What sheeted ghost is wandering through the storm?
For never did a maid of middle earth
Choose such a time or spot to vent2 her sorrows.
Old Play.
Grief, shame, confusion, and terror, had contributed to overwhelm the unfortunate Clara Mowbray at the moment when she parted with her brother, after the stormy and dangerous interview which it was our task to record in a former chapter. For years, her life, her whole tenor3 of thought, had been haunted by the terrible apprehension4 of a discovery, and now the thing which she feared had come upon her. The extreme violence of her brother, which went so far as to menace her personal safety, had united with the previous conflict of passions, to produce a rapture5 of fear, which probably left her no other free agency, than that which she derived6 from the blind instinct which urges flight, as the readiest resource in danger.
We have no means of exactly tracing the course of this unhappy young woman. It is probable she fled from Shaws-Castle, on hearing the arrival of Mr. Touchwood’s carriage, which she might mistake for that of Lord Etherington; and thus, while Mowbray was looking forward to the happier prospects7 which the traveller’s narrative9 seemed to open, his sister was contending with rain and darkness, amidst the difficulties and dangers of the mountain path which we have described. These were so great, that a young woman more delicately brought up, must either have lain down exhausted10, or have been compelled to turn her steps back to the residence she had abandoned. But the solitary11 wanderings of Clara had inured12 her to fatigue13 and to night-walks; and the deeper causes of terror which urged her to flight, rendered her insensible to the perils14 of her way. She had passed the bower16, as was evident from her glove remaining there, and had crossed the foot-bridge; although it was almost wonderful, that, in so dark a night, she should have followed with such accuracy a track, where the missing a single turn by a cubit’s length, might have precipitated17 her into eternity18.
It is probable, that Clara’s spirits and strength began in some degree to fail her, after she had proceeded a little way on the road to the Aultoun; for she had stopped at the solitary cottage inhabited by the old female pauper19, who had been for a time the hostess of the penitent20 and dying Hannah Irwin. Here, as the inmate21 of the cottage acknowledged, she had made some knocking, and she owned she had heard her moan bitterly, as she entreated22 for admission. The old hag was one of those whose hearts adversity turns to very stone, and obstinately23 kept her door shut, impelled24 more probably by general hatred25 to the human race, than by the superstitious26 fears which seized her; although she perversely27 argued that she was startled at the supernatural melody and sweetness of tone, with which the benighted28 wanderer made her supplication29. She admitted, that when she heard the poor petitioner30 turn from the door, her heart was softened31, and she did intend to open with the purpose of offering her at least a shelter; but that before she could “hirple to the door, and get the bar taken down,” the unfortunate supplicant32 was not to be seen; which strengthened the old woman’s opinion, that the whole was a delusion33 of Satan.
It is conjectured34 that the repulsed35 wanderer made no other attempt to awaken36 pity or obtain shelter, until she came to Mr. Cargill’s Manse, in the upper room of which a light was still burning, owing to a cause which requires some explanation.
The reader is aware of the reasons which induced Bulmer, or the titular37 Lord Etherington, to withdraw from the country the sole witness, as he conceived, who could, or at least who might choose to bear witness to the fraud which he had practised on the unfortunate Clara Mowbray. Of three persons present at the marriage, besides the parties, the clergyman was completely deceived. Solmes he conceived to be at his own exclusive devotion; and therefore, if by his means this Hannah Irwin could be removed from the scene, he argued plausibly38, that all evidence to the treachery which he had practised would be effectually stifled39. Hence his agent, Solmes, had received a commission, as the reader may remember, to effect her removal without loss of time, and had reported to his master that his efforts had been effectual.
But Solmes, since he had fallen under the influence of Touchwood, was constantly employed in counteracting40 the schemes which he seemed most active in forwarding, while the traveller enjoyed (to him an exquisite42 gratification) the amusement of countermining as fast as Bulmer could mine, and had in prospect8 the pleasing anticipation43 of blowing up the pioneer with his own petard. For this purpose, as soon as Touchwood learned that his house was to be applied44 to for the original deeds left in charge by the deceased Earl of Etherington, he expedited a letter, directing that only the copies should be sent, and thus rendered nugatory45 Bulmer’s desperate design of possessing himself of that evidence. For the same reason, when Solmes announced to him his master’s anxious wish to have Hannah Irwin conveyed out of the country, he appointed him to cause the sick woman to be carefully transported to the Manse, where Mr. Cargill was easily induced to give her temporary refuge.
To this good man, who might be termed an Israelite without guile47, the distress48 of the unhappy woman would have proved a sufficient recommendation; nor was he likely to have enquired49 whether her malady50 might not be infectious, or to have made any of those other previous investigations51 which are sometimes clogs52 upon the bounty53 or hospitality of more prudent54 philanthropists. But to interest him yet farther, Mr. Touchwood informed him by letter that the patient (not otherwise unknown to him) was possessed55 of certain most material information affecting a family of honour and consequence, and that he himself, with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s in the quality of a magistrate56, intended to be at the Manse that evening, to take her declaration upon this important subject. Such indeed was the traveller’s purpose, which might have been carried into effect, but for his own self-important love of manoeuvring on the one part, and the fiery57 impatience58 of Mowbray on the other, which, as the reader knows, sent the one at full gallop59 to Shaws-Castle, and obliged the other to follow him post haste. This necessity he intimated to the clergyman by a note, which he dispatched express as he himself was in the act of stepping into the chaise.
He requested that the most particular attention should be paid to the invalid60 — promised to be at the Manse with Mr. Mowbray early on the morrow — and, with the lingering and inveterate61 self-conceit which always induced him to conduct every thing with his own hand, directed his friend, Mr. Cargill, not to proceed to take the sick woman’s declaration or confession62 until he arrived, unless in case of extremity63.
It had been an easy matter for Solmes to transfer the invalid from the wretched cottage to the clergyman’s Manse. The first appearance of the associate of much of her guilt65 had indeed terrified her; but he scrupled66 not to assure her, that his penitence67 was equal to her own, and that he was conveying her where their joint68 deposition69 would be formally received, in order that they might, so far as possible, atone70 for the evil of which they had been jointly71 guilty. He also promised her kind usage for herself, and support for her children; and she willingly accompanied him to the clergyman’s residence, he himself resolving to abide72 in concealment74 the issue of the mystery, without again facing his master, whose star, as he well discerned, was about to shoot speedily from its exalted75 sphere.
The clergyman visited the unfortunate patient, as he had done frequently during her residence in his vicinity, and desired that she might be carefully attended. During the whole day, she seemed better; but, whether the means of supporting her exhausted frame had been too liberally administered, or whether the thoughts which gnawed76 her conscience had returned with double severity when she was released from the pressure of immediate77 want, it is certain that, about midnight, the fever began to gain ground, and the person placed in attendance on her came to inform the clergyman, then deeply engaged with the siege of Ptolemais, that she doubted if the woman would live till morning, and that she had something lay heavy at her heart, which she wished, as the emissary expressed it, “to make, a clean breast of” before she died, or lost possession of her senses.
Awakened78 by such a crisis, Mr. Cargill at once became a man of this world, clear in his apprehension, and cool in his resolution, as he always was when the path of duty lay before him. Comprehending, from the various hints of his friend Touchwood, that the matter was of the last consequence, his own humanity, as well as inexperience, dictated79 his sending for skilful80 assistance. His man-servant was accordingly dispatched on horseback to the Well for Dr. Quackleben; while, upon the suggestion of one of his maids, “that Mrs. Dods was an uncommon81 skeely body about a sick-bed,” the wench was dismissed to supplicate82 the assistance of the gudewife of the Cleikum, which she was not, indeed, wont83 to refuse whenever it could be useful. The male emissary proved, in Scottish phrase, a “corbie messenger;"E14 for either he did not find the doctor, or he found him better engaged than to attend the sick-bed of a pauper, at a request which promised such slight remuneration as that of a parish minister. But the female ambassador was more successful; for, though she found our friend Luckie Dods preparing for bed at an hour unusually late, in consequence of some anxiety on account of Mr. Touchwood’s unexpected absence, the good old dame84 only growled85 a little about the minister’s fancies in taking puir bodies into his own house; and then, instantly donning cloak, hood86, and pattens, marched down the gate with all the speed of the good Samaritan, one maid bearing the lantern before her, while the other remained to keep the house, and to attend to the wants of Mr. Tyrrel, who engaged willingly to sit up to receive Mr. Touchwood.
But, ere Dame Dods had arrived at the Manse, the patient had summoned Mr. Cargill to her presence, and required him to write her confession while she had life and breath to make it.
“For I believe,” she added, raising herself in the bed, and rolling her eyes wildly around, “that, were I to confess my guilt to one of a less sacred character, the Evil Spirit, whose servant I have been, would carry away his prey87, both body and soul, before they had severed88 from each other, however short the space that they must remain in partnership89!”
Mr. Cargill would have spoken some ghostly consolation90, but she answered with pettish91 impatience, “Waste not words — waste not words! — Let me speak that which I must tell, and sign it with my hand; and do you, as the more immediate servant of God, and therefore bound to bear witness to the truth, take heed92 you write that which I tell you, and nothing else. I desired to have told this to St. Ronan’s — I have even made some progress in telling it to others — but I am glad I broke short off — for I know you, Josiah Cargill, though you have long forgotten me.”
“It may be so,” said Cargill. “I have indeed no recollection of you.”
“You once knew Hannah Irwin, though,” said the sick woman, “who was companion and relation to Miss Clara Mowbray, and who was present with her on that sinful night, when she was wedded93 in the kirk of St. Ronan’s.”
“Do you mean to say that you are that person?” said Cargill, holding the candle so as to throw some light on the face of the sick woman. “I cannot believe it.”
“No?” replied the penitent; “there is indeed a difference between wickedness in the act of carrying through its successful machinations, and wickedness surrounded by all the horrors of a death-bed!”
“Do not yet despair,” said Cargill. “Grace is omnipotent94 — to doubt this is in itself a great crime.”
“Be it so! — I cannot help it — my heart is hardened, Mr. Cargill; and there is something here,” she pressed her bosom95, “which tells me, that, with prolonged life and renewed health, even my present agonies would be forgotten, and I should become the same I have been before. I have rejected the offer of grace, Mr. Cargill, and not through ignorance, for I have sinned with my eyes open. Care not for me, then, who am a mere96 outcast.” He again endeavoured to interrupt her, but she continued, “Or if you really wish my welfare, let me relieve my bosom of that which presses it, and it may be that I shall then be better able to listen to you. You say you remember me not — but if I tell you how often you refused to perform in secret the office which was required of you — how much you urged that it was against your canonical97 rules — if I name the argument to which you yielded — and remind you of your purpose, to acknowledge your transgression98 to your brethren in the church courts, to plead your excuse, and submit to their censure99, which you said could not be a light one — you will be then aware, that, in the voice of the miserable100 pauper, you hear the words of the once artful, gay, and specious101 Hannah Irwin.”
“I allow it — I allow it!” said Mr. Cargill; “I admit the tokens, and believe you to be indeed her whose name you assume.”
“Then one painful step is over,” said she; “for I would ere now have lightened my conscience by confession, saving for the cursed pride of spirit, which was ashamed of poverty, though it had not shrunk from guilt. — Well — In these arguments, which were urged to you by a youth best known to you by the name of Francis Tyrrel, though more properly entitled to that of Valentine Bulmer, we practised on you a base and gross deception102. — Did you not hear some one sigh? — I hope there is no one in the room — I trust I shall die when my confession is signed and sealed, without my name being dragged through the public — I hope ye bring not in your menials to gaze on my abject104 misery105 — I cannot brook106 that.”
She paused and listened; for the ear, usually deafened107 by pain, is sometimes, on the contrary, rendered morbidly108 acute. Mr. Cargill assured her, there was no one present but himself. “But, O, most unhappy woman!” he said, “what does your introduction prepare me to expect!”
“Your expectation, be it ever so ominous109, shall be fully46 satisfied. — I was the guilty confidant of the false Francis Tyrrel. — Clara loved the true one. — When the fatal ceremony passed, the bride and the clergyman were deceived alike — and I was the wretch64 — the fiend — who, aiding another yet blacker, if blacker could be — mainly helped to accomplish this cureless misery!”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the clergyman, “and had you not then done enough? — Why did you expose the betrothed110 of one brother to become the wife of another?”
“I acted,” said the sick woman, “only as Bulmer instructed me; but I had to do with a master of the game. He contrived111, by his agent Solmes, to match me with a husband imposed on me by his devices as a man of fortune! — a wretch, who maltreated me — plundered113 me — sold me. — Oh! if fiends laugh, as I have heard they can, what a jubilee114 of scorn will there be, when Bulmer and I enter their place of torture! — Hark! — I am sure of it — some one draws breath, as if shuddering115!”
“You will distract yourself if you give way to these fancies. Be calm — speak on — but, oh! at last, and for once, speak the truth!”
“I will, for it will best gratify my hatred against him, who, having first robbed me of my virtue116, made me a sport and a plunder112 to the basest of the species. For that I wandered here to unmask him. I had heard he again stirred his suit to Clara, and I came here to tell young Mowbray the whole. — But do you wonder that I shrunk from doing so till this last decisive moment? — I thought of my conduct to Clara, and how could I face her brother? — And yet I hated her not after I learned her utter wretchedness — her deep misery, verging117 even upon madness — I hated her not then. I was sorry that she was not to fall to the lot of a better man than Bulmer; — and I pitied her after she was rescued by Tyrrel, and you may remember it was I who prevailed on you to conceal73 her marriage.”
“I remember it,” answered Cargill, “and that you alleged118, as a reason for secrecy119, danger from her family. I did conceal it, until reports that she was again to be married reached my ears.”
“Well, then,” said the sick woman, “Clara Mowbray ought to forgive me — since what ill I have done her was inevitable120, while the good I did was voluntary. — I must see her, Josiah Cargill — I must see her before I die — I shall never pray till I see her — I shall never profit by word of godliness till I see her! If I cannot obtain the pardon of a worm like myself, how can I hope for that of”——
She started at these words with a faint scream; for slowly, and with a feeble hand, the curtains of the bed opposite to the side at which Cargill sat, were opened, and the figure of Clara Mowbray, her clothes and long hair drenched121 and dripping with rain, stood in the opening by the bedside. The dying woman sat upright, her eyes starting from their sockets122, her lips quivering, her face pale, her emaciated123 hands grasping the bed-clothes, as if to support herself, and looking as much aghast as if her confession had called up the apparition124 of her betrayed friend.
“Hannah Irwin,” said Clara, with her usual sweetness of tone, “my early friend — my unprovoked enemy! — Betake thee to Him who hath pardon for us all, and betake thee with confidence — for I pardon you as freely as if you had never wronged me — as freely as I desire my own pardon. — Farewell — Farewell!”
She retired125 from the room, ere the clergyman could convince himself that it was more than a phantom126 which he beheld127. He ran down stairs — he summoned assistants, but no one could attend his call; for the deep ruckling groans128 of the patient satisfied every one that she was breathing her last; and Mrs. Dods, with the maid-servant, ran into the bedroom, to witness the death of Hannah Irwin, which shortly after took place.
That event had scarcely occurred, when the maid-servant who had been left in the inn, came down in great terror to acquaint her mistress, that a lady had entered the house like a ghost, and was dying in Mr. Tyrrel’s room. The truth of the story we must tell our own way.
In the irregular state of Miss Mowbray’s mind, a less violent impulse than that which she had received from her brother’s arbitrary violence, added to the fatigues129, dangers, and terrors of her night-walk, might have exhausted the powers of her body, and alienated130 those of her mind. We have before said, that the lights in the clergyman’s house had probably attracted her attention, and in the temporary confusion of a family, never remarkable131 for its regularity132, she easily mounted the stairs, and entered the sick chamber133 undiscovered, and thus overheard Hannah Irwin’s confession, a tale sufficient to have greatly aggravated134 her mental malady.
We have no means of knowing whether she actually sought Tyrrel, or whether it was, as in the former case, the circumstance of a light still burning where all around was dark, that attracted her; but her next apparition was close by the side of her unfortunate lover, then deeply engaged in writing, when something suddenly gleamed on a large, old-fashioned mirror, which hung on the wall opposite. He looked up, and saw the figure of Clara, holding a light (which she had taken from the passage) in her extended hand. He stood for an instant with his eyes fixed135 on this fearful shadow, ere he dared turn round on the substance which was thus reflected. When he did so, the fixed and pallid136 countenance137 almost impressed him with the belief that he saw a vision, and he shuddered138 when, stooping beside him, she took his hand. “Come away!” she said, in a hurried voice —“Come away, my brother follows to kill us both. Come, Tyrrel, let us fly — we shall easily escape him. — Hannah Irwin is on before — but, if we are overtaken, I will have no more fighting — you must promise me that we shall not — we have had but too much of that — but you will be wise in future.”
“Clara Mowbray!” exclaimed Tyrrel. “Alas! is it thus? — Stay — do not go,” for she turned to make her escape —“stay — stay — sit down.”
“I must go,” she replied, “I must go — I am called — Hannah Irwin is gone before to tell all, and I must follow. Will you not let me go? — Nay139, if you will hold me by force, I know I must sit down — but you will not be able to keep me for all that.”
A convulsion fit followed, and seemed, by its violence, to explain that she was indeed bound for the last and darksome journey. The maid, who at length answered Tyrrel’s earnest and repeated summons, fled terrified at the scene she witnessed, and carried to the Manse the alarm which we before mentioned.
The old landlady140 was compelled to exchange one scene of sorrow for another, wondering within herself what fatality141 could have marked this single night with so much misery. When she arrived at home, what was her astonishment142 to find there the daughter of the house, which, even in their alienation143, she had never ceased to love, in a state little short of distraction144, and tended by Tyrrel, whose state of mind seemed scarce more composed than that of the unhappy patient. The oddities of Mrs. Dods were merely the rust103 which had accumulated upon her character, but without impairing145 its native strength and energy; and her sympathies were not of a kind acute enough to disable her from thinking and acting41 as decisively as circumstances required.
“Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, “this is nae sight for men folk — ye maun rise and gang to another room.”
“I will not stir from her,” said Tyrrel —“I will not remove from her either now, or as long as she or I may live.”
“That will be nae lang space, Maister Tyrrel, if ye winna be ruled by common sense.”
Tyrrel started up, as if half comprehending what she said, but remained motionless.
“Come, come,” said the compassionate146 landlady; “do not stand looking on a sight sair enough to break a harder heart than yours, hinny — your ain sense tells ye, ye canna stay here — Miss Clara shall be weel cared for, and I’ll bring word to your room-door frae half-hour to half-hour how she is.”
The necessity of the case was undeniable, and Tyrrel suffered himself to be led to another apartment, leaving Miss Mowbray to the care of the hostess and her female assistants. He counted the hours in an agony, less by the watch than by the visits which Mrs. Dods, faithful to her promise, made from interval147 to interval, to tell him that Clara was not better — that she was worse — and, at last, that she did not think she could live over morning. It required all the deprecatory influence of the good landlady to restrain Tyrrel, who, calm and cold on common occasions, was proportionally fierce and impetuous when his passions were afloat, from bursting into the room, and ascertaining148, with his own eyes, the state of the beloved patient. At length there was a long interval — an interval of hours — so long, indeed, that Tyrrel caught from it the flattering hope that Clara slept, and that sleep might bring refreshment149 both to mind and body. Mrs. Dods, he concluded, was prevented from moving, for fear of disturbing her patient’s slumber150; and, as if actuated by the same feeling which he imputed151 to her, he ceased to traverse his apartment, as his agitation152 had hitherto dictated, and throwing himself into a chair, forbore to move even a finger, and withheld153 his respiration154 as much as possible, just as if he had been seated by the pillow of the patient. Morning was far advanced, when his landlady appeared in his room with a grave and anxious countenance.
“Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, “ye are a Christian155 man.”
“Hush156, hush, for Heaven’s sake!” he replied; “you will disturb Miss Mowbray.”
“Naething will disturb her, puir thing,” answered Mrs. Dods; “they have muckle to answer for that brought her to this!”
“They have — they have indeed,” said Tyrrel, striking his forehead; “and I will see her avenged157 on every one of them! — Can I see her?”
“Better not — better not,” said the good woman; but he burst from her, and rushed into the apartment.
“Is life gone? — Is every spark extinct?” he exclaimed eagerly to a country surgeon, a sensible man, who had been summoned from Marchthorn in the course of the night. The medical man shook his head — Tyrrel rushed to the bedside, and was convinced by his own eyes that the being whose sorrows he had both caused and shared, was now insensible to all earthly calamity158. He raised almost a shriek159 of despair, as he threw himself on the pale hand of the corpse160, wet it with tears, devoured161 it with kisses, and played for a short time the part of a distracted person. At length, on the repeated expostulation of all present, he suffered himself to be again conducted to another apartment, the surgeon following, anxious to give such sad consolation as the case admitted of.
“As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of this young lady,” he said, “it may be some satisfaction to you, though a melancholy162 one, to know, that it has been occasioned by a pressure on the brain, probably accompanied by a suffusion163; and I feel authorized164 in stating, from the symptoms, that if life had been spared, reason would, in all probability, never have returned. In such a case, sir, the most affectionate relation must own, that death, in comparison to life, is a mercy.”
“Mercy?” answered Tyrrel; “but why, then, is it denied to me? — I know — I know! — My life is spared till I revenge her.”
He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs. But, as he was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety imprinted165 on his features, very different from their usual expression. “Whither would ye? Whither would ye?” he said, laying hold of Tyrrel, and stopping him by force.
“For revenge — for revenge!” said Tyrrel. “Give way, I charge you, on your peril15!”
“Vengeance belongs to God,” replied the old man, “and his bolt has fallen. — This way — this way,” he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the house. “Know,” he said, so soon as he had led or forced him into a chamber, “that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s has met Bulmer within this half hour, and has killed him on the spot.”
“Killed? — whom?” answered the bewildered Tyrrel.
“Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.”
“You bring tidings of death to the house of death,” answered Tyrrel; “and there is nothing in this world left that I should live for!”
点击收听单词发音
1 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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2 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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3 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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4 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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5 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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6 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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7 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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8 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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9 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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10 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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11 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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12 inured | |
adj.坚强的,习惯的 | |
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13 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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14 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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15 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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16 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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17 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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18 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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19 pauper | |
n.贫民,被救济者,穷人 | |
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20 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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21 inmate | |
n.被收容者;(房屋等的)居住人;住院人 | |
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22 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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24 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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26 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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27 perversely | |
adv. 倔强地 | |
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28 benighted | |
adj.蒙昧的 | |
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29 supplication | |
n.恳求,祈愿,哀求 | |
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30 petitioner | |
n.请愿人 | |
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31 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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32 supplicant | |
adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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33 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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34 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 repulsed | |
v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 );驳斥;拒绝 | |
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36 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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37 titular | |
adj.名义上的,有名无实的;n.只有名义(或头衔)的人 | |
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38 plausibly | |
似真地 | |
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39 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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40 counteracting | |
对抗,抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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41 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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42 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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43 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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44 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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45 nugatory | |
adj.琐碎的,无价值的 | |
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46 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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47 guile | |
n.诈术 | |
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48 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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49 enquired | |
打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 ); 询问; 问问题; 查问 | |
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50 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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51 investigations | |
(正式的)调查( investigation的名词复数 ); 侦查; 科学研究; 学术研究 | |
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52 clogs | |
木屐; 木底鞋,木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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53 bounty | |
n.慷慨的赠予物,奖金;慷慨,大方;施与 | |
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54 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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55 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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56 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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57 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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58 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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59 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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60 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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61 inveterate | |
adj.积习已深的,根深蒂固的 | |
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62 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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63 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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64 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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65 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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66 scrupled | |
v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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68 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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69 deposition | |
n.免职,罢官;作证;沉淀;沉淀物 | |
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70 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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71 jointly | |
ad.联合地,共同地 | |
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72 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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73 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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74 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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75 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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76 gnawed | |
咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 ); (长时间) 折磨某人; (使)苦恼; (长时间)危害某事物 | |
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77 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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78 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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79 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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80 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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81 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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82 supplicate | |
v.恳求;adv.祈求地,哀求地,恳求地 | |
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83 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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84 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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85 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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86 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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87 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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88 severed | |
v.切断,断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 );断,裂 | |
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89 partnership | |
n.合作关系,伙伴关系 | |
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90 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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91 pettish | |
adj.易怒的,使性子的 | |
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92 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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93 wedded | |
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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94 omnipotent | |
adj.全能的,万能的 | |
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95 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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96 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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97 canonical | |
n.权威的;典型的 | |
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98 transgression | |
n.违背;犯规;罪过 | |
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99 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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100 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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101 specious | |
adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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102 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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103 rust | |
n.锈;v.生锈;(脑子)衰退 | |
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104 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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105 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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106 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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107 deafened | |
使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 ); 使隔音 | |
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108 morbidly | |
adv.病态地 | |
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109 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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110 betrothed | |
n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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112 plunder | |
vt.劫掠财物,掠夺;n.劫掠物,赃物;劫掠 | |
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113 plundered | |
掠夺,抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114 jubilee | |
n.周年纪念;欢乐 | |
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115 shuddering | |
v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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116 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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117 verging | |
接近,逼近(verge的现在分词形式) | |
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118 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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119 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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120 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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121 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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122 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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123 emaciated | |
adj.衰弱的,消瘦的 | |
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124 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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125 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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126 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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127 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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128 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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129 fatigues | |
n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 );杂役;厌倦;(士兵穿的)工作服 | |
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130 alienated | |
adj.感到孤独的,不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 );使不友好;转让;让渡(财产等) | |
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131 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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132 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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133 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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134 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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135 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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136 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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137 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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138 shuddered | |
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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139 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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140 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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141 fatality | |
n.不幸,灾祸,天命 | |
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142 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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143 alienation | |
n.疏远;离间;异化 | |
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144 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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145 impairing | |
v.损害,削弱( impair的现在分词 ) | |
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146 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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147 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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148 ascertaining | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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149 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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150 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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151 imputed | |
v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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153 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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154 respiration | |
n.呼吸作用;一次呼吸;植物光合作用 | |
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155 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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156 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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157 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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158 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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159 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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160 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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161 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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162 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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163 suffusion | |
n.充满 | |
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164 authorized | |
a.委任的,许可的 | |
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165 imprinted | |
v.盖印(imprint的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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