The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady’s part and forty years of celibacy11 on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five Mr. Ellenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded12 man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein13 of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though always an indolent one, because his studies had no definite object either of public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation14 in his behalf of the common rules of society. In truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinking with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality15 so often to become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity16 of conduct, that people searched his lineage for a hereditary17 taint18 of insanity19. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing20 purpose, and in feelings that preyed21 upon themselves for want of other food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive22 life.
The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom in everything but age as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquish23 her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. A Southern gentleman considerably24 younger than herself succeeded to her hand and carried her to Charleston, where after many uncomfortable years she found herself again a widow. It would have been singular if any uncommon25 delicacy26 of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney’s; it could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart’s principles consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her Southern husband, which had inevitably27 driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity28, dispensing29 with all that should have been her happiness and making the best of what remained. Sage30 in most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable31 for the one frailty32 that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy33 in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly on any consideration; she struggled with Time, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished34 the spoil as not worth the trouble of acquiring it.
The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s return to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur35 in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency36 which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood, and there was just the specious37 phantom38 of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. All the wonder was how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing39 consciousness of ridicule40, could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent41 and so laughable. But while people talked the wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized according to the Episcopalian forms and in open church, with a degree of publicity42 that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle43. It had been arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. By some accident the bridegroom was a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants, with whose arrival, after this tedious but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence.
The clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal-party came through the church door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant was the spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the moment when the bride’s foot touched the threshold the bell swung heavily in the tower above her and sent forth45 its deepest knell46. The vibrations47 died away, and returned with prolonged solemnity as she entered the body of the church.
“Good heavens! What an omen44!” whispered a young lady to her lover.
“On my honor,” replied the gentleman, “I believe the bell has the good taste to toll48 of its own accord. What has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its merriest peal49. It has only a funeral-knell for her.”
The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle50 of entrance to hear the first boding51 stroke of the bell — or, at least, to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore continued to advance with undiminished gayety. The gorgeous dresses of the time — the crimson52 velvet53 coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery54, the buckles55, canes56 and swords, all displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery — made the group appear more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. But by what perversity57 of taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor58 of attire59, as if the loveliest maiden60 had suddenly withered61 into age and become a moral to the beautiful around her? On they went, however, and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright-pageant till it shone forth again as from a mist.
This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled62 closer together, while a slight scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenly shaken by a puff63 of wind which threatened to scatter64 the leaves of an old brown, withered rose on the same stalk with two dewy buds, such being the emblem65 of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. But her heroism66 was admirable. She had started with an irrepressible shudder67, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. The bell continued to swing, strike and vibrate with the same doleful regularity68 as when a corpse69 is on its way to the tomb.
“My young friends here have their nerves a little shaken,” said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. “But so many weddings have been ushered70 in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune under such different auspices71.”
“Madam,” answered the rector, in great perplexity, “this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous Bishop72 Taylor wherein he mingles73 so many thoughts of mortality and future woe74 that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal-chamber in black and cut the wedding-garment out of a coffin75-pall. And it has been the custom of divers76 nations to infuse something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is life’s chiefest business. Thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral-knell.”
But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener point, he did not fail to despatch77 an attendant to inquire into the mystery and stop those sounds so dismally79 appropriate to such a marriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken only by whispers and a few suppressed titterings among the wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young have less charity for aged80 follies81 than the old for those of youth. The widow’s glance was observed to wander for an instant toward a window of the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had dedicated82 to her first husband; then her eyelids83 dropped over their faded orbs84 and her thoughts were drawn85 irresistibly86 to another grave. Two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off were calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary87 truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had been her fate if, after years of bliss88, the bell were now tolling89 for her funeral and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. But why had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank from each other’s embrace?
Still the death-bell tolled90 so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through the church: a hearse with a train of several coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were heard at the door. The widow looked down the aisle and clenched91 the arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious violence that the fair girl trembled.
“You frighten me, my dear madam,” cried she. “For heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”
“Nothing, my dear — nothing,” said the widow; then, whispering close to her ear, “There is a foolish fancy that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two first husbands for groomsmen.”
“Look! look!” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here? The funeral!”
As she spoke92 a dark procession paced into the church. First came an old man and woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired93 from head to foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary94 hair, he leaning on a staff and supporting her decrepit95 form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared another and another pair, as aged, as black and mournful as the first. As they drew near the widow recognized in every face some trait of former friends long forgotten, but now returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare a shroud96, or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night had she danced with them in youth, and now in joyless age she felt that some withered partner should request her hand and all unite in a dance of death to the music of the funeral-bell.
While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle it was observed that from pew to pew the spectators shuddered97 with irrepressible awe98 as some object hitherto concealed99 by the intervening figures came full in sight. Many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed100 and rigid101 stare, and a young girl giggled102 hysterically103 and fainted with the laughter on her lips. When the spectral104 procession approached the altar, each couple separated and slowly diverged105, till in the centre appeared a form that had been worthily106 ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the death-knell and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his shroud.
No garb107 but that of the grave could have befitted such a death-like aspect. The eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral108 lamp; all else was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke.
“Come, my bride!” said those pale lips. “The hearse is ready; the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us be married, and then to our coffins109!”
How shall the widow’s horror be represented? It gave her the ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her youthful friends stood apart, shuddering110 at the mourners, the shrouded111 bridegroom and herself; the whole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle of the gilded112 vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow and death.
The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.
“Mr. Ellenwood,” said he, soothingly113, yet with somewhat of authority, “you are not well. Your mind has been agitated114 by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred115. As an old friend, let me entreat116 you to return home.”
“Home — yes; but not without my bride,” answered he, in the same hollow accents. “You deem this mockery — perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet117 and embroidery, had I forced my withered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery or madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come hither without a wedding-garment — the bridegroom or the bride.”
He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity118 of his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None that beheld119 them could deny the terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived120 to draw.
“Cruel! cruel!” groaned121 the heartstricken bride.
“Cruel?” repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild bitterness, “Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! In youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away all the substance of my life and made it a dream without reality enough even to grieve at — with only a pervading122 gloom, through which I walked wearily and cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have built my tomb and would not give up the thought of resting there — no, not for such a life as we once pictured — you call me to the altar. At your summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termed your life. What is there for me but your decay and death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral-friends, and bespoken123 the sexton’s deepest knell, and am come in my shroud to wed10 you as with a burial-service, that we may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre and enter it together.”
It was not frenzy124, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion in a heart unused to it, that now wrought125 upon the bride. The stern lesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. She seized the bridegroom’s hand.
“Yes!” cried she; “let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. My life is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its close there is one true feeling. It has made me what I was in youth: it makes me worthy126 of you. Time is no more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity127.”
With a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering128 in his own. How strange that gush129 of human feeling from the frozen bosom130 of a corpse! He wiped away the tear, even with his shroud.
“Beloved of my youth,” said he, “I have been wild. The despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once and maddened me. Forgive and be forgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none of our morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the altar as lovers whom adverse131 circumstances have separated through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it and find their earthly affection changed into something holy as religion. And what is time to the married of eternity?”
Amid the tears of many and a swell132 of exalted133 sentiment in those who felt aright was solemnized the union of two immortal134 souls. The train of withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged bride and the death-bell tolling through the whole till its deep voice overpowered the marriage-words, — all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene, poured forth an anthem135, first mingling136 with the dismal78 knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when the awful rite2 was finished and with cold hand in cold hand the married of eternity withdrew, the organ’s peal of solemn triumph drowned the wedding-knell.
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1
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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rite
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n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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narrative
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n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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edifice
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n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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standing
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n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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urns
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n.壶( urn的名词复数 );瓮;缸;骨灰瓮 | |
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obelisks
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n.方尖石塔,短剑号,疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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tumult
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n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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legendary
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adj.传奇(中)的,闻名遐迩的;n.传奇(文学) | |
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wed
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v.娶,嫁,与…结婚 | |
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celibacy
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n.独身(主义) | |
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secluded
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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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vein
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n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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relaxation
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n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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fatality
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n.不幸,灾祸,天命 | |
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eccentricity
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n.古怪,反常,怪癖 | |
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hereditary
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adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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taint
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n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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insanity
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n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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engrossing
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adj.使人全神贯注的,引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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preyed
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v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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abortive
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adj.不成功的,发育不全的 | |
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relinquish
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v.放弃,撤回,让与,放手 | |
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considerably
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adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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uncommon
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adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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delicacy
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n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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equanimity
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n.沉着,镇定 | |
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dispensing
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v.分配( dispense的现在分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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sage
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n.圣人,哲人;adj.贤明的,明智的 | |
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amiable
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adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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frailty
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n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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proxy
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n.代理权,代表权;(对代理人的)委托书;代理人 | |
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relinquished
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交出,让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 ); 放弃 | |
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concur
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v.同意,意见一致,互助,同时发生 | |
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expediency
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n.适宜;方便;合算;利己 | |
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specious
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adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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phantom
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n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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agonizing
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adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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ridicule
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v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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prudent
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adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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publicity
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n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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aisle
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n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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omen
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n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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knell
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n.丧钟声;v.敲丧钟 | |
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vibrations
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n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 );震动;感受;(偏离平衡位置的)一次性往复振动 | |
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toll
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n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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peal
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n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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bustle
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v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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boding
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adj.凶兆的,先兆的n.凶兆,前兆,预感v.预示,预告,预言( bode的现在分词 );等待,停留( bide的过去分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待 | |
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52
crimson
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n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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velvet
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n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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embroidery
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n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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buckles
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搭扣,扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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canes
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n.(某些植物,如竹或甘蔗的)茎( cane的名词复数 );(用于制作家具等的)竹竿;竹杖 | |
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57
perversity
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n.任性;刚愎自用 | |
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splendor
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n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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attire
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v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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maiden
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n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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61
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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huddled
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挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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puff
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n.一口(气);一阵(风);v.喷气,喘气 | |
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scatter
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vt.撒,驱散,散开;散布/播;vi.分散,消散 | |
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emblem
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n.象征,标志;徽章 | |
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heroism
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n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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shudder
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v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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regularity
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n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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69
corpse
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n.尸体,死尸 | |
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70
ushered
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v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
auspices
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n.资助,赞助 | |
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72
bishop
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n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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73
mingles
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混合,混入( mingle的第三人称单数 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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74
woe
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n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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75
coffin
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n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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76
divers
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adj.不同的;种种的 | |
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77
despatch
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n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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78
dismal
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adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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79
dismally
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adv.阴暗地,沉闷地 | |
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80
aged
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adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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81
follies
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罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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82
dedicated
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adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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83
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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84
orbs
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abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球,天体,圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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85
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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86
irresistibly
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adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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87
momentary
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adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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88
bliss
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n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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89
tolling
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[财]来料加工 | |
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tolled
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鸣钟(toll的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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91
clenched
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v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
spoke
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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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93
attired
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adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
hoary
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adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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95
decrepit
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adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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96
shroud
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n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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97
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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98
awe
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n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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99
concealed
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a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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100
fixed
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adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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101
rigid
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adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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102
giggled
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v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
hysterically
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ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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104
spectral
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adj.幽灵的,鬼魂的 | |
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105
diverged
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分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 ); 偏离; 分歧; 分道扬镳 | |
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106
worthily
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重要地,可敬地,正当地 | |
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107
garb
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n.服装,装束 | |
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108
sepulchral
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adj.坟墓的,阴深的 | |
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109
coffins
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n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 );使某人早亡[死,完蛋,垮台等]之物 | |
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110
shuddering
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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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111
shrouded
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v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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112
gilded
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a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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113
soothingly
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adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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114
agitated
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adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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115
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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116
entreat
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v.恳求,恳请 | |
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117
scarlet
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n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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118
simplicity
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n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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119
beheld
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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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120
contrived
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adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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121
groaned
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v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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122
pervading
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v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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123
bespoken
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v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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124
frenzy
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n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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125
wrought
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v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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126
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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127
eternity
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n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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128
gathering
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n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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129
gush
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v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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130
bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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131
adverse
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adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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132
swell
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vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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133
exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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134
immortal
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adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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135
anthem
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n.圣歌,赞美诗,颂歌 | |
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136
mingling
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adj.混合的 | |
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