On my little work-table, which he had drawn4 beside the hearth5, lay Dudley’s pipe, his brandy-flask, and an empty tumbler; and he was sitting with one foot on the fender, his elbow on his knee, and his head resting in his hand, weeping. His back being a little toward the door, he did not perceive us; and we saw him rub his knuckles7 in his eyes, and heard the sounds of his selfish lamentation8.
Mary and I stole away quietly, leaving him in possession, wondering when he was to leave the house, according to the sentence which I had heard pronounced upon him.
I was delighted to see old “Giblets” quietly strapping9 his luggage in the hall, and heard from him in a whisper that he was to leave that evening by rail — he did not know whither.
About half an hour afterwards, Mary Quince, going out to reconnoitre, heard from old Wyat in the lobby that he had just started to meet the train.
Blessed be heaven for that deliverance! An evil spirit had been cast out, and the house looked lighter10 and happier. It was not until I sat down in the quiet of my room that the scenes and images of that agitating11 day began to move before my memory in orderly procession, and for the first time I appreciated, with a stunning12 sense of horror and a perfect rapture13 of thanksgiving, the value of my escape and the immensity of the danger which had threatened me. It may have been miserable14 weakness — I think it was. But I was young, nervous, and afflicted15 with a troublesome sort of conscience, which occasionally went mad, and insisted, in small things as well as great, upon sacrifices which my reason now assures me were absurd. Of Dudley I had a perfect horror; and yet had that system of solicitation16, that dreadful and direct appeal to my compassion17, that placing of my feeble girlhood in the seat of the arbiter18 of my aged19 uncle’s hope or despair, been long persisted in, my resistance might have been worn out — who can tell? — and I self-sacrificed! Just as criminals in Germany are teased, and watched, and cross-examined, year after year, incessantly20, into a sort of madness; and worn out with the suspense21, the iteration, the self-restraint, and insupportable fatigue22, they at last cut all short, accuse themselves, and go infinitely23 relieved to the scaffold — you may guess, then, for me, nervous, self-diffident, and alone, how intense was the comfort of knowing that Dudley was actually married, and the harrowing importunity24 which had just commenced for ever silenced.
That night I saw my uncle. I pitied him, though I feared him. I was longing25 to tell him how anxious I was to help him, if only he could point out the way. It was in substance what I had already said, but now strongly urged. He brightened; he sat up perpendicularly26 in his chair with a countenance27, not weak or fatuous28 now, but resolute29 and searching, and which contracted into dark thought or calculation as I talked.
I dare say I spoke30 confusedly enough. I was always nervous in his presence; there was, I fancy, something mesmeric in the odd sort of influence which, without effort, he exercised over my imagination.
Sometimes this grew into a dismal31 panic, and Uncle Silas — polished, mild — seemed unaccountably horrible to me. Then it was no longer an accidental fascination32 of electro-biology. It was something more. His nature was incomprehensible by me. He was without the nobleness, without the freshness, without the softness, without the frivolities of human nature as I had experienced, either within myself or in other persons. I instinctively33 felt that appeals to sympathies or feelings could no more affect him than a marble monument. He seemed to accommodate his conversation to the moral structure of others, just as spirits are said to assume the shape of mortals. There were the sensualities of the gourmet34 for his body, and there ended his human nature, as it seemed to me. Through that semi-transparent structure I thought I could now and then discern the light or the glare of his inner life. But I understood it not.
He never scoffed35 at what was good or noble — his hardest critic could not nail him to one such sentence; and yet, it seemed somehow to me that his unknown nature was a systematic36 blasphemy37 against it all. If fiend he was, he was yet something higher than the garrulous38, and withal feeble, demon39 of Goethe. He assumed the limbs and features of our mortal nature. He shrouded40 his own, and was a profoundly reticent41 Mephistopheles. Gentle he had been to me — kindly42 he had nearly always spoken; but it seemed like the mild talk of one of those goblins of the desert, whom Asiatic superstition43 tells of, who appear in friendly shapes to stragglers from the caravan44, beckon45 to them from afar, call them by their names, and lead them where they are found no more. Was, then, all his kindness but a phosphoric radiance covering something colder and more awful than the grave?
“It is very noble of you, Maud — it is angelic; your sympathy with a ruined and despairing old man. But I fear you will recoil46. I tell you frankly47 that less than twenty thousand pounds will not extricate48 me from the quag of ruin in which I am entangled49 — lost!”
“Recoil! Far from it. I’ll do it. There must be some way.”
“Enough, my fair young protectress — celestial50 enthusiast51, enough. Though you do not, yet I recoil. I could not bring myself to accept this sacrifice. What signifies, even to me, my extrication52; I lie a mangled53 wretch54, with fifty mortal wounds on my crown; what avails the healing of one wound, when there are so many beyond all cure? Better to let me perish where I fall; and reserve your money for the worthier55 objects whom, perhaps, hereafter may avail to save.”
“But I will do this. I must. I cannot see you suffer with the power in my hands unemployed56 to help you,” I exclaimed.
“Enough, dear Maud; the will is here — enough: there is balm in your compassion and good-will. Leave me, ministering angel; for the present I cannot. If you will, we can talk of it again. Good-night.”
And so we parted.
The attorney from Feltram, I afterwards heard, was with him nearly all that night, trying in vain to devise by their joint57 ingenuity58 any means by which I might tie myself up. But there were none. I could not bind59 myself.
I was myself full of the hope of helping60 him. What was this sum to me, great as it seemed? Truly nothing. I could have spared it, and never felt the loss.
I took up a large quarto with coloured prints, one of the few books I had brought with me from dear old Knowl. Too much excited to hope for sleep in bed, I opened it, and turned over the leaves, my mind still full of Uncle Silas and the sum I hoped to help him with.
Unaccountably one of those coloured engravings arrested my attention. It represented the solemn solitude61 of a lofty forest; a girl, in Swiss costume, was flying in terror, and as she fled flinging a piece of meat behind her which she had taken from a little market-basket hanging upon her arm. Through the glade62 a pack of wolves were pursuing her.
The narrative63 told, that on her return homeward with her marketing64, she had been chased by wolves, and barely escaped by flying at her utmost speed, from time to time retarding65, as she did so, the pursuit, by throwing, piece by piece, the contents of her basket, in her wake, to be devoured66 and fought for by the famished67 beasts of prey68.
This print had seized my imagination. I looked with a curious interest on the print: something in the disposition69 of the trees, their great height, and rude boughs70, interlacing, and the awful shadow beneath, reminded me of a portion of the Windmill Wood where Milly and I had often rambled71. Then I looked at the figure of the poor girl, flying for her life, and glancing terrified over her shoulder. Then I gazed on the gaping72, murderous pack, and the hoary73 brute74 that led the van; and then I leaned back in my chair, and I thought — perhaps some latent association suggested what seemed a thing so unlikely — of a fine print in my portfolio75 from Vandyke’s noble picture of Belisarius. Idly I traced with my pencil, as I leaned back, on an envelope that lay upon the table, this little inscription76. It was mere77 fiddling78; and, absurd as it looked, there was nothing but an honest meaning in it:—“20,000l. Date Obolum Belisario!” My dear father had translated the little Latin inscription for me, and I had written it down as a sort of exercise of memory; and also, perhaps, as expressive79 of that sort of compassion which my uncle’s fall and miserable fate excited invariably in me. So I threw this queer little memorandum80 upon the open leaf of the book, and again the flight, the pursuit, and the bait to stay it, engaged my eye. And I heard a voice near the hearthstone, as I thought, say, in a stern whisper, “Fly from the fangs81 of Belisarius!”
“What’s that?” said I, turning sharply to Mary Quince.
Mary rose from her work at the fireside, staring at me with that odd sort of frown that accompanies fear and curiosity.
“You spoke? Did you speak?” I said, catching82 her by the arm, very much frightened myself.
“No, Miss; no, dear!” answered she, plainly thinking that I was a little wrong in my head.
There could be no doubt it was a trick of the imagination, and yet to this hour I could recognise that clear stern voice among a thousand, were it to speak again.
Jaded83 after a night of broken sleep and much agitation84, I was summoned next morning to my uncle’s room.
He received me oddly, I thought. His manner had changed, and made an uncomfortable impression upon me. He was gentle, kind, smiling, submissive, as usual; but it seemed to me that he experienced henceforth toward me the same half-superstitious repulsion which I had always felt from him. Dream, or voice, or vision — which had done it? There seemed to be an unconscious antipathy85 and fear. When he thought I was not looking, his eyes were sometimes grimly fixed86 for a moment upon me. When I looked at him, his eyes were upon the book before him; and when he spoke, a person not heeding87 what he uttered would have fancied that he was reading aloud from it.
There was nothing tangible88 but this shrinking from the encounter of our eyes. I said he was kind as usual. He was even more so. But there was this new sign of our silently repellant natures. Dislike it could not be. He knew I longed to serve him. Was it shame? Was there not a shade of horror in it?
“I have not slept,” said he. “For me the night has passed in thought, and the fruit of it is this — I cannot, Maud, accept your noble offer.”
“I am very sorry,” exclaimed I, in all honesty.
“I know it, my dear niece, and appreciate your goodness; but there are many reasons — none of them, I trust, ignoble89 — and which together render it impossible. No. It would be misunderstood — my honour shall not be impugned90.”
“But, sir, that could not be; you have never proposed it. It would be all, from first to last, my doing.”
“True, dear Maud, but I know, alas91! more of this evil and slanderous92 world than your happy inexperience can do. Who will receive our testimony93? None — no, not one. The difficulty — the insuperable moral difficulty is this — that I should expose myself to the plausibly94 imputation95 of having worked upon you, unduly96, for this end; and more, that I could not hold myself quite free from blame. It is your voluntary goodness, Maud. But you are young, inexperienced; and it is, I hold it, my duty to stand between you and any dealing97 with your property at so unripe98 an age. Some people may call this Quixotic. In my mind it is an imperious mandate99 of conscience; and I peremptorily100 refuse to disobey it, although with three weeks an execution will be in this house!”
I did not quite know what an execution meant; but from two harrowing novels, with whose distresses101 I was familiar, I knew that it indicated some direful process of legal torture and spoilation.
“Oh, uncle! — oh, sir! — you cannot allow this to happen. What will people say of me? And — and there is poor Milly — and everything! Think what it will be.”
“It cannot be helped — you cannot help it, Maud. Listen to me. There will be an execution here, I cannot say exactly how soon, but, I think, in a little more than a fortnight. I must provide for your comfort. You must leave. I have arranged that you shall join Milly, for the present, in France, till I have time to look about me. You had better, I think, write to your cousin, Lady Knollys. She, with all her oddities, has a heart. Can you say, Maud, that I have been kind?”
“You have never been anything but kind,” I exclaimed.
“That I’ve been self-denying when you made me a generous offer?” he continued. “That I now act to spare you pain? You may tell her, not as a message from me, but as a fact, that I am seriously thinking of vacating my guardianship103 — that I feel I have done her an injustice104, and that, so soon as my mind is a little less tortured, I shall endeavour to effect a reconciliation105 with her, and would wish ultimately to transfer the care of your person and education to her. You may say I have no longer an interest even in vindicating106 my name. My son has wrecked107 himself by a marriage. I forgot to tell you he stopped at Feltram, and this morning wrote to pray a parting interview. If I grant it, it shall be the last. I shall never see him or correspond with him more.”
The old man seemed much overcome, and held his handkerchief to his eyes.
“He and his wife are, I understand, about to emigrate; the sooner the better,” he resumed, bitterly. “Deeply, Maud, I regret having tolerated his suit to you, even for a moment. Had I thought it over, as I did the whole case last night, nothing could have induced me to permit it. But I have lived for so long like a monk108 in his cell, my wants and observation limited to the narrow compass of this chamber109, that my knowledge of the world has died out with my youth and my hopes: and I did not, as I ought to have done, consider many objections. Therefore, dear Maud, on this one subject, I entreat110, be silent; its discussion can effect nothing now. I was wrong, and frankly ask you to forget my mistake.”
I had been on the point of writing to Lady Knollys on this odious111 subject, when, happily, it was set at rest by the disclosure of yesterday; and being so, I could have no difficulty in acceding112 to my uncle’s request. He was conceding so much that I could not withhold113 so trifling114 a concession115 in return.
“I hope Monica will continue to be kind to poor Milly after I am gone.”
Here there were a few seconds of meditation116.
“Maud, you will not, I think, refuse to convey the substance of what I have just said in a letter to Lady Knollys, and perhaps you would have no objection to let me see it when it is written. It will prevent the possibility of its containing any misconception of what I have just spoken: and, Maud, you won’t forget to say whether I have been kind. It would be a satisfaction to me to know that Monica was assured that I never either teased or bullied117 my young ward6.”
With these words he dismissed me; and forthwith I completed such a letter as would quite embody118 what he had said; and in my own glowing terms, being in high good-humour with Uncle Silas, recorded my estimate of his gentleness and good-nature; and when I submitted it to him, he expressed his admiration119 of what he was pleased to call my cleverness in so exactly conveying what he wished, and his gratitude120 for the handsome terms in which I had spoken of my old guardian102.
点击收听单词发音
1 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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2 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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3 aroma | |
n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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4 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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5 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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6 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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7 knuckles | |
n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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8 lamentation | |
n.悲叹,哀悼 | |
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9 strapping | |
adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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10 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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11 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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12 stunning | |
adj.极好的;使人晕倒的 | |
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13 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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14 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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15 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 solicitation | |
n.诱惑;揽货;恳切地要求;游说 | |
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17 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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18 arbiter | |
n.仲裁人,公断人 | |
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19 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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20 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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21 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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22 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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23 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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24 importunity | |
n.硬要,强求 | |
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25 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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26 perpendicularly | |
adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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27 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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28 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
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29 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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30 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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31 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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32 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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33 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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34 gourmet | |
n.食物品尝家;adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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35 scoffed | |
嘲笑,嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
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37 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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38 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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39 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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40 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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41 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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42 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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43 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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44 caravan | |
n.大蓬车;活动房屋 | |
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45 beckon | |
v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意,召唤 | |
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46 recoil | |
vi.退却,退缩,畏缩 | |
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47 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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48 extricate | |
v.拯救,救出;解脱 | |
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49 entangled | |
adj.卷入的;陷入的;被缠住的;缠在一起的v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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51 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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52 extrication | |
n.解脱;救出,解脱 | |
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53 mangled | |
vt.乱砍(mangle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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54 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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55 worthier | |
应得某事物( worthy的比较级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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56 unemployed | |
adj.失业的,没有工作的;未动用的,闲置的 | |
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57 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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58 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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59 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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60 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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61 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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62 glade | |
n.林间空地,一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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63 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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64 marketing | |
n.行销,在市场的买卖,买东西 | |
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65 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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66 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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67 famished | |
adj.饥饿的 | |
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68 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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69 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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70 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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71 rambled | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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72 gaping | |
adj.口的;张口的;敞口的;多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 );张开,张大 | |
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73 hoary | |
adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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74 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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75 portfolio | |
n.公事包;文件夹;大臣及部长职位 | |
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76 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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77 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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78 fiddling | |
微小的 | |
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79 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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80 memorandum | |
n.备忘录,便笺 | |
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81 fangs | |
n.(尤指狗和狼的)长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 );(蛇的)毒牙;罐座 | |
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82 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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83 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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84 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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85 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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86 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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87 heeding | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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88 tangible | |
adj.有形的,可触摸的,确凿的,实际的 | |
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89 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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90 impugned | |
v.非难,指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 );对…有怀疑 | |
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91 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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92 slanderous | |
adj.诽谤的,中伤的 | |
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93 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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94 plausibly | |
似真地 | |
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95 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
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96 unduly | |
adv.过度地,不适当地 | |
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97 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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98 unripe | |
adj.未成熟的;n.未成熟 | |
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99 mandate | |
n.托管地;命令,指示 | |
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100 peremptorily | |
adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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101 distresses | |
n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 );痛苦;贫困;危险 | |
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102 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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103 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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104 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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105 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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106 vindicating | |
v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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107 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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108 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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109 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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110 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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111 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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112 acceding | |
v.(正式)加入( accede的现在分词 );答应;(通过财产的添附而)增加;开始任职 | |
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113 withhold | |
v.拒绝,不给;使停止,阻挡 | |
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114 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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115 concession | |
n.让步,妥协;特许(权) | |
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116 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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117 bullied | |
adj.被欺负了v.恐吓,威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118 embody | |
vt.具体表达,使具体化;包含,收录 | |
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119 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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120 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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