a warning like that, would have been meagre-hearted folly103. Her trust had been delusive104, but she would have chosen over again to have acted on it rather than be a creature led by phantoms and disjointed whispers in a world where there was the large music of reasonable speech, and the warm grasp of living hands.
But the persistent105 presence of these memories, linking themselves in her imagination with her actual lot, gave her a glimpse of understanding into the lives which had before lain utterly106 aloof from her sympathy — the lives of the men and women who were led by such inward images and voices.
‘If they were only a little stronger in me,’ she said to herself, ‘I should lose the sense of what that vision really was, and take it for a prophetic light. I might in time get to be a seer of visions myself, like the Suora Maddalena, and Camilla Rucellai, and the rest.’
Romola shuddered107 at the possibility. All the instruction all the main influences of her life had gone to fortify108 her scorn of that sickly superstition109 which led men and women, with eyes too weak for the daylight, to sit in dark swamps and try to read human destiny by the chance flame of wandering vapours.
And yet she was conscious of something deeper than that coincidence of words which made the parting contact with her dying brother live anew in her mind, and gave a new sisterhood to the wasted face. If there were much more of such experience as his in the world, she would like to understand it — would even like to learn the thoughts of men who sank in ecstasy110 before the pictured agonies of martyrdom. There seemed to be something more than madness in that supreme111 fellowship with suffering. The springs were all dried up around her; she wondered what other waters there were at which men drank and found strength in the desert. And those moments in the Duomo when she had sobbed112 with a mysterious mingling113 of rapture114 and pain, while Fra Girolamo offered himself a willing sacrifice for the people, came back to her as if they had been a transient taste of some such far-off fountain. But again she shrank from impressions that were alluring115 her within the sphere of visions and narrow fears which compelled men to outrage116 natural affections as Dino had done.
This was the tangled117 web that Romola had in her mind as she sat weary in the darkness. No radiant angel came across the gloom with a clear message for her. In those times, as now, there were human beings who never saw angels or heard perfectly118 clear messages. Such truth as came to them was brought confusedly in the voices and deeds of men not at all like the seraphs of unfailing wing and piercing vision — men who believed falsities as well as truths, and did the wrong as well as the right. The helping119 hands stretched out to them were the hands of men who stumbled and often saw dimly, so that these beings unvisited by angels had no other choice than to grasp that stumbling guidance along the path of reliance and action which is the path of life, or else to pause in loneliness and disbelief, which is no path, but the arrest of inaction and death.
And so Romola, seeing no ray across the darkness, and heavy with conflict that changed nothing, sank at last to sleep.
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1
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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3
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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4
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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5
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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6
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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7
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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8
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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12
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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13
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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14
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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15
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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paeans
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| n.赞歌，凯歌( paean的名词复数 ) | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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21
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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26
passionate
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| 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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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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withered
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| 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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38
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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39
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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41
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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42
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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45
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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46
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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49
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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50
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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51
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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52
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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53
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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54
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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55
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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56
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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57
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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58
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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59
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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60
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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61
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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62
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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63
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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64
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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65
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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66
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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67
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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70
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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71
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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72
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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73
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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74
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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75
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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76
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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77
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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78
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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79
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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80
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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81
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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84
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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86
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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87
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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88
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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89
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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90
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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91
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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92
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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93
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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94
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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95
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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96
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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97
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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98
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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99
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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100
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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101
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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102
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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103
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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104
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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105
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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106
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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107
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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108
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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109
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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110
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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111
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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112
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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113
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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114
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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115
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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116
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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117
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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118
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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119
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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