The wooden cabin at the foot of Rings-Hill Speer had been furnished by Swithin as a sitting and sleeping apartment, some little while before this time; for he had found it highly convenient, during night observations at the top of the column, to remain on the spot all night, not to disturb his grandmother by passing in and out of the house, and to save himself the labour of incessantly8 crossing the field.
He would much have liked to tell her the secret, and, had it been his own to tell, would probably have done so; but sharing it with an objector who knew not his grandmother’s affection so well as he did himself, there was no alternative to holding his tongue. The more effectually to guard it he decided9 to sleep at the cabin during the two or three nights previous to his departure, leaving word at the homestead that in a day or two he was going on an excursion.
It was very necessary to start early. Long before the great eye of the sun was lifted high enough to glance into the Welland valley, St. Cleeve arose from his bed in the cabin and prepared to depart, cooking his breakfast upon a little stove in the corner. The young rabbits, littered during the foregoing summer, watched his preparations through the open door from the grey dawn without, as he bustled10, half dressed, in and out under the boughs12, and among the blackberries and brambles that grew around.
It was a strange place for a bridegroom to perform his toilet in, but, considering the unconventional nature of the marriage, a not inappropriate one. What events had been enacted13 in that earthen camp since it was first thrown up, nobody could say; but the primitive14 simplicity15 of the young man’s preparations accorded well with the prehistoric16 spot on which they were made. Embedded17 under his feet were possibly even now rude trinkets that had been worn at bridal ceremonies of the early inhabitants. Little signified those ceremonies today, or the happiness or otherwise of the contracting parties. That his own rite18, nevertheless, signified much, was the inconsequent reasoning of Swithin, as it is of many another bridegroom besides; and he, like the rest, went on with his preparations in that mood which sees in his stale repetition the wondrous19 possibilities of an untried move.
Then through the wet cobwebs, that hung like movable diaphragms on each blade and bough11, he pushed his way down to the furrow20 which led from the secluded21 fir-tree island to the wide world beyond the field.
He was not a stranger to enterprise, and still less to the contemplation of enterprise; but an enterprise such as this he had never even outlined. That his dear lady was troubled at the situation he had placed her in by not going himself on that errand, he could see from her letter; but, believing an immediate22 marriage with her to be the true way of restoring to both that equanimity23 necessary to serene24 philosophy, he held it of little account how the marriage was brought about, and happily began his journey towards her place of sojourn25.
He passed through a little copse before leaving the parish, the smoke from newly lit fires rising like the stems of blue trees out of the few cottage chimneys. Here he heard a quick, familiar footstep in the path ahead of him, and, turning the corner of the bushes, confronted the foot-post on his way to Welland. In answer to St. Cleeve’s inquiry26 if there was anything for himself the postman handed out one letter, and proceeded on his route.
Swithin opened and read the letter as he walked, till it brought him to a standstill by the importance of its contents.
They were enough to agitate27 a more phlegmatic28 youth than he. He leant over the wicket which came in his path, and endeavoured to comprehend the sense of the whole.
The large long envelope contained, first, a letter from a solicitor29 in a northern town, informing him that his paternal30 great-uncle, who had recently returned from the Cape31 (whither he had gone in an attempt to repair a broken constitution), was now dead and buried. This great-uncle’s name was like a new creation to Swithin. He had held no communication with the young man’s branch of the family for innumerable years — never, in fact, since the marriage of Swithin’s father with the simple daughter of Welland Farm. He had been a bachelor to the end of his life, and had amassed32 a fairly good professional fortune by a long and extensive medical practice in the smoky, dreary33, manufacturing town in which he had lived and died. Swithin had always been taught to think of him as the embodiment of all that was unpleasant in man. He was narrow, sarcastic34, and shrewd to unseemliness. That very shrewdness had enabled him, without much professional profundity35, to establish his large and lucrative36 connexion, which lay almost entirely37 among a class who neither looked nor cared for drawing-room courtesies.
However, what Dr. St. Cleeve had been as a practitioner38 matters little. He was now dead, and the bulk of his property had been left to persons with whom this story has nothing to do. But Swithin was informed that out of it there was a bequest39 of 600 pounds a year to himself — payment of which was to begin with his twenty-first year, and continue for his life, unless he should marry before reaching the age of twenty-five. In the latter precocious40 and objectionable event his annuity41 would be forfeited42. The accompanying letter, said the solicitor, would explain all.
This, the second letter, was from his uncle to himself, written about a month before the former’s death, and deposited with his will, to be forwarded to his nephew when that event should have taken place. Swithin read, with the solemnity that such posthumous43 epistles inspire, the following words from one who, during life, had never once addressed him:—
‘DEAR NEPHEW — You will doubtless experience some astonishment44 at receiving a communication from one whom you have never personally known, and who, when this comes into your hands, will be beyond the reach of your knowledge. Perhaps I am the loser by this life-long mutual45 ignorance. Perhaps I am much to blame for it; perhaps not. But such reflections are profitless at this date: I have written with quite other views than to work up a sentimental46 regret on such an amazingly remote hypothesis as that the fact of a particular pair of people not meeting, among the millions of other pairs of people who have never met, is a great calamity47 either to the world in general or to themselves.
‘The occasion of my addressing you is briefly48 this: Nine months ago a report casually49 reached me that your scientific studies were pursued by you with great ability, and that you were a young man of some promise as an astronomer50. My own scientific proclivities51 rendered the report more interesting than it might otherwise have been to me; and it came upon me quite as a surprise that any issue of your father’s marriage should have so much in him, or you might have seen more of me in former years than you are ever likely to do now. My health had then begun to fail, and I was starting for the Cape, or I should have come myself to inquire into your condition and prospects52. I did not return till six months later, and as my health had not improved I sent a trusty friend to examine into your life, pursuits, and circumstances, without your own knowledge, and to report his observations to me. This he did. Through him I learnt, of favourable54 news:—
‘(1) That you worked assiduously at the science of astronomy. ‘(2) That everything was auspicious55 in the career you had chosen.
‘Of unfavourable news:—
‘(1) That the small income at your command, even when eked56 out by the sum to which you would be entitled on your grandmother’s death and the freehold of the homestead, would be inadequate57 to support you becomingly as a scientific man, whose lines of work were of a nature not calculated to produce emoluments58 for many years, if ever. ‘(2) That there was something in your path worse than narrow means, and that that something was a WOMAN.
‘To save you, if possible, from ruin on these heads, I take the preventive measures detailed59 below.
‘The chief step is, as my solicitor will have informed you, that, at the age of twenty-five, the sum of 600 pounds a year be settled on you for life, provided you have not married before reaching that age; — a yearly gift of an equal sum to be also provisionally made to you in the interim60 — and, vice61 versa, that if you do marry before reaching the age of twenty-five you will receive nothing from the date of the marriage.
‘One object of my bequest is that you may have resources sufficient to enable you to travel and study the Southern constellations62. When at the Cape, after hearing of your pursuits, I was much struck with the importance of those constellations to an astronomer just pushing into notice. There is more to be made of the Southern hemisphere than ever has been made of it yet; the mine is not so thoroughly63 worked as the Northern, and thither64 your studies should tend.
‘The only other preventive step in my power is that of exhortation65, at which I am not an adept66. Nevertheless, I say to you, Swithin St. Cleeve, don’t make a fool of yourself, as your father did. If your studies are to be worth anything, believe me, they must be carried on without the help of a woman. Avoid her, and every one of the sex, if you mean to achieve any worthy67 thing. Eschew68 all of that sort for many a year yet. Moreover, I say, the lady of your acquaintance avoid in particular. I have heard nothing against her moral character hitherto; I have no doubt it has been excellent. She may have many good qualities, both of heart and of mind. But she has, in addition to her original disqualification as a companion for you (that is, that of sex), these two serious drawbacks: she is much older than yourself —’
‘MUCH older!’ said Swithin resentfully.
‘— and she is so impoverished69 that the title she derives70 from her late husband is a positive objection. Beyond this, frankly71, I don’t think well of her. I don’t think well of any woman who dotes upon a man younger than herself. To care to be the first fancy of a young fellow like you shows no great common sense in her. If she were worth her salt she would have too much pride to be intimate with a youth in your unassured position, to say no worse. She is old enough to know that a liaison72 with her may, and almost certainly would, be your ruin; and, on the other hand, that a marriage would be preposterous73 — unless she is a complete goose, and in that case there is even more reason for avoiding her than if she were in her few senses.
‘A woman of honourable74 feeling, nephew, would be careful to do nothing to hinder you in your career, as this putting of herself in your way most certainly will. Yet I hear that she professes75 a great anxiety on this same future of yours as a physicist76. The best way in which she can show the reality of her anxiety is by leaving you to yourself. Perhaps she persuades herself that she is doing you no harm. Well, let her have the benefit of the possible belief; but depend upon it that in truth she gives the lie to her conscience by maintaining such a transparent77 fallacy. Women’s brains are not formed for assisting at any profound science: they lack the power to see things except in the concrete. She’ll blab your most secret plans and theories to every one of her acquaintance —’
‘She’s got none!’ said Swithin, beginning to get warm.
‘— and make them appear ridiculous by announcing them before they are matured. If you attempt to study with a woman, you’ll be ruled by her to entertain fancies instead of theories, air-castles instead of intentions, qualms79 instead of opinions, sickly prepossessions instead of reasoned conclusions. Your wide heaven of study, young man, will soon reduce itself to the miserable80 narrow expanse of her face, and your myriad81 of stars to her two trumpery82 eyes.
‘A woman waking a young man’s passions just at a moment when he is endeavouring to shine intellectually, is doing little less than committing a crime.
‘Like a certain philosopher I would, upon my soul, have all young men from eighteen to twenty-five kept under barrels; seeing how often, in the lack of some such sequestering83 process, the woman sits down before each as his destiny, and too frequently enervates84 his purpose, till he abandons the most promising85 course ever conceived!
‘But no more. I now leave your fate in your own hands. Your well-wishing relative,
‘JOCELYN ST. CLEEVE,
Doctor in Medicine.’
As coming from a bachelor and hardened misogynist86 of seventy-two, the opinions herein contained were nothing remarkable87: but their practical result in restricting the sudden endowment of Swithin’s researches by conditions which turned the favour into a harassment88 was, at this unique moment, discomfiting89 and distracting in the highest degree.
Sensational90, however, as the letter was, the passionate91 intention of the day was not hazarded for more than a few minutes thereby92. The truth was, the caution and bribe93 came too late, too unexpectedly, to be of influence. They were the sort of thing which required fermentation to render them effective. Had St. Cleeve received the exhortation a month earlier; had he been able to run over in his mind, at every wakeful hour of thirty consecutive94 nights, a private catechism on the possibilities opened up by this annuity, there is no telling what might have been the stress of such a web of perplexity upon him, a young man whose love for celestial95 physics was second to none. But to have held before him, at the last moment, the picture of a future advantage that he had never once thought of, or discounted for present staying power, it affected96 him about as much as the view of horizons shown by sheet-lightning. He saw an immense prospect53; it went, and the world was as before.
He caught the train at Warborne, and moved rapidly towards Bath; not precisely97 in the same key as when he had dressed in the hut at dawn, but, as regarded the mechanical part of the journey, as unhesitatingly as before.
And with the change of scene even his gloom left him; his bosom98’s lord sat lightly in his throne. St. Cleeve was not sufficiently99 in mind of poetical100 literature to remember that wise poets are accustomed to read that lightness of bosom inversely101. Swithin thought it an omen78 of good fortune; and as thinking is causing in not a few such cases, he was perhaps, in spite of poets, right.
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1 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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2 complexions | |
肤色( complexion的名词复数 ); 面色; 局面; 性质 | |
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3 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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4 dirge | |
n.哀乐,挽歌,庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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5 imperturbable | |
adj.镇静的 | |
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6 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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7 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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8 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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9 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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10 bustled | |
闹哄哄地忙乱,奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 ); 催促 | |
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11 bough | |
n.大树枝,主枝 | |
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12 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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13 enacted | |
制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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15 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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16 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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17 embedded | |
a.扎牢的 | |
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18 rite | |
n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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19 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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20 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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21 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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22 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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23 equanimity | |
n.沉着,镇定 | |
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24 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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25 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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26 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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27 agitate | |
vi.(for,against)煽动,鼓动;vt.搅动 | |
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28 phlegmatic | |
adj.冷静的,冷淡的,冷漠的,无活力的 | |
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29 solicitor | |
n.初级律师,事务律师 | |
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30 paternal | |
adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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31 cape | |
n.海角,岬;披肩,短披风 | |
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32 amassed | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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34 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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35 profundity | |
n.渊博;深奥,深刻 | |
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36 lucrative | |
adj.赚钱的,可获利的 | |
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37 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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38 practitioner | |
n.实践者,从事者;(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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39 bequest | |
n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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40 precocious | |
adj.早熟的;较早显出的 | |
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41 annuity | |
n.年金;养老金 | |
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42 forfeited | |
(因违反协议、犯规、受罚等)丧失,失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43 posthumous | |
adj.遗腹的;父亡后出生的;死后的,身后的 | |
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44 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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45 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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46 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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47 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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48 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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49 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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50 astronomer | |
n.天文学家 | |
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51 proclivities | |
n.倾向,癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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52 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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53 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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54 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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55 auspicious | |
adj.吉利的;幸运的,吉兆的 | |
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56 eked | |
v.(靠节省用量)使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 );节约使用;竭力维持生计;勉强度日 | |
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57 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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58 emoluments | |
n.报酬,薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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59 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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60 interim | |
adj.暂时的,临时的;n.间歇,过渡期间 | |
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61 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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62 constellations | |
n.星座( constellation的名词复数 );一群杰出人物;一系列(相关的想法、事物);一群(相关的人) | |
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63 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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64 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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65 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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66 adept | |
adj.老练的,精通的 | |
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67 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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68 eschew | |
v.避开,戒绝 | |
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69 impoverished | |
adj.穷困的,无力的,用尽了的v.使(某人)贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 );使(某物)贫瘠或恶化 | |
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70 derives | |
v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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71 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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72 liaison | |
n.联系,(未婚男女间的)暖昧关系,私通 | |
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73 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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74 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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75 professes | |
声称( profess的第三人称单数 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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76 physicist | |
n.物理学家,研究物理学的人 | |
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77 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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78 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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79 qualms | |
n.不安;内疚 | |
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80 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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81 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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82 trumpery | |
n.无价值的杂物;adj.(物品)中看不中用的 | |
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83 sequestering | |
v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的现在分词 );扣押 | |
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84 enervates | |
v.使衰弱,使失去活力( enervate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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86 misogynist | |
n.厌恶女人的人 | |
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87 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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88 harassment | |
n.骚扰,扰乱,烦恼,烦乱 | |
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89 discomfiting | |
v.使为难( discomfit的现在分词 );使狼狈;使挫折;挫败 | |
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90 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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91 passionate | |
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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92 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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93 bribe | |
n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
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94 consecutive | |
adj.连续的,联贯的,始终一贯的 | |
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95 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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96 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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97 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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98 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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99 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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100 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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101 inversely | |
adj.相反的 | |
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