How he so well maintained the appearance of self-possession while Mr. Larkin remained, I can’t quite tell. Pride, however, which has carried so many quivering souls, with an appearance of defiance10, through the press-room to the drop, supported him.
But now that scoundrel was gone. The fury that fired him, the iron constraint11 that held him firm was also gone, and Cleve despaired.
Till this moment, when he was called on to part with it all, he did not suspect how entirely12 his ambition was the breath of his nostrils13, or how mere14 a sham15 was the sort of talk to which he had often treated Margaret and others about an emigrant’s life and the Arcadian liberty of the Antipodes.
The House-of-Commons life — the finest excitement on earth — the growing fame, the peerage, the premiership in the distance — the vulgar fingers of Jos. Larkin had just dropped the extinguisher upon the magic lamp that had showed him these dazzling illusions, and he was left to grope and stumble in the dark among his debts, with an obscure wife on his arm, and a child to plague him also. And this was to be the end! A precarious16 thousand a-year — dependent on the caprice of a narrow, tyrannical old man, with a young wife at his ear, and a load of debts upon Cleve’s shoulders, as he walked over the quag!
It is not well to let any object, apart from heaven, get into your head and fill it. Cleve had not that vein17 of insanity18 which on occasion draws men to suicide. In the thread of his destiny that fine black strand19 was not spun20. So blind and deep for a while was his plunge21 into despair, that I think had that atrabilious poison, which throws out its virus as suddenly as latent plague, and lays a felo-dese to cool his heels and his head in God’s prison, the grave — had a drop or two, I say, of that elixir22 of death been mingled23 in his blood, I don’t think he would ever have seen another morrow.
But Cleve was not thinking of dying. He was sure — in rage, and blasphemy24, and torture, it might be-but still he was sure to live on. Well, what was now to be done? Every power must be tasked to prevent the ridiculous catastrophe26 which threatened him with ruin; neither scruple27, nor remorse28, nor conscience, nor compunction should stand in the way. We are not to suppose that he is about to visit the Hon. Miss Caroline Oldys with a dagger29 in one hand and a cup of poison in the other, nor with gunpowder30 to blow up his uncle and Ware31, as some one did Darnley and the house of Kirk of Field. Simply his mind was filled with the one idea, that one way or another the thing must be stopped.
It was long before his ideas arranged themselves, and for a long time after no plan of operations which had a promise of success suggested itself. When at length he did decide, you would have said no wilder or wickeder scheme could have entered his brain.
It was a moonlight night. The scene a flat country, with a monotonous32 row of poplars crossing it. This long file of formal trees marks the line of a canal, fronting which at a distance of about a hundred yards stands a lonely brick house, with a few sombre elms rising near it; a light mist hung upon this expansive flat. The soil must have been unproductive, so few farmsteads were visible for miles around. Here and there pools of water glimmered33 coldly in the moonlight; and patches of rushes and reeds made the fields look ragged34 and neglected.
Here and there, too, a stunted35 hedge-row showed dimly along the level, otherwise unbroken, and stretching away into the haze36 of the horizon. It is a raw and dismal37 landscape, where a murder might be done, and the scream lose itself in distance unheard — where the highwayman, secure from interruption, might stop and plunder38 the chance wayfarer39 at his leisure — a landscape which a fanciful painter would flank with a distant row of gibbets.
The front of this square brick house, with a little enclosure, hardly two yards in depth, and a wooden paling in front, and with a green moss40 growing damply on the piers41 and the door-steps, and tinging42 the mortar43 between the bricks, looks out upon a narrow old road, along which just then were audible the clink and rattle44 of an approaching carriage and horses.
It was past one o’clock. No hospitable45 light shone from the windows, which on the contrary looked out black and dreary46 upon the vehicle and steaming horses which pulled up in front of the house.
Out got Cleve and reconnoitred.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Clay Parsonage — yes, sir,” said the driver.
Cleve shook the little wooden gate, which was locked; so he climbed the paling, and knocked and rang loud and long at the hall-door.
The driver at last reported a light in an upper window.
Cleve went on knocking and ringing, and the head of the Rev25. Isaac Dixie appeared high in the air over the window-stool.
“What do you want, pray?” challenged that suave47 clergyman from his sanctuary48.
“It’s I— Cleve Verney. Why do you go to bed at such hours? I must see you for a moment.”
“Dear me! my dear, valued pupil! Who could have dreamed? — I shall be down in one moment.”
“Thanks — I’ll wait;” and then to the driver he said —“I shan’t stay five minutes; mind, you’re ready to start with me the moment I return.”
Now the hall-door opened. The Rev. Isaac Dixie — for his dress was a compromise between modesty49 and extreme haste, and necessarily very imperfect — stood in greater part behind the hall-door; a bed-room candlestick in his fingers, smiling blandly50 on his “distinguished pupil,” who entered without a smile, without a greeting — merely saying:—
“Where shall we sit down for a minute, old Dixie?”
Holding his hand with the candle in it across, so as to keep his flowing dressing-gown together; and with much wonder and some misgivings51, yet contriving52 his usual rosy53 smile, he conducted his unexpected visitor into his “study.”
“I’ve so many apologies to offer, my very honoured and dear friend; this is so miserable54, and I fear you are cold. We must get something; we must, really, manage something — some little refreshment55.”
Dixie placed the candle on the chimney-piece, and looked inquiringly on Cleve.
“There’s some sherry, I know, and I think there’s some brandy.”
“There’s no one up and about?” inquired Cleve.
“Not a creature,” said the Rector; “no one can hear a word, and these are good thick walls.”
“I’ve only a minute; I know you’d like to be a bishop56, Dixie?”
Cleve, with his muffler and his hat still on, was addressing the future prelate, with his elbow on the chimney-piece.
“Nolo episcopari, of course, but we know you would, and there’s no time now for pretty speeches. Now, listen, you shall be that, and you shall reach it by two steps — the two best livings in our gift. I always keep my word; and when I set my heart on a thing I bring it about, and so sure as I do any good, I’ll bend all my interest to that one object.”
The Rev. Isaac Dixie stared hard at him, for Cleve looked strangely, and spoke57 as sternly as a villain58 demanding his purse. The Rector of Clay looked horribly perplexed59. His countenance60 seemed to ask, “Does he mean to give me a mitre or to take my life, or is he quite right in his head?”
“You think I don’t mean what I say, or that I’m talking nonsense, or that I’m mad. I’m not mad, it’s no nonsense, and no man was ever more resolved to do what he says.” And Cleve who was not given to swearing, did swear a fierce oath. “But all this is not for nothing; there’s a condition; you must do me a service. It won’t cost you much — less trouble, almost, than you’ve taken for me to-night, but you must do it.”
“And may I, my dear and valued pupil, may I ask?” began the rev. gentleman.
“No, you need not ask, for I’ll tell you. It’s the same sort of service you did for me in France,” said Cleve.
“Ah! ah!” ejaculated the clergyman, very uneasily. “For no one but you, my dear and admirable pupil, could I have brought myself to take that step, and I trust that you will on reconsideration ——”
“You must do what I say,” said Cleve, looking and speaking with the same unconscious sternness, which frightened the Rector more than any amount of bluster61. “I hardly suppose you want to break with me finally, and you don’t quite know all the consequences of that step, I fancy.”
“Break with you? my admirable patron! desert my dear and brilliant pupil in an emergency? Certainly not. Reckon upon me, my dear Mr. Verney, when ever you need my poor services, to the uttermost. To you all my loyalty62 is due, but unless you made a very special point of it, I should hesitate for any other person living, but yourself, to incur63 a second time ——”
“Don’t you think my dear, d — d old friend, I understand the length, and breadth, and depth, of your friendship; I know how strong it is, and I’ll make it stronger. It is for me— yes, in my own case you must repeat the service, as you call it, which you once did me, in another country.”
The Rev. Isaac Dixie’s rosy cheeks mottled all over blue and yellow; he withdrew his hand from his dressing-gown, with an unaffected gesture of fear; and he fixed64 a terrified gaze upon Cleve Verney’s eyes, which did not flinch65, but encountered his, darkly and fixedly66, with a desperate resolution.
“Why, you look as much frightened as if I asked you to commit a crime; you marvellous old fool, you hardly think me mad enough for that?”
“I hardly know, Mr. Verney, what I think,” said Dixie, looking with a horrible helplessness into his face.
“Good God! sir; it can’t be anything wrong?”
“Come, come, sir; you’re more than half asleep. Do you dare to think I’d commit myself to any man, by such an idiotic67 proposal? No one but a lunatic could think of blasting himself, as you — but you can’t suppose it. Do listen, and understand if you can; my wife, to whom you married me, is dead, six months ago she died; I tell you she’s dead.”
“Dear me! I’m very much pained, and I will say shocked; the deceased lady, I should not, my dear pupil, have alluded68 to, of course; but need I say, I never heard of that affliction?”
“How on earth could you? You don’t suppose, knowing all you do, I’d put it in the papers among the deaths?”
“No, dear me, of course,” said the Rev. Isaac Dixie, hastily bringing his dressing-gown again together. “No, certainly.”
“I don’t think that sort of publication would answer you or me. You forget it is two years ago and more, a good deal more. I don’t though, and whatever you may, I don’t want my uncle to know anything about it.”
“But, you know, I only meant, you hadn’t told me; my dear Mr. Verney, my honoured pupil, you will see — don’t you perceive how much is involved; but this—couldn’t you put this upon some one else? Do —do think.”
“No, in no one’s power, but yours, Dixie;” and Cleve took his hand, looking in his face, and wrung69 it so hard that the rev. gentleman almost winced70 under the pressure, of administering which I dare say Cleve was quite unconscious. “No one but you.”
“The poor — the respected lady — being deceased, of course you’ll give me a note to that effect under your hand; you’ll have no objection, in this case, to my taking out a special licence?”
“Special devil! are you mad? Why, anyone could do it with that. No, it’s just because it is a little irregular, nothing more, and exacts implicit71 mutual72 confidence, that I have chosen you for it.”
Dixie looked as if the compliment was not an unmixed pleasure.
“I still think, that — that having performed the other, there is some awkwardness, and the penalties are awful,” said he with increasing uneasiness, “and it does strike me, that if my dear Mr. Verney could place his hand upon some other humble73 friend, in this particular case, the advantages would be obvious.”
“Come, Dixie,” said Cleve, “I’m going; you must say yes or no, and so decide whether you have seen the last of me; I can’t spend the night giving you my reasons, but they are conclusive74. If you act like a man of sense, it’s the last service I shall ever require at your hands, and I’ll reward you splendidly; if you don’t, I not only cease to be your friend, but I become your enemy. I can strike when I like it — you know that; and upon my soul I’ll smash you. I shall see my uncle tomorrow morning at Ware, and I’ll tell him distinctly the entire of that French transaction.”
“But — but pray, my dear Mr. Verney, do say, did I refuse —do I object? you may command me, of course. I have incurred75 I may say a risk for you already, a risk in form.”
“Exactly, in form; and you don’t increase it by this kindness, and you secure my eternal gratitude76. Now you speak like a man of sense. You must be in Cardyllian tomorrow evening. It is possible I may ask nothing of you; if I do, the utmost is a technical irregularity, and secrecy77, which we are both equally interested in observing. You shall stay a week in Cardyllian mind, and I, of course, frank you there and back, and while you remain — it’s my business. It has a political aspect, as I shall explain to you by-and-bye, and so soon as I shall have brought my uncle round, and can avow78 it, it will lead the way rapidly to your fortune. Shall I see you in Cardyllian tomorrow evening?”
“Agreed, sir! — agreed, my dear Mr. Verney. I shall be there, my dear and valued pupil —yes.”
“Go to the Verney Arms; I shall probably be looking out for you there; at all events I shall see you before night.”
Verney looked at his watch, and repeated “I shall see you tomorrow;” and without taking leave, or hearing as it seemed the Rev. Isaac Dixie’s farewell compliments and benedictions79, he walked out in gloomy haste, as if the conference was not closed, but only suspended by the approaching parenthesis80 of a night and a day.
From the hall-table the obsequious81 divine took the key of the little gate, to which, in slippers82 and dressing-gown, he stepped blandly forth83, and having let out his despotic pupil, and waved his adieu, as the chaise drove away, he returned, and locked up his premises84 and house, with a great load at his heart.
点击收听单词发音
1 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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2 parlance | |
n.说法;语调 | |
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3 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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4 subverted | |
v.颠覆,破坏(政治制度、宗教信仰等)( subvert的过去式和过去分词 );使(某人)道德败坏或不忠 | |
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5 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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6 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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7 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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8 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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9 quail | |
n.鹌鹑;vi.畏惧,颤抖 | |
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10 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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11 constraint | |
n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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12 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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13 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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14 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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15 sham | |
n./adj.假冒(的),虚伪(的) | |
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16 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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17 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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18 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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19 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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20 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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21 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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22 elixir | |
n.长生不老药,万能药 | |
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23 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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24 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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25 rev | |
v.发动机旋转,加快速度 | |
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26 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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27 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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28 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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29 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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30 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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31 ware | |
n.(常用复数)商品,货物 | |
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32 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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33 glimmered | |
v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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35 stunted | |
adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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36 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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37 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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38 plunder | |
vt.劫掠财物,掠夺;n.劫掠物,赃物;劫掠 | |
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39 wayfarer | |
n.旅人 | |
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40 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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41 piers | |
n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 );(常设有娱乐场所的)突堤;柱子;墙墩 | |
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42 tinging | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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43 mortar | |
n.灰浆,灰泥;迫击炮;v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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44 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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45 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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46 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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47 suave | |
adj.温和的;柔和的;文雅的 | |
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48 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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49 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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50 blandly | |
adv.温和地,殷勤地 | |
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51 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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52 contriving | |
(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的现在分词 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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53 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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54 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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55 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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56 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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57 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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58 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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59 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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60 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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61 bluster | |
v.猛刮;怒冲冲的说;n.吓唬,怒号;狂风声 | |
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62 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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63 incur | |
vt.招致,蒙受,遭遇 | |
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64 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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65 flinch | |
v.畏缩,退缩 | |
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66 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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67 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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68 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 wrung | |
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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70 winced | |
赶紧避开,畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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72 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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73 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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74 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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75 incurred | |
[医]招致的,遭受的; incur的过去式 | |
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76 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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77 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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78 avow | |
v.承认,公开宣称 | |
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79 benedictions | |
n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 );(礼拜结束时的)赐福祈祷;恩赐;(大写)(罗马天主教)祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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80 parenthesis | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲,间歇,停歇 | |
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81 obsequious | |
adj.谄媚的,奉承的,顺从的 | |
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82 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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83 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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84 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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