‘To be weak,’ we need not the great archangel’s voice to tell us, ‘is to be miserable2.’ All weakness is suffering and humiliation3, no matter for its mode or its subject. Beyond all other weakness, therefore, and by a sad prerogative4, as more miserable than what is most miserable in all, that capital weakness of man which regards the tenure5 of his enjoyments7 and his power to protect, even for a moment, the crown of flowers—flowers, at the best, how frail9 and few!—which sometimes settles upon his haughty10 brow. There is no end, there never will be an end, of the lamentations which ascend11 from earth and the rebellious12 heart of her children, upon this huge opprobrium13 of human pride—the everlasting14 mutabilities of all which man can grasp by his power or by his aspirations15, the fragility of all which he inherits, and the hollowness visible amid the very raptures16 of enjoyment6 to every eye which looks for a moment underneath18 the draperies of the shadowy present—the hollowness—the blank treachery of hollowness, upon which all the pomps and vanities of life ultimately repose19. This trite20 but unwearying theme, this impassioned commonplace of humanity, is the subject in every age of variation without end, from the Poet, the Rhetorician, the Fabulist, the Moralist, the Divine, and the Philosopher. All, amidst the sad vanity of their sighs and groans21, labour to put on record and to establish this monotonous23 complaint, which needs not other record or evidence than those very sighs and groans. What is life? Darkness and formless vacancy24 for a beginning, or something beyond all beginning—then next a dim lotos of human consciousness, finding itself afloat upon the bosom25 of waters without a shore—then a few sunny smiles and many tears—a little love and infinite strife26—whisperings from paradise and fierce mockeries from the anarchy27 of chaos28—dust and ashes—and once more darkness circling round, as if from the beginning, and in this way rounding or making an island of our fantastic existence,—that is human life; that the inevitable29 amount of man’s laughter and his tears—of what he suffers and he does—of his motions this way and that way—to the right or to the left—backwards30 or forwards—of all his seeming realities and all his absolute negations—his shadowy pomps and his pompous31 shadows—of whatsoever32 he thinks, finds, makes or mars, creates or animates33, loves, hates, or in dread34 hope anticipates;—so it is, so it has been, so it will be, for ever and ever.
Yet in the lowest deep there still yawns a lower deep; and in the vast halls of man’s frailty35 there are separate and more gloomy chambers36 of a frailty more exquisite37 and consummate38. We account it frailty that threescore years and ten make the upshot of man’s pleasurable existence, and that, far before that time is reached, his beauty and his power have fallen among weeds and forgetfulness. But there is a frailty, by comparison with which this ordinary flux39 of the human race seems to have a vast duration. Cases there are, and those not rare, in which a single week—a day—an hour sweeps away all vestiges40 and landmarks41 of a memorable42 felicity; in which the ruin travels faster than the flying showers upon the mountain-side, faster ‘than a musician scatters43 sounds;’ in which ‘it was’ and ‘it is not’ are words of the self-same tongue, in the self-same minute; in which the sun that at noon beheld44 all sound and prosperous, long before its setting hour looks out upon a total wreck, and sometimes upon the total abolition45 of any fugitive46 memorial that there ever had been a vessel47 to be wrecked48, or a wreck to be obliterated49.
These cases, though here spoken of rhetorically, are of daily occurrence; and, though they may seem few by comparison with the infinite millions of the species, they are many indeed, if they be reckoned absolutely for themselves; and throughout the limits of a whole nation, not a day passes over us but many families are robbed of their heads, or even swallowed up in ruin themselves, or their course turned out of the sunny beams into a dark wilderness51. Shipwrecks53 and nightly conflagrations54 are sometimes, and especially among some nations, wholesale55 calamities56; battles yet more so; earthquakes, the famine, the pestilence57, though rarer, are visitations yet wider in their desolation. Sickness and commercial ill-luck, if narrower, are more frequent scourges58. And most of all, or with most darkness in its train, comes the sickness of the brain—lunacy—which, visiting nearly one thousand in every million, must, in every populous60 nation, make many ruins in each particular day. ‘Babylon in ruins,’ says a great author, ‘is not so sad a sight as a human soul overthrown61 by lunacy.’ But there is a sadder even than that,—the sight of a family-ruin wrought62 by crime is even more appalling63. Forgery64, breaches65 of trust, embezzlement66, of private or public funds—(a crime sadly on the increase since the example of Fauntleroy, and the suggestion of its great feasibility first made by him)—these enormities, followed too often, and countersigned68 for their final result to the future happiness of families, by the appalling catastrophe69 of suicide, must naturally, in every wealthy nation, or wherever property and the modes of property are much developed, constitute the vast majority of all that come under the review of public justice. Any of these is sufficient to make shipwreck52 of all peace and comfort for a family; and often, indeed, it happens that the desolation is accomplished70 within the course of one revolving71 sun; often the whole dire72 catastrophe, together with its total consequences, is both accomplished and made known to those whom it chiefly concerns within one and the same hour. The mighty73 Juggernaut of social life, moving onwards with its everlasting thunders, pauses not for a moment to spare—to pity—to look aside, but rushes forward for ever, impassive as the marble in the quarry—caring not for whom it destroys, for the how many, or for the results, direct and indirect, whether many or few. The increasing grandeur74 and magnitude of the social system, the more it multiplies and extends its victims, the more it conceals76 them; and for the very same reason: just as in the Roman amphitheatres, when they grew to the magnitude of mighty cities (in some instances accommodating 400,000 spectators, in many a fifth part of that amount), births and deaths became ordinary events, which, in a small modern theatre, are rare and memorable; and exactly as these prodigious77 accidents multiplied, pari passu, they were disregarded and easily concealed78: for curiosity was no longer excited; the sensation attached to them was little or none.
From these terrific tragedies, which, like monsoons79 or tornadoes80, accomplish the work of years in an hour, not merely an impressive lesson is derived82, sometimes, perhaps, a warning, but also (and this is of universal application) some consolation83. Whatever may have been the misfortunes or the sorrows of a man’s life, he is still privileged to regard himself and his friends as amongst the fortunate by comparison, in so far as he has escaped these wholesale storms, either as an actor in producing them, or a contributor to their violence—or even more innocently (though oftentimes not less miserably)—as a participator in the instant ruin, or in the long arrears85 of suffering which they entail86.
The following story falls within the class of hasty tragedies, and sudden desolations here described. The reader is assured that every incident is strictly87 true: nothing, in that respect, has been altered; nor, indeed, anywhere except in the conversations, of which, though the results and general outline are known, the separate details have necessarily been lost under the agitating88 circumstances which produced them. It has been judged right and delicate to conceal75 the name of the great city, and therefore of the nation in which these events occurred, chiefly out of consideration for the descendants of one person concerned in the narrative89: otherwise, it might not have been requisite90: for it is proper to mention, that every person directly a party to the case has been long laid in the grave: all of them, with one solitary91 exception, upwards92 of fifty years.
It was early spring in the year 17—; the day was the 6th of April; and the weather, which had been of a wintry fierceness for the preceding six or seven weeks—cold indeed beyond anything known for many years, gloomy for ever, and broken by continual storms—was now by a Swedish transformation93 all at once bright—genial94—heavenly. So sudden and so early a prelusion of summer, it was generally feared, could not last. But that only made everybody the more eager to lose no hour of an enjoyment that might prove so fleeting95. It seemed as if the whole population of the place, a population among the most numerous in Christendom, had been composed of hybernating animals suddenly awakened96 by the balmy sunshine from their long winter’s torpor97. Through every hour of the golden morning the streets were resonant98 with female parties of young and old, the timid and the bold, nay99 even of the most delicate valetudinarians, now first tempted100 to lay aside their wintry clothing together with their fireside habits, whilst the whole rural environs of our vast city, the woodlands, and the interminable meadows began daily to re-echo the glad voices of the young and jovial101 awaking once again, like the birds and the flowers, and universal nature, to the luxurious102 happiness of this most delightful103 season.
Happiness do I say? Yes, happiness; happiness to me above all others. For I also in those days was among the young and the gay; I was healthy; I was strong; I was prosperous in a worldly sense! I owed no man a shilling; feared no man’s face; shunned104 no man’s presence. I held a respectable station in society; I was myself, let me venture to say it, respected generally for my personal qualities, apart from any advantages I might draw from fortune or inheritance; I had reason to think myself popular amongst the very slender circle of my acquaintance; and finally, which perhaps was the crowning grace to all these elements of happiness, I suffered not from the presence of ennui105; nor ever feared to suffer: for my temperament106 was constitutionally ardent107; I had a powerful animal sensibility; and I knew the one great secret for maintaining its equipoise, viz. by powerful daily exercise; and thus I lived in the light and presence, or (if I should not be suspected of seeking rhetorical expressions, I would say)—in one eternal solstice, of unclouded hope.
These, you will say, were blessings109; these were golden elements of felicity. They were so; and yet, with the single exception of my healthy frame and firm animal organisation110, I feel that I have mentioned hitherto nothing but what by comparison might be thought of a vulgar quality. All the other advantages that I have enumerated111, had they been yet wanting, might have been acquired; had they been forfeited112, might have been reconquered; had they been even irretrievably lost, might, by a philosophic113 effort, have been dispensed114 with; compensations might have been found for any of them, many equivalents, or if not, consolations115 at least, for their absence. But now it remains116 to speak of other blessings too mighty to be valued, not merely as transcending117 in rank and dignity all other constituents118 of happiness, but for a reason far sadder than that—because, once lost, they were incapable119 of restoration, and because not to be dispensed with; blessings in which ‘either we must live or have no life:’ lights to the darkness of our paths and to the infirmity of our steps—which, once extinguished, never more on this side the gates of Paradise can any man hope to see re-illumined for himself. Amongst these I may mention an intellect, whether powerful or not in itself, at any rate most elaborately cultivated; and, to say the truth, I had little other business before me in this life than to pursue this lofty and delightful task. I may add, as a blessing108, not in the same positive sense as that which I have just mentioned, because not of a nature to contribute so hourly to the employment of the thoughts, but yet in this sense equal, that the absence of either would have been an equal affliction,—namely, a conscience void of all offence. It was little indeed that I, drawn120 by no necessities of situation into temptations of that nature, had done no injury to any man. That was fortunate; but I could not much value myself upon what was so much an accident of my situation. Something, however, I might pretend to beyond this negative merit; for I had originally a benign121 nature; and, as I advanced in years and thoughtfulness, the gratitude122 which possessed123 me for my own exceeding happiness led me to do that by principle and system which I had already done upon blind impulse; and thus upon a double argument I was incapable of turning away from the prayer of the afflicted124, whatever had been the sacrifice to myself. Hardly, perhaps, could it have been said in a sufficient sense at that time that I was a religious man: yet undoubtedly125 I had all the foundations within me upon which religion might hereafter have grown. My heart overflowed126 with thankfulness to Providence128: I had a natural tone of unaffected piety129; and thus far at least I might have been called a religious man, that in the simplicity130 of truth I could have exclaimed,
‘O, Abner, I fear God, and I fear none beside.’
But wherefore seek to delay ascending131 by a natural climax132 to that final consummation and perfect crown of my felicity—that almighty133 blessing which ratified134 their value to all the rest? Wherefore, oh! wherefore do I shrink in miserable weakness from——what? Is it from reviving, from calling up again into fierce and insufferable light the images and features of a long-buried happiness? That would be a natural shrinking and a reasonable weakness. But how escape from reviving, whether I give it utterance135 or not, that which is for ever vividly136 before me? What need to call into artificial light that which, whether sleeping or waking—by night or by day—for eight-and-thirty years has seemed by its miserable splendour to scorch137 my brain? Wherefore shrink from giving language, simple vocal138 utterance, to that burden of anguish139 which by so long an endurance has lost no atom of its weight, nor can gain any most surely by the loudest publication? Need there can be none, after this, to say that the priceless blessing, which I have left to the final place in this ascending review, was the companion of my life—my darling and youthful wife. Oh! dovelike woman! fated in an hour the most defenceless to meet with the ravening140 vulture,—lamb fallen amongst wolves,—trembling—fluttering fawn141, whose path was inevitably142 to be crossed by the bloody143 tiger;—angel, whose most innocent heart fitted thee for too early a flight from this impure144 planet; if indeed it were a necessity that thou shouldst find no rest for thy footing except amidst thy native heavens, if indeed to leave what was not worthy145 of thee were a destiny not to be evaded—a summons not to be put by,—yet why, why, again and again I demand—why was it also necessary that this thy departure, so full of wo to me, should also to thyself be heralded147 by the pangs149 of martyrdom? Sainted love, if, like the ancient children of the Hebrews, like Meshech and Abednego, thou wert called by divine command, whilst yet almost a child, to walk, and to walk alone, through the fiery151 furnace,—wherefore then couldst not thou, like that Meshech and that Abednego, walk unsinged by the dreadful torment152, and come forth153 unharmed? Why, if the sacrifice were to be total, was it necessary to reach it by so dire a struggle? and if the cup, the bitter cup, of final separation from those that were the light of thy eyes and the pulse of thy heart might not be put aside,—yet wherefore was it that thou mightst not drink it up in the natural peace which belongs to a sinless heart?
But these are murmurings, you will say, rebellious murmurings against the proclamations of God. Not so: I have long since submitted myself, resigned myself, nay even reconciled myself, perhaps, to the great wreck of my life, in so far as it was the will of God, and according to the weakness of my imperfect nature. But my wrath154 still rises, like a towering flame, against all the earthly instruments of this ruin; I am still at times as unresigned as ever to this tragedy, in so far as it was the work of human malice155. Vengeance156, as a mission for me, as a task for my hands in particular, is no longer possible; the thunder-bolts of retribution have been long since launched by other hands; and yet still it happens that at times I do—I must—I shall perhaps to the hour of death, rise in maniac157 fury, and seek, in the very impotence of vindictive158 madness, groping as it were in blindness of heart, for that tiger from hell-gates that tore away my darling from my heart. Let me pause, and interrupt this painful strain, to say a word or two upon what she was—and how far worthy of a love more honourable159 to her (that was possible) and deeper (but that was not possible) than mine. When first I saw her, she—my Agnes—was merely a child, not much (if anything) above sixteen. But, as in perfect womanhood she retained a most childlike expression of countenance160, so even then in absolute childhood she put forward the blossoms and the dignity of a woman. Never yet did my eye light upon creature that was born of woman, nor could it enter my heart to conceive one, possessing a figure more matchless in its proportions, more statuesque, and more deliberately161 and advisedly to be characterised by no adequate word but the word magnificent (a word too often and lightly abused). In reality, speaking of women, I have seen many beautiful figures, but hardly one except Agnes that could without hyperbole be styled truly and memorably163 magnificent. Though in the first order of tall women, yet, being full in person, and with a symmetry that was absolutely faultless, she seemed to the random164 sight as little above the ordinary height. Possibly from the dignity of her person, assisted by the dignity of her movements, a stranger would have been disposed to call her at a distance a woman of commanding presence; but never after he had approached near enough to behold165 her face. Every thought of artifice—of practised effect—or of haughty pretension166, fled before the childlike innocence167—the sweet feminine timidity—and the more than cherub168 loveliness of that countenance, which yet in its lineaments was noble, whilst its expression was purely169 gentle and confiding170. A shade of pensiveness172 there was about her; but that was in her manners, scarcely ever in her features; and the exquisite fairness of her complexion173, enriched by the very sweetest and most delicate bloom that ever I have beheld, should rather have allied174 it to a tone of cheerfulness. Looking at this noble creature, as I first looked at her, when yet upon the early threshold of womanhood—
‘With household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin175 liberty’—
you might have supposed her some Hebe or young Aurora176 of the dawn. When you saw only her superb figure, and its promise of womanly development, with the measured dignity of her step, you might for a moment have fancied her some imperial Medea of the Athenian stage—some Volumnia from Rome,
‘Or ruling bandit’s wife amidst the Grecian isles178.’
But catch one glance from her angelic countenance—and then combining the face and the person, you would have dismissed all such fancies, and have pronounced her a Pandora or an Eve, expressly accomplished and held forth by nature as an exemplary model or ideal pattern for the future female sex:
‘A perfect woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, to command:
And yet a spirit too, and bright
With something of an angel light.’
To this superb young woman, such as I have here sketched179 her, I surrendered my heart for ever, almost from my first opportunity of seeing her: for so natural and without disguise was her character, and so winning the simplicity of her manners, due in part to her own native dignity of mind, and in part to the deep solitude181 in which she had been reared, that little penetration182 was required to put me in possession of all her thoughts; and to win her love, not very much more than to let her see, as see she could not avoid, in connection with that chivalrous183 homage184 which at any rate was due to her sex and her sexual perfections, a love for herself on my part, which was in its nature as exalted185 a passion and as profoundly rooted as any merely human affection can ever yet have been.
On the seventeenth birthday of Agnes we were married. Oh! calendar of everlasting months—months that, like the mighty rivers, shall flow on for ever, immortal186 as thou, Nile, or Danube, Euphrates, or St. Lawrence! and ye, summer and winter, day and night, wherefore do you bring round continually your signs, and seasons, and revolving hours, that still point and barb187 the anguish of local recollections, telling me of this and that celestial188 morning that never shall return, and of too blessed expectations, travelling like yourselves through a heavenly zodiac of changes, till at once and for ever they sank into the grave! Often do I think of seeking for some quiet cell either in the Tropics or in Arctic latitudes189, where the changes of the year, and the external signs corresponding to them, express themselves by no features like those in which the same seasons are invested under our temperate190 climes: so that, if knowing, we cannot at least feel the identity of their revolutions. We were married, I have said, on the birthday—the seventeenth birthday—of Agnes; and pretty nearly on her eighteenth it was that she placed me at the summit of my happiness, whilst for herself she thus completed the circle of her relations to this life’s duties, by presenting me with a son. Of this child, knowing how wearisome to strangers is the fond exultation191 of parents, I shall simply say, that he inherited his mother’s beauty; the same touching192 loveliness and innocence of expression, the same chiselled193 nose—mouth—and chin, the same exquisite auburn hair. In many other features, not of person merely, but also of mind and manners, as they gradually began to open before me, this child deepened my love to him by recalling the image of his mother; and what other image was there that I so much wished to keep before me, whether waking or asleep? At the time to which I am now coming but too rapidly, this child, still our only one, and unusually premature194, was within four months of completing his third year; consequently Agnes was at that time in her twenty-first year; and I may here add, with respect to myself, that I was in my twenty-sixth.
But before I come to that period of wo, let me say one word on the temper of mind which so fluent and serene195 a current of prosperity may be thought to have generated. Too common a course I know it is, when the stream of life flows with absolute tranquillity197, and ruffled198 by no menace of a breeze—the azure199 overhead never dimmed by a passing cloud, that in such circumstances the blood stagnates200: life, from excess and plethora201 of sweets, becomes insipid202: the spirit of action droops203: and it is oftentimes found at such seasons that slight annoyances204 and molestations, or even misfortunes in a lower key, are not wholly undesirable205, as means of stimulating206 the lazy energies, and disturbing a slumber207 which is, or soon will be, morbid208 in its character. I have known myself cases not a few, where, by the very nicest gradations, and by steps too silent and insensible for daily notice, the utmost harmony and reciprocal love had shaded down into fretfulness and petulance209, purely from too easy a life, and because all nobler agitations210 that might have ruffled the sensations occasionally, and all distresses212 even on the narrowest scale that might have reawakened the solicitudes213 of love, by opening necessities for sympathy—for counsel—or for mutual214 aid, had been shut out by foresight215 too elaborate, or by prosperity too cloying216. But all this, had it otherwise been possible with my particular mind, and at my early age, was utterly217 precluded218 by one remarkable219 peculiarity221 in my temper. Whether it were that I derived from nature some jealousy222 and suspicion of all happiness which seems too perfect and unalloyed—[a spirit of restless distrust which in ancient times often led men to throw valuable gems223 into the sea, in the hope of thus propitiating224 the dire deity225 of misfortune, by voluntarily breaking the fearful chain of prosperity, and led some of them to weep and groan22 when the gems thus sacrificed were afterwards brought back to their hands by simple fishermen, who had recovered them in the intestines226 of fishes—a portentous227 omen8, which was interpreted into a sorrowful indication that the Deity thus answered the propitiatory228 appeal, and made solemn proclamation that he had rejected it]—whether, I say, it were this spirit of jealousy awaked in me by too steady and too profound a felicity—or whether it were that great overthrows230 and calamities have some mysterious power to send forward a dim misgiving231 of their advancing footsteps, and really and indeed
‘That in to-day already walks to-morrow;’—
or whether it were partly, as I have already put the case in my first supposition, a natural instinct of distrust, but irritated and enlivened by a particular shock of superstitious232 alarm; which, or whether any of these causes it were that kept me apprehensive233, and on the watch for disastrous234 change, I will not here undertake to determine. Too certain it is that I was so. I never ridded myself of an over-mastering and brooding sense, shadowy and vague, a dim abiding235 feeling (that sometimes was and sometimes was not exalted into a conscious presentiment236) of some great calamity237 travelling towards me; not perhaps immediately impending—perhaps even at a great distance; but already—dating from some secret hour—already in motion upon some remote line of approach. This feeling I could not assuage239 by sharing it with Agnes. No motive240 could be strong enough for persuading me to communicate so gloomy a thought with one who, considering her extreme healthiness, was but too remarkably241 prone242 to pensive171, if not to sorrowful contemplations. And thus the obligation which I felt to silence and reserve, strengthened the morbid impression I had received; whilst the remarkable incident I have adverted243 to served powerfully to rivet245 the superstitious chain which was continually gathering246 round me. The incident was this—and before I repeat it, let me pledge my word of honour, that I report to you the bare facts of the case, without exaggeration, and in the simplicity of truth:—There was at that time resident in the great city which is the scene of my narrative a woman, from some part of Hungary, who pretended to the gift of looking into futurity. She had made herself known advantageously in several of the greatest cities of Europe under the designation of the Hungarian Prophetess; and very extraordinary instances were cited amongst the highest circles of her success in the art which she professed247. So ample were the pecuniary248 tributes which she levied249 upon the hopes and the fears, or the simple curiosity of the aristocracy, that she was thus able to display not unfrequently a disinterestedness250 and a generosity251, which seemed native to her disposition252, amongst the humbler classes of her applicants253; for she rejected no addresses that were made to her, provided only they were not expressed in levity255 or scorn, but with sincerity256, and in a spirit of confiding respect. It happened, on one occasion, when a nursery-servant of ours was waiting in her anteroom for the purpose of taking her turn in consulting the prophetess professionally, that she had witnessed a scene of consternation257 and unaffected maternal258 grief in this Hungarian lady upon the sudden seizure259 of her son, a child of four or five years old, by a spasmodic inflammation of the throat (since called croup), peculiar220 to children, and in those days not very well understood by medical men. The poor Hungarian, who had lived chiefly in warm, or at least not damp climates, and had never so much as heard of this complaint, was almost wild with alarm at the rapid increase of the symptoms which attend the paroxysms, and especially of that loud and distressing260 sound which marks the impeded261 respiration262. Great, therefore, was her joy and gratitude on finding from our servant that she had herself been in attendance more than once upon cases of the same nature, but very much more violent,—and that, consequently, she was well qualified263 to suggest and to superintend all the measures of instant necessity, such as the hot-bath, the peculiar medicines, &c., which are almost sure of success when applied264 in an early stage. Staying to give her assistance until a considerable improvement had taken place in the child, our servant then hurried home to her mistress. Agnes, it may be imagined, despatched her back with such further and more precise directions as in a very short time availed to re-establish the child in convalescence265. These practical services, and the messages of maternal sympathy repeatedly conveyed from Agnes, had completely won the heart of the grateful Hungarian, and she announced her intention of calling with her little boy, to make her personal acknowledgments for the kindness which had been shown to her. She did so, and we were as much impressed by the sultana-like style of her Oriental beauty, as she, on her part, was touched and captivated by the youthful loveliness of my angelic wife. After sitting for above an hour, during which time she talked with a simplicity and good feeling that struck us as remarkable in a person professing266 an art usually connected with so much of conscious fraud, she rose to take her leave. I must mention that she had previously267 had our little boy sitting on her knee, and had at intervals268 thrown a hasty glance upon the palms of his hands. On parting, Agnes, with her usual frankness, held out her hand. The Hungarian took it with an air of sad solemnity, pressed it fervently270, and said,—‘Lady, it is my part in this life to look behind the curtain of fate; and oftentimes I see such sights in futurity—some near, some far off—as willingly I would not see. For you, young and charming lady, looking like that angel which you are, no destiny can be equal to your deserts. Yet sometimes, true it is, God sees not as man sees; and He ordains271, after His unfathomable counsels, to the heavenly-minded a portion in heaven, and to the children whom He loves a rest and a haven272 not built with hands. Something that I have seen dimly warns me to look no farther. Yet, if you desire it, I will do my office, and I will read for you with truth the lines of fate as they are written upon your hands.’ Agnes was a little startled, or even shocked, by this solemn address; but, in a minute or so, a mixed feeling—one half of which was curiosity, and the other half a light-hearted mockery of her own mysterious awe273 in the presence of what she had been taught to view as either fraud or insanity274—prompted her playfully to insist upon the fullest application of the Hungarian’s art to her own case; nay, she would have the hands of our little Francis read and interpreted as well as her own, and she desired to hear the full professional judgment275 delivered without suppression or softening276 of its harshest awards. She laughed whilst she said all this; but she also trembled a little. The Hungarian first took the hand of our young child, and perused277 it with a long and steady scrutiny278. She said nothing, but sighed heavily as she resigned it. She then took the hand of Agnes—looked bewildered and aghast—then gazed piteously from Agnes to her child—and at last, bursting into tears, began to move steadily279 out of the room. I followed her hastily, and remonstrated280 upon this conduct, by pointing her attention to the obvious truth—that these mysterious suppressions and insinuations, which left all shadowy and indistinct, were far more alarming than the most definite denunciations. Her answer yet rings in my ear:—‘Why should I make myself odious281 to you and to your innocent wife? Messenger of evil I am, and have been to many; but evil I will not prophesy282 to her. Watch and pray! Much may be done by effectual prayer. Human means, fleshly arms, are vain. There is an enemy in the house of life’ [here she quitted her palmistry for the language of astrology]; ‘there is a frightful283 danger at hand, both for your wife and your child. Already on that dark ocean, over which we are all sailing, I can see dimly the point at which the enemy’s course shall cross your wife’s. There is but little interval269 remaining—not many hours. All is finished; all is accomplished; and already he is almost up with the darlings of your heart. Be vigilant284, be vigilant, and yet look not to yourself, but to heaven, for deliverance.’
This woman was not an impostor: she spoke50 and uttered her oracles285 under a wild sense of possession by some superior being, and of mystic compulsion to say what she would have willingly left unsaid; and never yet, before or since, have I seen the light of sadness settle with so solemn an expression into human eyes as when she dropped my wife’s hand, and refused to deliver that burden of prophetic wo with which she believed herself to be inspired.
The prophetess departed; and what mood of mind did she leave behind her in Agnes and myself? Naturally there was a little drooping286 of spirits at first; the solemnity and the heart-felt sincerity of fear and grief which marked her demeanour, made it impossible, at the moment when we were just fresh from their natural influences, that we should recoil287 into our ordinary spirits. But with the inevitable elasticity288 of youth and youthful gaiety we soon did so; we could not attempt to persuade ourselves that there had been any conscious fraud or any attempt at scenical effect in the Hungarian’s conduct. She had no motive for deceiving us; she had refused all offerings of money, and her whole visit had evidently been made under an overflow127 of the most grateful feelings for the attentions shown to her child. We acquitted289 her, therefore, of sinister290 intentions; and with our feelings of jealousy, feelings in which we had been educated, towards everything that tended to superstition291, we soon agreed to think her some gentle maniac or sad enthusiast292, suffering under some form of morbid melancholy293. Forty-eight hours, with two nights’ sleep, sufficed to restore the wonted equilibrium294 of our spirits; and that interval brought us onwards to the 6th of April—the day on which, as I have already said, my story properly commences.
On that day, on that lovely 6th of April, such as I have described it, that 6th of April, about nine o’clock in the morning, we were seated at breakfast near the open window—we, that is Agnes, myself, and little Francis; the freshness of morning spirits rested upon us; the golden light of the morning sun illuminated295 the room; incense296 was floating through the air from the gorgeous flowers within and without the house; there in youthful happiness we sat gathered together, a family of love, and there we never sat again. Never again were we three gathered together, nor ever shall be, so long as the sun and its golden light—the morning and the evening—the earth and its flowers endure.
Often have I occupied myself in recalling every circumstance the most trivial of this the final morning of what merits to be called my life. Eleven o’clock, I remember, was striking when Agnes came into my study, and said that she would go into the city (for we lived in a quite rural suburb), that she would execute some trifling297 commissions which she had received from a friend in the country, and would be at home again between one and two for a stroll which we had agreed to take in the neighbouring meadows. About twenty minutes after this she again came into my study dressed for going abroad; for such was my admiration298 of her, that I had a fancy—fancy it must have been, and yet still I felt it to be real—that under every change she looked best; if she put on a shawl, then a shawl became the most feminine of ornaments299; if she laid aside her shawl and her bonnet300, then how nymph-like she seemed in her undisguised and unadorned beauty! Full-dress seemed for the time to be best, as bringing forward into relief the splendour of her person, and allowing the exposure of her arms; a simple morning-dress, again, seemed better still, as fitted to call out the childlike innocence of her face, by confining the attention to that. But all these are feelings of fond and blind affection, hanging with rapture17 over the object of something too like idolatry. God knows, if that be a sin, I was but too profound a sinner; yet sin it never was, sin it could not be, to adore a beauty such as thine, my Agnes. Neither was it her beauty by itself, and that only, which I sought at such times to admire; there was a peculiar sort of double relation in which she stood at moments of pleasurable expectation and excitement, since our little Francis had become of an age to join our party, which made some aspects of her character trebly interesting. She was a wife—and wife to one whom she looked up to as her superior in understanding and in knowledge of the world, whom, therefore, she leaned to for protection. On the other hand, she was also a mother. Whilst, therefore, to her child she supported the matronly part of guide, and the air of an experienced person; to me she wore, ingenuously302 and without disguise, the part of a child herself, with all the giddy hopes and unchastised imaginings of that buoyant age. This double character, one aspect of which looks towards her husband and one to her children, sits most gracefully304 upon many a young wife whose heart is pure and innocent; and the collision between the two separate parts imposed by duty on the one hand, by extreme youth on the other, the one telling her that she is a responsible head of a family and the depository of her husband’s honour in its tenderest and most vital interests, the other telling her, through the liveliest language of animal sensibility, and through the very pulses of her blood, that she is herself a child; this collision gives an inexpressible charm to the whole demeanour of many a young married woman, making her other fascinations305 more touching to her husband, and deepening the admiration she excites; and the more so, as it is a collision which cannot exist except among the very innocent. Years, at any rate, will irresistibly306 remove this peculiar charm, and gradually replace it by the graces of the matronly character. But in Agnes this change had not yet been effected, partly from nature, and partly from the extreme seclusion307 of her life. Hitherto she still retained the unaffected expression of her childlike nature; and so lovely in my eyes was this perfect exhibition of natural feminine character, that she rarely or never went out alone upon any little errand to town which might require her to rely upon her own good sense and courage, that she did not previously come to exhibit herself before me. Partly this was desired by me in that lover-like feeling of admiration already explained, which leads one to court the sight of a beloved object under every change of dress, and under all effects of novelty. Partly it was the interest I took in that exhibition of sweet timidity, and almost childish apprehensiveness308, half disguised or imperfectly acknowledged by herself, which (in the way I have just explained) so touchingly310 contrasted with (and for that very reason so touchingly drew forth) her matronly character. But I hear some objector say at this point, ought not this very timidity, founded (as in part at least it was) upon inexperience and conscious inability to face the dangers of the world, to have suggested reasons for not leaving her to her own protection? And does it not argue on my part, an arrogant311 or too blind a confidence in the durability312 of my happiness, as though charmed against assaults, and liable to no shocks of sudden revolution? I reply that, from the very constitution of society, and the tone of manners in the city which we inhabited, there seemed to be a moral impossibility that any dangers of consequence should meet her in the course of those brief absences from my protection, which only were possible; that even to herself any dangers, of a nature to be anticipated under the known circumstances of the case, seemed almost imaginary; that even she acknowledged a propriety313 in being trained, by slight and brief separations from my guardianship314, to face more boldly those cases of longer separation and of more absolute consignment315 to her own resources which circumstances might arise to create necessarily, and perhaps abruptly316. And it is evident that, had she been the wife of any man engaged in the duties of a profession, she might have been summoned from the very first, and without the possibility of any such gradual training, to the necessity of relying almost singly upon her own courage and discretion317. For the other question, whether I did not depend too blindly and presumptuously318 upon my good luck in not at least affording her my protection so long as nothing occurred to make it impossible? I may reply most truly that all my feelings ran naturally in the very opposite channel. So far from confiding too much in my luck, in the present instance I was engaged in the task of writing upon some points of business which could not admit of further delay; but now, and at all times, I had a secret aversion to seeing so gentle a creature thrown even for an hour upon her own resources, though in situations which scarcely seemed to admit of any occasion for taxing those resources; and often I have felt anger towards myself for what appeared to be an irrational320 or effeminate timidity, and have struggled with my own mind upon occasions like the present, when I knew that I could not have acknowledged my tremors321 to a friend without something like shame, and a fear to excite his ridicule322. No; if in anything I ran into excess, it was in this very point of anxiety as to all that regarded my wife’s security. Her good sense, her prudence323, her courage (for courage she had in the midst of her timidity), her dignity of manner, the more impressive from the childlike character of her countenance, all should have combined to reassure324 me, and yet they did not. I was still anxious for her safety to an irrational extent; and to sum up the whole in a most weighty line of Shakspeare, I lived under the constant presence of a feeling which only that great observer of human nature (so far as I am aware) has ever noticed, viz., that merely the excess of my happiness made me jealous of its ability to last, and in that extent less capable of enjoying it; that in fact the prelibation of my tears, as a homage to its fragility, was drawn forth by my very sense that my felicity was too exquisite; or, in the words of the great master—
‘I wept to have’ [absolutely, by anticipation325, shed tears in possessing] ‘what I so feared to lose.’
Thus end my explanations, and I now pursue my narrative: Agnes, as I have said, came into my room again before leaving the house—we conversed327 for five minutes—we parted—she went out—her last words being that she would return at half-past one o’clock; and not long after that time, if ever mimic328 bells—bells of rejoicing, or bells of mourning, are heard in desert spaces of the air, and (as some have said), in unreal worlds, that mock our own, and repeat, for ridicule, the vain and unprofitable motions of man, then too surely, about this hour, began to toll329 the funeral knell330 of my earthly happiness—its final hour had sounded.
One o’clock had arrived; fifteen minutes after, I strolled into the garden, and began to look over the little garden-gate in expectation of every moment descrying331 Agnes in the distance. Half an hour passed, and for ten minutes more I was tolerably quiet. From this time till half-past two I became constantly more agitated333—agitated, perhaps, is too strong a word—but I was restless and anxious beyond what I should have chosen to acknowledge. Still I kept arguing, What is half an hour?—what is an hour? A thousand things might have occurred to cause that delay, without needing to suppose any accident; or, if an accident, why not a very trifling one? She may have slightly hurt her foot—she may have slightly sprained334 her ankle. ‘Oh, doubtless,’ I exclaimed to myself, ‘it will be a mere81 trifle, or perhaps nothing at all.’ But I remember that, even whilst I was saying this, I took my hat and walked with nervous haste into the little quiet lane upon which our garden-gate opened. The lane led by a few turnings, and after a course of about five hundred yards, into a broad high-road, which even at that day had begun to assume the character of a street, and allowed an unobstructed range of view in the direction of the city for at least a mile. Here I stationed myself, for the air was so clear that I could distinguish dress and figure to a much greater distance than usual. Even on such a day, however, the remote distance was hazy335 and indistinct, and at any other season I should have been diverted with the various mistakes I made. From occasional combinations of colour, modified by light and shade, and of course powerfully assisted by the creative state of the eye under this nervous apprehensiveness, I continued to shape into images of Agnes forms without end, that upon nearer approach presented the most grotesque336 contrasts to her impressive appearance. But I had ceased even to comprehend the ludicrous; my agitation211 was now so overruling and engrossing337 that I lost even my intellectual sense of it; and now first I understood practically and feelingly the anguish of hope alternating with disappointment, as it may be supposed to act upon the poor shipwrecked seaman338, alone and upon a desolate339 coast, straining his sight for ever to the fickle340 element which has betrayed him, but which only can deliver him, and with his eyes still tracing in the far distance
‘Ships, dim-discover’d, dropping from the clouds,’—
which a brief interval of suspense341 still for ever disperses342 into hollow pageants344 of air or vapour. One deception345 melted away only to be succeeded by another; still I fancied that at last to a certainty I could descry332 the tall figure of Agnes, her gipsy hat, and even the peculiar elegance346 of her walk. Often I went so far as to laugh at myself, and even to tax my recent fears with unmanliness and effeminacy, on recollecting347 the audible throbbings of my heart, and the nervous palpitations which had besieged348 me; but these symptoms, whether effeminate or not, began to come back tumultuously under the gloomy doubts that succeeded almost before I had uttered this self-reproach. Still I found myself mocked and deluded350 with false hopes; yet still I renewed my quick walk, and the intensity351 of my watch for that radiant form that was fated never more to be seen returning from the cruel city.
It was nearly half-past three, and therefore close upon two hours beyond the time fixed352 by Agnes for her return, when I became absolutely incapable of supporting the further torture of suspense, and I suddenly took the resolution of returning home and concerting with my female servants some energetic measures, though what I could hardly say, on behalf of their mistress. On entering the garden-gate I met our little child Francis, who unconsciously inflicted353 a pang148 upon me which he neither could have meditated356 nor have understood. I passed him at his play, perhaps even unaware357 of his presence, but he recalled me to that perception by crying aloud that he had just seen his mamma.
‘When—where?’ I asked convulsively.
‘Up-stairs in her bedroom,’ was his instantaneous answer.
His manner was such as forbade me to suppose that he could be joking; and, as it was barely possible (though, for reasons well-known to me, in the highest degree improbable), that Agnes might have returned by a by-path, which, leading through a dangerous and disreputable suburb, would not have coincided at any one point with the public road where I had been keeping my station. I sprang forward into the house, up-stairs, and in rapid succession into every room where it was likely that she might be found; but everywhere there was a dead silence, disturbed only by myself, for, in my growing confusion of thought, I believe that I rang the bell violently in every room I entered. No such summons, however, was needed, for the servants, two of whom at the least were most faithful creatures, and devotedly358 attached to their young mistress, stood ready of themselves to come and make inquiries360 of me as soon as they became aware of the alarming fact that I had returned without her.
Until this moment, though having some private reasons for surprise that she should have failed to come into the house for a minute or two at the hour prefixed, in order to make some promised domestic arrangements for the day, they had taken it for granted that she must have met with me at some distance from home—and that either the extreme beauty of the day had beguiled361 her of all petty household recollections, or (as a conjecture362 more in harmony with past experiences) that my impatience363 and solicitations had persuaded her to lay aside her own plans for the moment at the risk of some little domestic inconvenience. Now, however, in a single instant vanished every mode of accounting364 for their mistress’s absence; and the consternation of our looks communicated contagiously365, by the most unerring of all languages, from each to the other what thoughts were uppermost in our panic-stricken hearts. If to any person it should seem that our alarm was disproportioned to the occasion, and not justified367 at least by anything as yet made known to us, let that person consider the weight due to the two following facts—first, that from the recency of our settlement in this neighbourhood, and from the extreme seclusion of my wife’s previous life at a vast distance from the metropolis368, she had positively369 no friends on her list of visitors who resided in this great capital; secondly370, and far above all beside, let him remember the awful denunciations, so unexpectedly tallying371 with this alarming and mysterious absence, of the Hungarian prophetess; these had been slighted—almost dismissed from our thoughts; but now in sudden reaction they came back upon us with a frightful power to lacerate and to sting—the shadowy outline of a spiritual agency, such as that which could at all predict the events, combining in one mysterious effect, with the shadowy outline of those very predictions. The power, that could have predicted, was as dim and as hard to grasp as was the precise nature of the evil that had been predicted.
An icy terror froze my blood at this moment when I looked at the significant glances, too easily understood by me, that were exchanged between the servants. My mouth had been for the last two hours growing more and more parched372, so that at present, from mere want of moisture, I could not separate my lips to speak. One of the women saw the vain efforts I was making, and hastily brought me a glass of water. With the first recovery of speech, I asked them what little Francis had meant by saying that he had seen his mother in her bedroom. Their reply was—that they were as much at a loss to discover his meaning as I was; that he had made the same assertion to them, and with so much earnestness, that they had, all in succession, gone up-stairs to look for her, and with the fullest expectation of finding her. This was a mystery which remained such to the very last; there was no doubt whatsoever that the child believed himself to have seen his mother; that he could not have seen her in her human bodily presence, there is as little doubt as there is, alas373! that in this world he never did see her again. The poor child constantly adhered to his story, and with a circumstantiality far beyond all power of invention that could be presumed in an artless infant. Every attempt at puzzling him or entangling374 him in contradictions by means of cross-examination was but labour thrown away; though, indeed, it is true enough that for those attempts, as will soon be seen, there was but a brief interval allowed.
Not dwelling375 upon this subject at present, I turned to Hannah—a woman who held the nominal376 office of cook in our little establishment, but whose real duties had been much more about her mistress’s person—and with a searching look of appeal I asked her whether, in this moment of trial, when (as she might see) I was not so perfectly309 master of myself as perhaps always to depend upon seeing what was best to be done, she would consent to accompany me into the city, and take upon herself those obvious considerations of policy or prudence which might but too easily escape my mind, darkened, and likely to be darkened, as to its power of discernment by the hurricane of affliction now too probably at hand. She answered my appeal with the fervour I expected from what I had already known of her character. She was a woman of a strong, fiery, perhaps I might say of heroic mind, supported by a courage that was absolutely indomitable, and by a strength of bodily frame very unusual in a woman, and beyond the promise even of her person. She had suffered as deep a wrench377 in her own affections as a human being can suffer; she had lost her one sole child, a fair-haired boy of most striking beauty and interesting disposition, at the age of seventeen, and by the worst of all possible fates; he lived (as we did at that time) in a large commercial city overflowing378 with profligacy379, and with temptations of every order; he had been led astray; culpable380 he had been, but by very much the least culpable of the set into which accident had thrown him, as regarded acts and probable intentions; and as regarded palliations from childish years, from total inexperience, or any other alleviating381 circumstances that could be urged, having everything to plead—and of all his accomplices382 the only one who had anything to plead. Interest, however, he had little or none; and whilst some hoary383 villains385 of the party, who happened to be more powerfully befriended, were finally allowed to escape with a punishment little more than nominal, he and two others were selected as sacrifices to the offended laws. They suffered capitally. All three behaved well; but the poor boy in particular, with a courage, a resignation, and a meekness387, so distinguished388 and beyond his years as to attract the admiration and the liveliest sympathy of the public universally. If strangers could feel in that way, if the mere hardened executioner could be melted at the final scene,—it may be judged to what a fierce and terrific height would ascend the affliction of a doating mother, constitutionally too fervid389 in her affections. I have heard an official person declare, that the spectacle of her desolation and frantic390 anguish was the most frightful thing he had ever witnessed, and so harrowing to the feelings, that all who could by their rank venture upon such an irregularity, absented themselves during the critical period from the office which corresponded with the government; for, as I have said, the affair took place in a large provincial391 city, at a great distance from the capital. All who knew this woman, or who were witnesses to the alteration392 which one fortnight had wrought in her person as well as her demeanour, fancied it impossible that she could continue to live; or that, if she did, it must be through the giving way of her reason. They proved, however, to be mistaken; or, at least, if (as some thought) her reason did suffer in some degree, this result showed itself in the inequality of her temper, in moody393 fits of abstraction, and the morbid energy of her manner at times under the absence of all adequate external excitement, rather than in any positive and apparent hallucinations of thought. The charm which had mainly carried off the instant danger to her faculties394, was doubtless the intense sympathy which she met with. And in these offices of consolation my wife stood foremost. For, and that was fortunate, she had found herself able, without violence to her own sincerest opinions in the case, to offer precisely395 that form of sympathy which was most soothing396 to the angry irritation397 of the poor mother; not only had she shown a direct interest in the boy, and not a mere interest of reflection from that which she took in the mother, and had expressed it by visits to his dungeon398, and by every sort of attention to his comforts which his case called for, or the prison regulations allowed; not only had she wept with the distracted woman as if for a brother of her own; but, which went farther than all the rest in softening the mother’s heart, she had loudly and indignantly proclaimed her belief in the boy’s innocence, and in the same tone her sense of the crying injustice399 committed as to the selection of the victims, and the proportion of the punishment awarded. Others, in the language of a great poet,
‘Had pitied her and not her grief;’
they had either not been able to see, or, from carelessness, had neglected to see, any peculiar wrong done to her in the matter which occasioned her grief,—but had simply felt compassion400 for her as for one summoned, in a regular course of providential and human dispensation, to face an affliction, heavy in itself, but not heavy from any special defect of equity401. Consequently their very sympathy, being so much built upon the assumption that an only child had offended to the extent implied in his sentence, oftentimes clothed itself in expressions which she felt to be not consolations but insults, and, in fact, so many justifications402 of those whom it relieved her overcharged heart to regard as the very worst of enemies. Agnes, on the other hand, took the very same view of the case as herself; and, though otherwise the gentlest of all gentle creatures, yet here, from the generous fervour of her reverence403 for justice, and her abhorrence404 of oppression, she gave herself no trouble to moderate the energy of her language: nor did I, on my part, feeling that substantially she was in the right, think it of importance to dispute about the exact degrees of the wrong done or the indignation due to it. In this way it happened naturally enough that at one and the same time, though little contemplating405 either of these results, Agnes had done a prodigious service to the poor desolate mother by breaking the force of her misery406, as well as by arming the active agencies of indignation against the depressing ones of solitary grief, and for herself had won a most grateful and devoted359 friend, who would have gone through fire and water to serve her, and was thenceforwards most anxious for some opportunity to testify how deep had been her sense of the goodness shown to her by her benign young mistress, and how incapable of suffering abatement407 by time. It remains to add, which I have slightly noticed before, that this woman was of unusual personal strength: her bodily frame matched with her intellectual: and I notice this now with the more emphasis, because I am coming rapidly upon ground where it will be seen that this one qualification was of more summary importance to us—did us more ‘yeoman’s service’ at a crisis the most awful—than other qualities of greater name and pretension. Hannah was this woman’s Christian408 name; and her name and her memory are to me amongst the most hallowed of my earthly recollections.
One of her two fellow-servants, known technically409 amongst us as the ‘parlour-maid,’ was also, but not equally, attached to her mistress; and merely because her nature, less powerfully formed and endowed, did not allow her to entertain or to comprehend any service equally fervid of passion or of impassioned action. She, however, was good, affectionate, and worthy to be trusted. But a third there was, a nursery-maid, and therefore more naturally and more immediately standing301 within the confidence of her mistress—her I could not trust: her I suspected. But of that hereafter. Meantime, Hannah—she upon whom I leaned as upon a staff in all which respected her mistress, ran up-stairs, after I had spoken and received her answer, in order hastily to dress and prepare herself for going out along with me to the city. I did not ask her to be quick in her movements: I knew there was no need: and, whilst she was absent, I took up, in one of my fretful movements of nervousness, a book which was lying upon a side table: the book fell open of itself at a particular page; and in that, perhaps, there was nothing extraordinary; for it was a little portable edition of Paradise Lost; and the page was one which I must naturally have turned to many a time: for to Agnes I had read all the great masters of literature, especially those of modern times; so that few people knew the high classics more familiarly: and as to the passage in question, from its divine beauty I had read it aloud to her, perhaps, on fifty separate occasions. All this I mention to take away any appearance of a vulgar attempt to create omens410; but still, in the very act of confessing the simple truth, and thus weakening the marvellous character of the anecdote411, I must notice it as a strange instance of the ‘Sortes Miltonianæ‘—that precisely at such a moment as this I should find thrown in my way, should feel tempted to take up, and should open, a volume containing such a passage as the following: and observe, moreover, that although the volume, once being taken up, would naturally open where it had been most frequently read, there were, however, many passages which had been read as frequently—or more so. The particular passage upon which I opened at this moment was that most beautiful one in which the fatal morning separation is described between Adam and his bride—that separation so pregnant with wo, which eventually proved the occasion of the mortal transgression—the last scene between our first parents at which both were innocent and both were happy—although the superior intellect already felt, and, in the slight altercation412 preceding this separation, had already expressed a dim misgiving of some coming change: these are the words, and in depth of pathos413 they have rarely been approached:—
‘Oft he to her his charge of quick return
Repeated; she to him as oft engag’d
To be returned by noon amid the bow’r,
And all things in best order to invite
Noon-tide repast, or afternoon’s repose.
Oh much deceived, much failing, hapless Eve!
Of thy presumed return, event perverse414!
Thou never from that hour in Paradise
Found’st either sweet repast, or sound repose.’
‘My Eve!’ I exclaimed, ‘partner in my paradise, where art thou? Much failing thou wilt415 not be found, nor much deceived; innocent in any case thou art; but, alas! too surely by this time hapless, and the victim of some diabolic wickedness.’ Thus I murmured to myself; thus I ejaculated; thus I apostrophised my Agnes; then again came a stormier mood. I could not sit still; I could not stand in quiet; I threw the book from me with violence against the wall; I began to hurry backwards and forwards in a short uneasy walk, when suddenly a sound, a step; it was the sound of the garden-gate opening, followed by a hasty tread. Whose tread! Not for a moment could it be fancied the oread step which belonged to that daughter of the hills—my wife, my Agnes; no, it was the dull massy tread of a man: and immediately there came a loud blow upon the door, and in the next moment, the bell having been found, a furious peal229 of ringing. Oh coward heart! not for a lease of immortality416 could I have gone forwards myself. My breath failed me; an interval came in which respiration seemed to be stifled—the blood to halt in its current; and then and there I recognised in myself the force and living truth of that Scriptural description of a heart consciously beset417 by evil without escape: ‘Susannah sighed.’ Yes, a long long sigh—a deep deep sigh—that is the natural language by which the overcharged heart utters forth the wo that else would break it. I sighed—oh how profoundly! But that did not give me power to move. Who will go to the door? I whispered audibly. Who is at the door? was the inaudible whisper of my heart. Then might be seen the characteristic differences of the three women. That one, whom I suspected, I heard raising an upper window to look out and reconnoitre. The affectionate Rachael, on the other hand, ran eagerly down-stairs; but Hannah, half dressed, even her bosom exposed, passed her like a storm; and before I heard any sound of opening a door, I saw from the spot where I stood the door already wide open, and a man in the costume of a policeman. All that he said I could not hear; but this I heard—that I was wanted at the police office, and had better come off without delay. He seemed then to get a glimpse of me, and to make an effort towards coming nearer; but I slunk away, and left to Hannah the task of drawing from him any circumstances which he might know. But apparently418 there was not much to tell, or rather, said I, there is too much, the much absorbs the many; some one mighty evil transcends419 and quells420 all particulars. At length the door was closed, and the man was gone. Hannah crept slowly along the passage, and looked in hesitatingly. Her very movements and stealthy pace testified that she had heard nothing which, even by comparison, she could think good news. ‘Tell me not now, Hannah,’ I said; ‘wait till we are in the open air.’ She went up-stairs again. How short seemed the time till she descended421!—how I longed for further respite422! ‘Hannah!’ I said at length when we were fairly moving upon the road, ‘Hannah! I am too sure you have nothing good to tell. But now tell me the worst, and let that be in the fewest words possible.’
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘we had better wait until we reach the office; for really I could not understand the man. He says that my mistress is detained upon some charge; but what, I could not at all make out. He was a man that knew something of you, sir, I believe, and he wished to be civil, and kept saying, “Oh! I dare say it will turn out nothing at all, many such charges are made idly and carelessly, and some maliciously423.” “But what charges?” I cried, and then he wanted to speak privately424 to you. But I told him that of all persons he must not speak to you, if he had anything painful to tell; for that you were too much disturbed already, and had been for some hours, out of anxiety and terror about my mistress, to bear much more. So, when he heard that, he was less willing to speak freely than before. He might prove wrong, he said; he might give offence; things might turn out far otherwise than according to first appearances; for his part, he could not believe anything amiss of so sweet a lady. And alter all it would be better to wait till we reached the office.’
Thus much then was clear—Agnes was under some accusation425. This was already worse than the worst I had anticipated. ‘And then,’ said I, thinking aloud to Hannah, ‘one of two things is apparent to me; either the accusation is one of pure hellish malice, without a colour of probability or the shadow of a foundation, and that way, alas! I am driven in my fears by that Hungarian woman’s prophecy; or, which but for my desponding heart I should be more inclined to think, the charge has grown out of my poor wife’s rustic426 ignorance as to the usages then recently established by law with regard to the kind of money that could be legally tendered. This, however, was a suggestion that did not tend to alleviate427 my anxiety; and my nervousness had mounted to a painful, almost to a disabling degree, by the time we reached the office. Already on our road thither428 some parties had passed us who were conversing429 with eagerness upon the case: so much we collected from the many and ardent expressions about ‘the lady’s beauty,’ though the rest of such words as we could catch were ill calculated to relieve my suspense. This, then, at least, was certain—that my poor timid Agnes had already been exhibited before a tumultuous crowd; that her name and reputation had gone forth as a subject of discussion for the public; and that the domestic seclusion and privacy within which it was her matronly privilege to move had already undergone a rude violation430.
The office, and all the purlieus of the office, were occupied by a dense431 crowd. That, perhaps, was always the case, more or less, at this time of day; but at present the crowd was manifestly possessed by a more than ordinary interest; and there was a unity180 in this possessing interest; all were talking on the same subject, the case in which Agnes had so recently appeared in some character or other; and by this time it became but too certain in the character of an accused person. Pity was the prevailing432 sentiment amongst the mob; but the opinions varied433 much as to the probable criminality of the prisoner. I made my way into the office. The presiding magistrates435 had all retired436 for the afternoon, and would not reassemble until eight o’clock in the evening. Some clerks only or officers of the court remained, who were too much harassed437 by applications for various forms and papers connected with the routine of public business, and by other official duties which required signatures or attestations, to find much leisure for answering individual questions. Some, however, listened with a marked air of attention to my earnest request for the circumstantial details of the case, but finally referred me to a vast folio volume, in which were entered all the charges, of whatever nature, involving any serious tendency—in fact, all that exceeded a misdemeanour—in the regular chronological438 succession according to which they came before the magistrate434. Here, in this vast calendar of guilt439 and misery, amidst the aliases440 or cant254 designations of ruffians—prostitutes—felons, stood the description, at full length, Christian and surnames all properly registered, of my Agnes—of her whose very name had always sounded to my ears like the very echo of mountain innocence, purity, and pastoral simplicity. Here in another column stood the name and residence of her accuser. I shall call him Barratt, for that was amongst his names, and a name by which he had at one period of his infamous441 life been known to the public, though not his principal name, or the one which he had thought fit to assume at this era. James Barratt, then, as I shall here call him, was a haberdasher—keeping a large and conspicuous442 shop in a very crowded and what was then considered a fashionable part of the city. The charge was plain and short. Did I live to read it? It accused Agnes M—— of having on that morning secreted443 in her muff, and feloniously carried away, a valuable piece of Mechlin lace, the property of James Barratt. And the result of the first examination was thus communicated in a separate column, written in red ink—‘Remanded to the second day after to-morrow for final examination.’ Everything in this sin-polluted register was in manuscript; but at night the records of each day were regularly transferred to a printed journal, enlarged by comments and explanatory descriptions from some one of the clerks, whose province it was to furnish this intelligence to the public journals. On that same night, therefore, would go forth to the world such an account of the case, and such a description of my wife’s person, as would inevitably summon to the next exhibition of her misery, as by special invitation and advertisement, the whole world of this vast metropolis—the idle, the curious, the brutal444, the hardened amateur in spectacles of wo, and the benign philanthropist who frequents such scenes with the purpose of carrying alleviation445 to their afflictions. All alike, whatever might be their motives446 or the spirit of their actions, would rush (as to some grand festival of curiosity and sentimental447 luxury) to this public martyrdom of my innocent wife.
Meantime, what was the first thing to be done? Manifestly, to see Agnes: her account of the affair might suggest the steps to be taken. Prudence, therefore, at any rate, prescribed this course; and my heart would not have tolerated any other. I applied, therefore, at once, for information as to the proper mode of effecting this purpose without delay. What was my horror at learning that, by a recent regulation of all the police offices, under the direction of the public minister who presided over that department of the national administration, no person could be admitted to an interview with any accused party during the progress of the official examinations—or, in fact, until the final committal of the prisoner for trial. This rule was supposed to be attended by great public advantages, and had rarely been relaxed—never, indeed, without a special interposition of the police minister authorising its suspension. But was the exclusion448 absolute and universal? Might not, at least, a female servant, simply as the bearer of such articles as were indispensable to female delicacy449 and comfort, have access to her mistress? No; the exclusion was total and unconditional450. To argue the point was manifestly idle; the subordinate officers had no discretion in the matter; nor, in fact, had any other official person, whatever were his rank, except the supreme451 one; and to him I neither had any obvious means of introduction, nor (in case of obtaining such an introduction) any chance of success; for the spirit of the rule, I foresaw it would be answered, applied with especial force to cases like the present.
Mere human feelings of pity, sympathy with my too visible agitation, superadded to something of perhaps reverence for the blighting453 misery that was now opening its artillery454 upon me—for misery has a privilege, and everywhere is felt to be a holy thing—had combined to procure455 for me some attention and some indulgence hitherto. Answers had been given with precision, explanations made at length, and anxiety shown to satisfy my inquiries. But this could not last; the inexorable necessities of public business coming back in a torrent456 upon the official people after this momentary457 interruption, forbade them to indulge any further consideration for an individual case, and I saw that I must not stay any longer. I was rapidly coming to be regarded as a hindrance458 to the movement of public affairs; and the recollection that I might again have occasion for some appeal to these men in their official characters, admonished459 me not to abuse my privilege of the moment. After returning thanks, therefore, for the disposition shown to oblige me, I retired.
Slowly did I and Hannah retrace460 our steps. Hannah sustained, in the tone of her spirits, by the extremity461 of her anger, a mood of feeling which I did not share. Indignation was to her in the stead of consolation and hope. I, for my part, could not seek even a momentary shelter from my tempestuous462 affliction in that temper of mind. The man who could accuse my Agnes, and accuse her of such a crime, I felt to be a monster; and in my thoughts he was already doomed464 to a bloody atonement (atonement! alas! what atonement!) whenever the time arrived that her cause would not be prejudiced, or the current of public feeling made to turn in his favour by investing him with the semblance465 of an injured or suffering person. So much was settled in my thoughts with the stern serenity466 of a decree issuing from a judgment-seat. But that gave no relief, no shadow of relief, to the misery which was now consuming me. Here was an end, in one hour, to the happiness of a life. In one hour it had given way, root and branch—had melted like so much frost-work, or a pageant343 of vapoury exhalations. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, and yet for ever and ever, I comprehended the total ruin of my situation. The case, as others might think, was yet in suspense; and there was room enough for very rational hopes, especially where there was an absolute certainty of innocence. Total freedom from all doubt on that point seemed to justify468 almost more than hopes. This might be said, and most people would have been more or less consoled by it. I was not. I felt as certain, as irredeemably, as hopelessly certain of the final results as though I had seen the record in the books of heaven. ‘Hope nothing,’ I said to myself; ‘think not of hope in this world, but think only how best to walk steadily, and not to reel like a creature wanting discourse469 of reason, or incapable of religious hopes under the burden which it has pleased God to impose, and which in this life cannot be shaken off. The countenance of man is made to look upward and to the skies. Thither also point henceforwards your heart and your thoughts. Never again let your thoughts travel earthwards. Settle them on the heavens, to which your Agnes is already summoned. The call is clear, and not to be mistaken. Little in her fate now depends upon you, or upon anything that man can do. Look, therefore, to yourself; see that you make not shipwreck of your heavenly freight because your earthly freight is lost; and miss not, by any acts of wild and presumptuous319 despair, that final reunion with your Agnes, which can only be descried470 through vistas471 that open through the heavens.’
Such were the thoughts, thoughts often made audible, which came spontaneously like oracles from afar, as I strode homewards with Hannah by my side. Her, meantime, I seemed to hear; for at times I seemed and I intended to answer her. But answer her I did not; for not ten words of all that she said did I really and consciously hear. How I went through that night is more entirely472 a blank in my memory, more entirely a chapter of chaos and the confusion of chaos, than any other passage the most impressive in my life. If I even slumbered473 for a moment, as at intervals I did sometimes, though never sitting down, but standing or pacing about throughout the night, and if in this way I attained474 a momentary respite from self-consciousness, no sooner had I reached this enviable state of oblivion, than some internal sting of irritation as rapidly dispersed475 the whole fickle fabric476 of sleep; and as if the momentary trance—this fugitive beguilement477 of my wo—had been conceded by a demon’s subtle malice only with the purpose of barbing the pang, by thus forcing it into a stronger relief through the insidious478 peace preceding it. It is a well-known and most familiar experience to all the sons and daughters of affliction, that under no circumstances is the piercing, lancinating torment of a recent calamity felt so keenly as in the first moments of awaking in the morning from the night’s slumbers479. Just at the very instant when the clouds of sleep, and the whole fantastic illusions of dreaminess are dispersing480, just as the realities of life are re-assuming their steadfast481 forms—re-shaping themselves—and settling anew into those fixed relations which they are to preserve throughout the waking hours; in that particular crisis of transition from the unreal to the real, the wo which besieges482 the brain and the life-springs at the heart rushes in afresh amongst the other crowd of realities, and has at the moment of restoration literally483 the force and liveliness of a new birth—the very same pang, and no whit484 feebler, as that which belonged to it when it was first made known. From the total hush485 of oblivion which had buried it and sealed it up, as it were, during the sleeping hours, it starts into sudden life on our first awaking, and is to all intents and purposes a new and not an old affliction—one which brings with it the old original shock which attended its first annunciation.
That night—that first night of separation from my wife—how it passed, I know not; I know only that it passed, I being in our common bedchamber, that holiest of all temples that are consecrated486 to human attachments487 whenever the heart is pure of man and woman and the love is strong—I being in that bedchamber, once the temple now the sepulchre of our happiness,—I there, and my wife—my innocent wife—in a dungeon. As the morning light began to break, somebody knocked at the door; it was Hannah; she took my hand—misery levels all feeble distinctions of station, sex, age—she noticed my excessive feverishness488, and gravely remonstrated with me upon the necessity there was that I should maintain as much health as possible for the sake of ‘others,’ if not for myself. She then brought me some tea, which refreshed me greatly; for I had tasted nothing at all beyond a little water since the preceding morning’s breakfast. This refreshment490 seemed to relax and thaw491 the stiff frozen state of cheerless, rayless despair in which I had passed the night; I became susceptible492 of consolation—that consolation which lies involved in kindness and gentleness of manner—if not susceptible more than before of any positive hope. I sat down; and, having no witnesses to my weakness but this kind and faithful woman, I wept, and I found a relief in tears; and she, with the ready sympathy of woman, wept along with me. All at once she ventured upon the circumstances (so far as she had been able to collect them from the reports of those who had been present at the examination) of our calamity. There was little indeed either to excite or to gratify any interest or curiosity separate from the personal interest inevitably connected with a case to which there were two such parties as a brutal, sensual, degraded ruffian, on one side in character of accuser, and on the other as defendant493, a meek386 angel of a woman, timid and fainting from the horrors of her situation, and under the licentious494 gaze of the crowd—yet, at the same time, bold in conscious innocence, and in the very teeth of the suspicions which beset her, winning the good opinion, as well as the good wishes of all who saw her. There had been at this first examination little for her to say beyond the assigning her name, age, and place of abode495; and here it was fortunate that her own excellent good sense concurred496 with her perfect integrity and intuitive hatred497 of all indirect or crooked498 courses in prompting her to an undisguised statement of the simple truth, without a momentary hesitation499 or attempt either at evasion500 or suppression. With equally good intentions in similar situations many a woman has seriously injured her cause by slight evasions501 of the entire truth, where nevertheless her only purpose has been the natural and ingenuous303 one of seeking to save the reputation untainted of a name which she felt to have been confided503 to her keeping. The purpose was an honourable one, but erroneously pursued. Agnes fell into no such error. She answered calmly, simply, and truly, to every question put by the magistrates; and beyond that there was little opportunity for her to speak; the whole business of this preliminary examination being confined to the deposition504 of the accuser as to the circumstances under which he alleged505 the act of felonious appropriation507 to have taken place. These circumstances were perfectly uninteresting, considered in themselves; but amongst them was one which to us had the most shocking interest, from the absolute proof thus furnished of a deep-laid plot against Agnes. But for this one circumstance there would have been a possibility that the whole had originated in error—error growing out of and acting508 upon a nature originally suspicious, and confirmed perhaps by an unfortunate experience. And in proportion as that was possible, the chances increased that the accuser might, as the examinations advanced, and the winning character of the accused party began to develop itself, begin to see his error, and to retract509 his own over-hasty suspicions. But now we saw at a glance that for this hope there was no countenance whatever, since one solitary circumstance sufficed to establish a conspiracy510. The deposition bore—that the lace had been secreted and afterwards detected in a muff; now it was a fact as well-known to both of us as the fact of Agnes having gone out at all—that she had laid aside her winter’s dress for the first time on this genial sunny day. Muff she had not at the time, nor could have had appropriately from the style of her costume in other respects. What was the effect upon us of this remarkable discovery! Of course there died at once the hope of any abandonment by the prosecutor511 of his purpose; because here was proof of a predetermined plot. This hope died at once; but then, as it was one which never had presented itself to my mind, I lost nothing by which I had ever been solaced513. On the other hand, it will be obvious that a new hope at the same time arose to take its place, viz., the reasonable one that by this single detection, if once established, we might raise a strong presumption514 of conspiracy, and moreover that, as a leading fact or clue, it might serve to guide us in detecting others. Hannah was sanguine515 in this expectation; and for a moment her hopes were contagiously exciting to mine. But the hideous516 despondency which in my mind had settled upon the whole affair from the very first, the superstitious presentiment I had of a total blight452 brooding over the entire harvest of my life and its promises (tracing itself originally, I am almost ashamed to own, up to that prediction of the Hungarian woman)—denied me steady light, anything—all in short but a wandering ray of hope. It was right, of course, nay, indispensable, that the circumstance of the muff should be strongly insisted upon at the next examination, pressed against the prosecutor, and sifted517 to the uttermost. An able lawyer would turn this to a triumphant518 account; and it would be admirable as a means of pre-engaging the good opinion as well as the sympathies of the public in behalf of the prisoner. But, for its final effect—my conviction remained, not to be shaken, that all would be useless; that our doom463 had gone forth, and was irrevocable.
Let me not linger too much over those sad times. Morning came on as usual; for it is strange, but true, that to the very wretched it seems wonderful that times and seasons should keep their appointed courses in the midst of such mighty overthrows and such interruption to the courses of their own wonted happiness and their habitual521 expectations. Why should morning and night, why should all movements in the natural world be so regular, whilst in the moral world all is so irregular and anomalous522? Yet the sun and the moon rise and set as usual upon the mightiest523 revolutions of empire and of worldly fortune that this planet ever beholds524; and it is sometimes even a comfort to know that this will be the case. A great criminal, sentenced to an agonising punishment, has derived a fortitude525 and a consolation from recollecting that the day would run its inevitable course—that a day after all was but a day—that the mighty wheel of alternate light and darkness must and would revolve—and that the evening star would rise as usual, and shine with its untroubled lustre526 upon the dust and ashes of what had indeed suffered, and so recently, the most bitter pangs, but would then have ceased to suffer. ‘La Journée,’ said Damien,
‘La journée sera dure, mais elle se passera.’
‘——Se passera:’ yes, that is true, I whispered to myself; my day also, my season of trial will be hard to bear; but that also will have an end; that also ‘se passera.’ Thus I talked or thought so long as I thought at all; for the hour was now rapidly approaching when thinking in any shape would for some time be at an end for me.
That day, as the morning advanced, I went again, accompanied by Hannah, to the police court and to the prison—a vast, ancient, in parts ruinous, and most gloomy pile of building. In those days the administration of justice was, if not more corrupt527, certainly in its inferior departments by far more careless than it is at present, and liable to thousands of interruptions and mal-practices, supporting themselves upon old traditionary usages which required at least half a century, and the shattering everywhere given to old systems by the French Revolution, together with the universal energy of mind applied to those subjects over the whole length and breadth of Christendom, to approach with any effectual reforms. Knowing this, and having myself had direct personal cognizance of various cases in which bribery529 had been applied with success, I was not without considerable hope that perhaps Hannah and myself might avail ourselves of this irregular passport through the gates of the prison. And, had the new regulation been of somewhat longer standing, there is little doubt that I should have been found right; unfortunately, as yet it had all the freshness of new-born vigour530, and kept itself in remembrance by the singular irritation it excited. Besides this, it was a pet novelty of one particular minister new to the possession of power, anxious to distinguish himself, proud of his creative functions within the range of his office, and very sensitively jealous on the point of opposition531 to his mandates532. Vain, therefore, on this day were all my efforts to corrupt the jailers; and, in fact, anticipating a time when I might have occasion to corrupt some of them for a more important purpose and on a larger scale, I did not think it prudent533 to proclaim my character beforehand as one who tampered534 with such means, and thus to arm against myself those jealousies535 in official people which it was so peculiarly important that I should keep asleep.
All that day, however, I lingered about the avenues and vast courts in the precincts of the prison, and near one particular wing of the building, which had been pointed520 out to me by a jailer as the section allotted536 to those who were in the situation of Agnes; that is, waiting their final commitment for trial. The building generally he could indicate with certainty, but he professed himself unable to indicate the particular part of it which ‘the young woman brought in on the day previous’ would be likely to occupy; consequently he could not point out the window from which her cell (her ‘cell!‘ what a word!) would be lighted. ‘But, master,’ he went on to say, ‘I would advise nobody to try that game.’ He looked with an air so significant, and at the same time used a gesture so indicative of private understanding, that I at once apprehended537 his meaning, and assured him that he had altogether misconstrued my drift; that, as to attempts at escape, or at any mode of communicating with the prisoner from the outside, I trusted all that was perfectly needless; and that at any rate in my eyes it was perfectly hopeless. ‘Well, master,’ he replied, ‘that’s neither here nor there. You’ve come down handsomely, that I will say; and where a gentleman acts like a gentleman, and behaves himself as such, I’m not the man to go and split upon him for a word. To be sure it’s quite nat’ral that a gentleman—put case that a young woman is his fancy woman—it’s nothing but nat’ral that he should want to get her out of such an old rat-hole as this, where many’s the fine-timbered creature, both he and she, that has lain to rot, and has never got out of the old trap at all, first or last’——‘How so?’ I interrupted him; ‘surely they don’t detain the corpses539 of prisoners?’ ‘Ay, but mind you—put case that he or that she should die in this rat-trap before sentence is past, why then the prison counts them as its own children, and buries them in its own chapel540—that old stack of pigeon-holes that you see up yonder to the right hand.’ So, then, after all, thought I, if my poor Agnes should, in her desolation and solitary confinement541 to these wretched walls, find her frail strength give way—should the moral horrors of her situation work their natural effect upon her health, and she should chance to die within this dungeon, here within this same dungeon will she lie to the resurrection, and in that case her prison-doors have already closed upon her for ever. The man, who perhaps had some rough kindness in his nature, though tainted502 by the mercenary feelings too inevitably belonging to his situation, seemed to guess at the character of my ruminations by the change in my countenance, for he expressed some pity for my being ‘in so much trouble’; and it seemed to increase his respect for me that this trouble should be directed to the case of a woman, for he appeared to have a manly177 sense of the peculiar appeal made to the honour and gallantry of man, by the mere general fact of the feebleness and the dependence542 of woman. I looked at him more attentively543 in consequence of the feeling tone in which he now spoke, and was surprised that I had not more particularly noticed him before; he was a fine-looking, youngish man, with a bold Robin-hood style of figure and appearance; and, morally speaking, he was absolutely transfigured to my eyes by the effect worked upon him for the moment, through the simple calling up of his better nature. However, he recurred544 to his cautions about the peril545 in a legal sense of tampering546 with the windows, bolts, and bars of the old decaying prison; which, in fact, precisely according to the degree in which its absolute power over its prisoners was annually547 growing less and less, grew more and more jealous of its own reputation, and punished the attempts to break loose with the more severity, in exact proportion as they were the more tempting548 by the chances of success. I persisted in disowning any schemes of the sort, and especially upon the ground of their hopelessness. But this, on the other hand, was a ground that in his inner thoughts he treated with scorn; and I could easily see that, with a little skilful549 management of opportunity, I might, upon occasion, draw from him all the secrets he knew as to the special points of infirmity in this old ruinous building. For the present, and until it should certainly appear that there was some use to be derived from this species of knowledge, I forbore to raise superfluous550 suspicions by availing myself further of his communicative disposition. Taking, however, the precaution of securing his name, together with his particular office and designation in the prison, I parted from him as if to go home, but in fact to resume my sad roamings up and down the precincts of the jail.
What made these precincts much larger than otherwise they would have been, was the circumstance that, by a usage derived from older days, both criminal prisoners and those who were prisoners for debt, equally fell under the custody551 of this huge caravanserai for the indifferent reception of crime, of misdemeanour, and of misfortune. And those who came under the two first titles were lodged552 here through all stages of their connection with public justice; alike when mere objects of vague suspicion to the police, when under examination upon a specific charge, when fully244 committed for trial, when convicted and under sentence, awaiting the execution of that sentence, and, in a large proportion of cases, even through their final stage of punishment, when it happened to be of any nature compatible with indoor confinement. Hence it arose that the number of those who haunted the prison gates with or without a title to admission was enormous; all the relatives, or more properly the acquaintances and connections of the criminal population within the prison, being swelled553 by all the families of needy554 debtors555 who came daily either to offer the consolation of their society, or to diminish their common expenditure556 by uniting their slender establishments. One of the rules applied to the management of this vast multitude that were every day candidates for admission was, that to save the endless trouble as well as risk, perhaps, of opening and shutting the main gates to every successive arrival, periodic intervals were fixed for the admission by wholesale: and as these periods came round every two hours, it would happen at many parts of the day that vast crowds accumulated waiting for the next opening of the gate. These crowds were assembled in two or three large outer courts, in which also were many stalls and booths, kept there upon some local privilege of ancient inheritance, or upon some other plea made good by gifts or bribes—some by Jews and others by Christians557, perhaps equally Jewish. Superadded to these stationary558 elements of this miscellaneous population, were others, drawn thither by pure motives of curiosity, so that altogether an almost permanent mob was gathered together in these courts; and amid this mob it was,—from I know not what definite motive, partly because I thought it probable that amongst these people I should hear the case of Agnes peculiarly the subject of conversation; and so, in fact, it did really happen,—but partly, and even more, I believe, because I now awfully559 began to shrink from solitude. Tumult349 I must have, and distraction560 of thought. Amid this mob, I say, it was that I passed two days. Feverish489 I had been from the first,—and from bad to worse, in such a case, was, at any rate, a natural progress; but, perhaps, also amongst this crowd of the poor, the abjectly561 wretched, the ill-fed, the desponding, and the dissolute, there might be very naturally a larger body of contagion562 lurking563 than accorded to their mere numerical expectations. There was at that season a very extensive depopulation going on in some quarters of this great metropolis, and in other cities of the same empire, by means of a very malignant564 typhus. This fever is supposed to be the peculiar product of jails; and though it had not as yet been felt as a scourge59 and devastator565 of this particular jail, or at least the consequent mortality had been hitherto kept down to a moderate amount, yet it was highly probable that a certain quantity of contagion, much beyond the proportion of other popular assemblages less uniformly wretched in their composition, was here to be found all day long; and doubtless my excited state, and irritable566 habit of body, had offered a peculiar predisposition that favoured the rapid development of this contagion. However this might be, the result was, that on the evening of the second day which I spent in haunting the purlieus of the prison (consequently the night preceding the second public examination of Agnes), I was attacked by ardent fever in such unmitigated fury, that before morning I had lost all command of my intellectual faculties. For some weeks I became a pitiable maniac, and in every sense the wreck of my former self; and seven entire weeks, together with the better half of an eighth week, had passed over my head whilst I lay unconscious of time and its dreadful freight of events, excepting in so far as my disordered brain, by its fantastic coinages, created endless mimicries and mockeries of these events—less substantial, but oftentimes less afflicting567, or less agitating. It would have been well for me had my destiny decided568 that I was not to be recalled to this world of wo. But I had no such happiness in store. I recovered, and through twenty and eight years my groans have recorded the sorrow I feel that I did.
I shall not rehearse circumstantially, and point by point, the sad unfolding, as it proceeded through successive revelations to me, of all which had happened during my state of physical incapacity. When I first became aware that my wandering senses had returned to me, and knew, by the cessation of all throbbings, and the unutterable pains that had so long possessed my brain, that I was now returning from the gates of death, a sad confusion assailed569 me as to some indefinite cloud of evil that had been hovering570 over me at the time when I first fell into a state of insensibility. For a time I struggled vainly to recover the lost connection of my thoughts, and I endeavoured ineffectually to address myself to sleep. I opened my eyes, but found the glare of light painful beyond measure. Strength, however, it seemed to me that I had, and more than enough, to raise myself out of bed. I made the attempt, but fell back, almost giddy with the effort. At the sound of the disturbance571 which I had thus made, a woman whom I did not know came from behind a curtain, and spoke to me. Shrinking from any communication with a stranger, especially one whose discretion I could not estimate in making discoveries to me with the requisite caution, I asked her simply what o’clock it was.
‘Eleven in the forenoon,’ she replied.
‘And what day of the month?’
‘The second,’ was her brief answer.
I felt almost a sense of shame in adding—‘The second! but of what month?’
‘Of June,’ was the startling rejoinder.
On the 8th of April I had fallen ill, and it was now actually the 2nd of June. Oh! sickening calculation! revolting register of hours! for in that same moment which brought back this one recollection, perhaps by steadying my brain, rushed back in a torrent all the other dreadful remembrances of the period, and now the more so, because, though the event was still uncertain as regarded my knowledge, it must have become dreadfully certain as regarded the facts of the case, and the happiness of all who were concerned. Alas! one little circumstance too painfully assured me that this event had not been a happy one. Had Agnes been restored to her liberty and her home, where would she have been found but watching at my bedside? That too certainly I knew, and the inference was too bitter to support.
On this same day, some hours afterwards, upon Hannah’s return from the city, I received from her, and heard with perfect calmness, the whole sum of evil which awaited me. Little Francis—she took up her tale at that point—‘was with God:’ so she expressed herself. He had died of the same fever which had attacked me—had died and been buried nearly five weeks before. Too probably he had caught the infection from me. Almost—such are the caprices of human feeling—almost I could have rejoiced that this young memorial of my vanished happiness had vanished also. It gave me a pang, nevertheless, that the grave should thus have closed upon him before I had seen his fair little face again. But I steeled my heart to hear worse things than this. Next she went on to inform me that already, on the first or second day of our calamity, she had taken upon herself, without waiting for authority, on observing the rapid approaches of illness in me, and arguing the state of helplessness which would follow, to write off at once a summons in the most urgent terms to the brother of my wife. This gentleman, whom I shall call Pierpoint, was a high-spirited, generous young man as I have ever known. When I say that he was a sportsman, that at one season of the year he did little else than pursue his darling amusement of fox-hunting, for which indeed he had almost a maniacal572 passion—saying this, I shall already have prejudged him in the opinions of many, who fancy all such persons the slaves of corporal enjoyments. But, with submission573, the truth lies the other way. According to my experience, people of these habits have their bodies more than usually under their command, as being subdued574 by severe exercise; and their minds, neither better nor worse on an average than those of their neighbours, are more available from being so much more rarely clogged575 by morbid habits in that uneasy yoke-fellow of the intellectual part—the body. He at all events was a man to justify in his own person this way of thinking; for he was a man not only of sound, but even of bold and energetic intellect, and in all moral respects one whom any man might feel proud to call his friend. This young man, Pierpoint, without delay obeyed the summons; and on being made acquainted with what had already passed, the first step he took was to call upon Barratt, and without further question than what might ascertain576 his identity, he proceeded to inflict354 upon him a severe horsewhipping. A worse step on his sister’s account he could not have taken. Previously to this the popular feeling had run strongly against Barratt, but now its unity was broken. A new element was introduced into the question: Democratic feelings were armed against this outrage577; gentlemen and nobles, it was said, thought themselves not amenable578 to justice; and again, the majesty579 of the law was offended at this intrusion upon an affair already under solemn course of adjudication. Everything, however, passes away under the healing hand of time, and this also faded from the public mind. People remembered also that he was a brother, and in that character, at any rate, had a right to some allowances for his intemperance580; and what quickened the oblivion of the affair was, which in itself was sufficiently581 strange, that Barratt did not revive the case in the public mind by seeking legal reparation for his injuries. It was, however, still matter of regret that Pierpoint should have indulged himself in this movement of passion, since undoubtedly it broke and disturbed the else uniform stream of public indignation by investing the original aggressor with something like the character of an injured person; and therefore with some set-off to plead against his own wantonness of malice: his malice might now assume the nobler aspect of revenge.
Thus far, in reporting the circumstances, Hannah had dallied582—thus far I had rejoiced that she dallied, with the main burden of the wo; but now there remained nothing to dally583 with any longer—and she rushed along in her narrative, hurrying to tell—I hurrying to hear. A second, a third examination had ensued, then a final committal—all this within a week. By that time all the world was agitated with the case; literally not the city only, vast as that city was, but the nation was convulsed and divided into parties upon the question, Whether the prosecution584 were one of mere malice or not? The very government of the land was reported to be equally interested, and almost equally divided in opinion. In this state of public feeling came the trial. Image to yourself, oh reader, whosoever you are, the intensity of the excitement which by that time had arisen in all people to be spectators of the scene—then image to yourself the effect of all this, a perfect consciousness that in herself as a centre was settled the whole mighty interest of the exhibition—that interest again of so dubious585 and mixed a character—sympathy in some with mere misfortune—sympathy in others with female frailty and guilt, not perhaps founded upon an absolute unwavering belief in her innocence even amongst those who were most loud and positive as partisans586 in affirming it,—and then remember that all this hideous scenical display and notoriety settled upon one whose very nature, constitutionally timid, recoiled587 with the triple agony of womanly shame—of matronly dignity—of insulted innocence, from every mode and shape of public display. Combine all these circumstances and elements of the case, and you may faintly enter into the situation of my poor Agnes. Perhaps the best way to express it at once is by recurring588 to the case of a young female Christian martyr150, in the early ages of Christianity, exposed in the bloody amphitheatre of Rome or Verona to ‘fight with wild beasts,’ as it was expressed in mockery—she to fight! the lamb to fight with lions! But in reality the young martyr had a fight to maintain, and a fight (in contempt of that cruel mockery) fiercer than the fiercest of her persecutors could have faced perhaps—the combat with the instincts of her own shrinking, trembling, fainting nature. Such a fight had my Agnes to maintain; and at that time there was a large party of gentlemen in whom the gentlemanly instinct was predominant, and who felt so powerfully the cruel indignities590 of her situation, that they made a public appeal in her behalf. One thing, and a strong one, which they said, was this:—‘We all talk and move in this case as if, because the question appears doubtful to some people, and the accused party to some people wears a doubtful character, it would follow that she therefore had in reality a mixed character composed in joint591 proportions of the best and the worst that is imputed592 to her. But let us not forget that this mixed character belongs not to her, but to the infirmity of our human judgments—they are mixed—they are dubious—but she is not—she is, or she is not, guilty—there is no middle case—and let us consider for a single moment, that if this young lady (as many among us heartily593 believe) is innocent, then and upon that supposition let us consider how cruel we should all think the public exposure which aggravates594 the other injuries (as in that case they must be thought) to which her situation exposes her.’ They went on to make some suggestions for the officers of the court in preparing the arrangements for the trial, and some also for the guidance of the audience, which showed the same generous anxiety for sparing the feelings of the prisoner. If these did not wholly succeed in repressing the open avowal595 of coarse and brutal curiosity amongst the intensely vulgar, at least they availed to diffuse596 amongst the neutral and indifferent part of the public a sentiment of respect and forbearance which, emanating597 from high quarters, had a very extensive influence upon most of what met the eye or the ear of my poor wife. She, on the day of trial, was supported by her brother; and by that time she needed support indeed. I was reported to be dying; her little son was dead; neither had she been allowed to see him. Perhaps these things, by weaning her from all further care about life, might have found their natural effect in making her indifferent to the course of the trial, or even to its issue. And so, perhaps, in the main, they did. But at times some lingering sense of outraged598 dignity, some fitful gleams of old sympathies, ‘the hectic599 of a moment,’ came back upon her, and prevailed over the deadening stupor600 of her grief. Then she shone for a moment into a starry601 light—sweet and woful to remember. Then——but why linger? I hurry to the close: she was pronounced guilty; whether by a jury or a bench of judges, I do not say—having determined512, from the beginning, to give no hint of the land in which all these events happened; neither is that of the slightest consequence. Guilty she was pronounced: but sentence at that time was deferred602. Ask me not, I beseech603 you, about the muff or other circumstances inconsistent with the hostile evidence. These circumstances had the testimony604, you will observe, of my own servants only; nay, as it turned out, of one servant exclusively: that naturally diminished their value. And, on the other side, evidence was arrayed, perjury605 was suborned, that would have wrecked a wilderness of simple truth trusting to its own unaided forces. What followed? Did this judgment of the court settle the opinion of the public? Opinion of the public! Did it settle the winds? Did it settle the motion of the Atlantic? Wilder, fiercer, and louder grew the cry against the wretched accuser: mighty had been the power over the vast audience of the dignity, the affliction, the perfect simplicity, and the Madonna beauty of the prisoner. That beauty so childlike, and at the same time so saintly, made, besides, so touching in its pathos by means of the abandonment—the careless abandonment and the infinite desolation of her air and manner—would of itself, and without further aid, have made many converts. Much more was done by the simplicity of her statements, and the indifference606 with which she neglected to improve any strong points in her own favour—the indifference, as every heart perceived, of despairing grief. Then came the manners on the hostile side—the haggard consciousness of guilt, the drooping tone, the bravado607 and fierce strut608 which sought to dissemble all this. Not one amongst all the witnesses, assembled on that side, had (by all agreement) the bold natural tone of conscious uprightness. Hence it could not be surprising that the storm of popular opinion made itself heard with a louder and a louder sound. The government itself began to be disturbed; the ministers of the sovereign were agitated; and, had no menaces been thrown out, it was generally understood that they would have given way to the popular voice, now continually more distinct and clamorous609. In the midst of all this tumult obscure murmurs610 began to arise that Barratt had practised the same or similar villainies in former instances. One case in particular was beginning to be whispered about, which at once threw a light upon the whole affair: it was the case of a young and very beautiful married woman, who had been on the very brink611 of a catastrophe such as had befallen my own wife, when some seasonable interference, of what nature was not known, had critically delivered her. This case arose ‘like a little cloud no bigger than a man’s hand,’ then spread and threatened to burst in tempest upon the public mind, when all at once, more suddenly even than it had arisen, it was hushed up, or in some way disappeared. But a trifling circumstance made it possible to trace this case:—in after times, when means offered, but unfortunately no particular purpose of good, nor any purpose, in fact, beyond that of curiosity, it was traced: and enough was soon ascertained612 to have blown to fragments any possible conspiracy emanating from this Barratt, had that been of any further importance. However, in spite of all that money or art could effect, a sullen613 growl614 continued to be heard amongst the populace of villainies many and profound that had been effected or attempted by this Barratt; and accordingly, much in the same way as was many years afterwards practised in London, when a hosier had caused several young people to be prosecuted615 to death for passing forged bank-notes, the wrath of the people showed itself in marking the shop for vengeance upon any favourable616 occasion offering through fire or riots, and in the meantime in deserting it. These things had been going on for some time when I awoke from my long delirium617; but the effect they had produced upon a weak and obstinate618 and haughty government, or at least upon the weak and obstinate and haughty member of the government who presided in the police administration, was, to confirm and rivet the line of conduct which had been made the object of popular denunciation. More energetically, more scornfully, to express that determination of flying in the face of public opinion and censure619, four days before my awakening620, Agnes had been brought up to receive her sentence. On that same day (nay, it was said in that same hour), petitions, very numerously signed, and various petitions from different ranks, different ages, different sexes, were carried up to the throne, praying, upon manifold grounds, but all noticing the extreme doubtfulness of the case, for an unconditional pardon. By whose advice or influence, it was guessed easily, though never exactly ascertained, these petitions were unanimously, almost contemptuously, rejected. And to express the contempt of public opinion as powerfully as possible, Agnes was sentenced by the court, reassembled in full pomp, order, and ceremonial costume, to a punishment the severest that the laws allowed—viz. hard labour for ten years. The people raged more than ever; threats public and private were conveyed to the ears of the minister chiefly concerned in the responsibility, and who had indeed, by empty and ostentatious talking, assumed that responsibility to himself in a way that was perfectly needless.
Thus stood matters when I awoke to consciousness: and this was the fatal journal of the interval—interval so long as measured by my fierce calendar of delirium—so brief measured by the huge circuit of events which it embraced, and their mightiness621 for evil. Wrath, wrath immeasurable, unimaginable, unmitigable, burned at my heart like a cancer. The worst had come. And the thing which kills a man for action—the living in two climates at once—a torrid and a frigid622 zone—of hope and fear—that was past. Weak—suppose I were for the moment: I felt that a day or two might bring back my strength. No miserable tremors of hope now shook my nerves: if they shook from that inevitable rocking of the waters that follows a storm, so much might be pardoned to the infirmity of a nature that could not lay aside its fleshly necessities, nor altogether forego its homage to ‘these frail elements,’ but which by inspiration already lived within a region where no voices were heard but the spiritual voices of transcendant passions—of
‘Wrongs unrevenged, and insults unredress’d.’
Six days from that time I was well—well and strong. I rose from bed; I bathed; I dressed: dressed as if I were a bridegroom. And that was in fact a great day in my life. I was to see Agnes. Oh! yes: permission had been obtained from the lordly minister that I should see my wife. Is it possible? Can such condescensions exist? Yes: solicitations from ladies, eloquent623 notes wet with ducal tears, these had won from the thrice radiant secretary, redolent of roseate attar, a countersign67 to some order or other, by which I—yes I—under license624 of a fop, and supervision625 of a jailer—was to see and for a time to converse326 with my own wife.
The hour appointed for the first day’s interview was eight o’clock in the evening. On the outside of the jail all was summer light and animation626. The sports of children in the streets of mighty cities are but sad, and too painfully recall the circumstances of freedom and breezy nature that are not there. But still the pomp of glorious summer, and the presence, ‘not to be put by,’ of the everlasting light, that is either always present, or always dawning—these potent627 elements impregnate the very city life, and the dim reflex of nature which is found at the bottom of well-like streets, with more solemn powers to move and to soothe628 in summer. I struck upon the prison gates, the first among multitudes waiting to strike. Not because we struck, but because the hour had sounded, suddenly the gate opened; and in we streamed. I, as a visitor for the first time, was immediately distinguished by the jailers, whose glance of eye is fatally unerring. ‘Who was it that I wanted?’ At the name a stir of emotion was manifest, even there: the dry bones stirred and moved: the passions outside had long ago passed to the interior of this gloomy prison: and not a man but had his hypothesis on the case; not a man but had almost fought with some comrade (many had literally fought) about the merits of their several opinions.
If any man had expected a scene at this reunion, he would have been disappointed. Exhaustion629, and the ravages630 of sorrow, had left to dear Agnes so little power of animation or of action, that her emotions were rather to be guessed at, both for kind and for degree, than directly to have been perceived. She was in fact a sick patient, far gone in an illness that should properly have confined her to bed; and was as much past the power of replying to my frenzied631 exclamations632, as a dying victim of fever of entering upon a strife of argument. In bed, however, she was not. When the door opened she was discovered sitting at a table placed against the opposite wall, her head pillowed upon her arms, and these resting upon the table. Her beautiful long auburn hair had escaped from its confinement, and was floating over the table and her own person. She took no notice of the disturbance made by our entrance, did not turn, did not raise her head, nor make an effort to do so, nor by any sign whatever intimate that she was conscious of our presence, until the turnkey in a respectful tone announced me. Upon that a low groan, or rather a feeble moan, showed that she had become aware of my presence, and relieved me from all apprehension633 of causing too sudden a shock by taking her in my arms. The turnkey had now retired; we were alone. I knelt by her side, threw my arms about her, and pressed her to my heart. She drooped634 her head upon my shoulder, and lay for some time like one who slumbered; but, alas! not as she had used to slumber. Her breathing, which had been like that of sinless infancy635, was now frightfully short and quick; she seemed not properly to breathe, but to gasp636. This, thought I, may be sudden agitation, and in that case she will gradually recover; half an hour will restore her. Wo is me! she did not recover; and internally I said—she never will recover. The arrows have gone too deep for a frame so exquisite in its sensibility, and already her hours are numbered.
At this first visit I said nothing to her about the past; that, and the whole extent to which our communications should go, I left rather to her own choice. At the second visit, however, upon some word or other arising which furnished an occasion for touching on this hateful topic, I pressed her, contrary to my own previous intention, for as full an account of the fatal event as she could without a distressing effort communicate. To my surprise she was silent—gloomily—almost it might have seemed obstinately637 silent. A horrid638 thought came into my mind; could it, might it have been possible that my noble-minded wife, such she had ever seemed to me, was open to temptations of this nature? Could it have been that in some moment of infirmity, when her better angel was away from her side, she had yielded to a sudden impulse of frailty, such as a second moment for consideration would have resisted, but which unhappily had been followed by no such opportunity of retrieval? I had heard of such things. Cases there were in our own times (and not confined to one nation), when irregular impulses of this sort were known to have haunted and besieged natures not otherwise ignoble639 or base. I ran over some of the names amongst those which were taxed with this propensity640. More than one were the names of people in a technical sense held noble. That, nor any other consideration, abated641 my horror. Better, I said, better (because more compatible with elevation642 of mind) better to have committed some bloody act—some murderous act. Dreadful was the panic I underwent. God pardon the wrong I did; and even now I pray to him—as though the past thing were a future thing and capable of change—that he would forbid her for ever to know what was the derogatory thought I had admitted. I sometimes think, by recollecting a momentary blush that suffused643 her marble countenance,—I think—I fear that she might have read what was fighting in my mind. Yet that would admit of another explanation. If she did read the very worst, meek saint! she suffered no complaint or sense of that injury to escape her. It might, however, be that perception, or it might be that fear which roused her to an effort that otherwise had seemed too revolting to undertake. She now rehearsed the whole steps of the affair from first to last; but the only material addition, which her narrative made to that which the trial itself had involved, was the following:—On two separate occasions previous to the last and fatal one, when she had happened to walk unaccompanied by me in the city, the monster Barratt had met her in the street. He had probably,—and this was, indeed, subsequently ascertained,—at first, and for some time afterwards, mistaken her rank, and had addressed some proposals to her, which, from the suppressed tone of his speaking, or from her own terror and surprise, she had not clearly understood; but enough had reached her alarmed ear to satisfy her that they were of a nature in the last degree licentious and insulting. Terrified and shocked rather than indignant, for she too easily presumed the man to be a maniac, she hurried homewards; and was rejoiced, on first venturing to look round when close to her own gate, to perceive that the man was not following. There, however, she was mistaken; for either on this occasion, or on some other, he had traced her homewards. The last of these rencontres had occurred just three months before the fatal 6th of April; and if, in any one instance, Agnes had departed from the strict line of her duty as a wife, or had shown a defect of judgment, it was at this point—in not having frankly644 and fully reported the circumstances to me. On the last of these occasions I had met her at the garden-gate, and had particularly remarked that she seemed agitated; and now, at recalling these incidents, Agnes reminded me that I had noticed that circumstance to herself, and that she had answered me faithfully as to the main fact. It was true she had done so; for she had said that she had just met a lunatic who had alarmed her by fixing his attention upon herself, and speaking to her in a ruffian manner; and it was also true that she did sincerely regard him in that light. This led me at the time to construe538 the whole affair into a casual collision with some poor maniac escaping from his keepers, and of no future moment, having passed by without present consequences. But had she, instead of thus reporting her own erroneous impression, reported the entire circumstances of the case, I should have given them a very different interpretation645. Affection for me, and fear to throw me needlessly into a quarrel with a man of apparently brutal and violent nature—these considerations, as too often they do with the most upright wives, had operated to check Agnes in the perfect sincerity of her communications. She had told nothing but the truth—only, and fatally it turned out for us both, she had not told the whole truth. The very suppression, to which she had reconciled herself under the belief that thus she was providing for my safety and her own consequent happiness, had been the indirect occasion of ruin to both. It was impossible to show displeasure under such circumstances, or under any circumstances, to one whose self-reproaches were at any rate too bitter; but certainly, as a general rule, every conscientious646 woman should resolve to consider her husband’s honour in the first case, and far before all other regards whatsoever; to make this the first, the second, the third law of her conduct, and his personal safety but the fourth or fifth. Yet women, and especially when the interests of children are at stake upon their husband’s safety, rarely indeed are able to take this Roman view of their duties.
To return to the narrative.—Agnes had not, nor could have, the most remote suspicion of this Barratt’s connection with the shop which she had not accidentally entered; and the sudden appearance of this wretch519 it was, at the very moment of finding herself charged with so vile84 and degrading an offence, that contributed most of all to rob her of her natural firmness, by suddenly revealing to her terrified heart the depth of the conspiracy which thus yawned like a gulf647 below her. And not only had this sudden horror, upon discovering a guilty design in what before had seemed accident, and links uniting remote incidents which else seemed casual and disconnected, greatly disturbed and confused her manner, which confusion again had become more intense upon her own consciousness that she was confused, and that her manner was greatly to her disadvantage; but—which was the worst effect of all, because the rest could not operate against her, except upon those who were present to witness it, whereas this was noted648 down and recorded—so utterly did her confusion strip her of all presence of mind, that she did not consciously notice (and consequently could not protest against at the moment when it was most important to do so, and most natural) the important circumstance of the muff. This capital objection, therefore, though dwelt upon and improved to the utmost at the trial, was looked upon by the judges as an after-thought; and merely because it had not been seized upon by herself, and urged in the first moments of her almost incapacitating terror on finding this amongst the circumstances of the charge against her—as if an ingenuous nature, in the very act of recoiling649 with horror from a criminal charge the most degrading, and in the very instant of discovering, with a perfect rapture of alarm, the too plausible650 appearance of probability amongst the circumstances, would be likely to pause, and with attorney-like dexterity651, to pick out the particular circumstance that might admit of being proved to be false, when the conscience proclaimed, though in despondence for the result, that all the circumstances were, as to the use made of them, one tissue of falsehoods. Agnes, who had made a powerful effort in speaking of the case at all, found her calmness increase as she advanced; and she now told me, that in reality there were two discoveries which she made in the same instant, and not one only, which had disarmed653 her firmness and ordinary presence of mind. One I have mentioned—the fact of Barratt, the proprietor654 of the shop, being the same person who had in former instances persecuted655 her in the street; but the other was even more alarming—it has been said already that it was not a pure matter of accident that she had visited this particular shop. In reality, that nursery-maid, of whom some mention has been made above, and in terms expressing the suspicion with which even then I regarded her, had persuaded her into going thither by some representations which Agnes had already ascertained to be altogether unwarranted. Other presumptions656 against this girl’s fidelity657 crowded dimly upon my wife’s mind at the very moment of finding her eyes thus suddenly opened. And it was not five minutes after her first examination, and in fact five minutes after it had ceased to be of use to her, that she remembered another circumstance which now, when combined with the sequel, told its own tale;—the muff had been missed some little time before the 6th of April. Search had been made for it; but, the particular occasion which required it having passed off, this search was laid aside for the present, in the expectation that it would soon reappear in some corner of the house before it was wanted: then came the sunny day, which made it no longer useful, and would perhaps have dismissed it entirely from the recollection of all parties, until it was now brought back in this memorable way. The name of my wife was embroidered658 within, upon the lining659, and it thus became a serviceable link to the hellish cabal660 against her. Upon reviewing the circumstances from first to last, upon recalling the manner of the girl at the time when the muff was missed, and upon combining the whole with her recent deception, by which she had misled her poor mistress into visiting this shop, Agnes began to see the entire truth as to this servant’s wicked collusion with Barratt, though, perhaps, it might be too much to suppose her aware of the unhappy result to which her collusion tended. All this she saw at a glance when it was too late, for her first examination was over. This girl, I must add, had left our house during my illness, and she had afterwards a melancholy end.
One thing surprised me in all this, Barratt’s purpose must manifestly have been to create merely a terror in my poor wife’s mind, and to stop short of any legal consequences, in order to profit of that panic and confusion for extorting661 compliances with his hideous pretensions662. It perplexed663 me, therefore, that he did not appear to have pursued this manifestly his primary purpose, the other being merely a mask to conceal his true ends, and also (as he fancied) a means for effecting them. In this, however, I had soon occasion to find that I was deceived. He had, but without the knowledge of Agnes, taken such steps as were then open to him, for making overtures665 to her with regard to the terms upon which he would agree to defeat the charge against her by failing to appear. But the law had travelled too fast for him and too determinately; so that, by the time he supposed terror to have operated sufficiently in favour of his views, it had already become unsafe to venture upon such explicit666 proposals as he would otherwise have tried. His own safety was now at stake, and would have been compromised by any open or written avowal of the motives on which he had been all along acting. In fact, at this time he was foiled by the agent in whom he confided; but much more he had been confounded upon another point—the prodigious interest manifested by the public. Thus it seems—that, whilst he meditated only a snare667 for my poor Agnes, he had prepared one for himself; and finally, to evade146 the suspicions which began to arise powerfully as to his true motives, and thus to stave off his own ruin, had found himself in a manner obliged to go forward and consummate the ruin of another.
The state of Agnes, as to health and bodily strength, was now becoming such that I was forcibly warned—whatsoever I meditated doing, to do quickly. There was this urgent reason for alarm: once conveyed into that region of the prison in which sentences like hers were executed, it became hopeless that I could communicate with her again. All intercourse668 whatsoever, and with whomsoever, was then placed under the most rigorous interdict669; and the alarming circumstance was, that this transfer was governed by no settled rules, but might take place at any hour, and would certainly be precipitated670 by the slightest violence on my part, the slightest indiscretion, or the slightest argument for suspicion. Hard indeed was the part I had to play, for it was indispensable that I should appear calm and tranquil196, in order to disarm652 suspicions around me, whilst continually contemplating the possibility that I myself might be summoned to extremities671 which I could not so much as trust myself to name or distinctly to conceive. But thus stood the case; the Government, it was understood, angered by the public opposition, resolute672 for the triumph of what they called ‘principle,’ had settled finally that the sentence should be carried into execution. Now that she, that my Agnes, being the frail wreck that she had become, could have stood one week of this sentence practically and literally enforced—was a mere chimera673. A few hours probably of the experiment would have settled that question by dismissing her to the death she longed for; but because the suffering would be short, was I to stand by and to witness the degradation—the pollution—attempted to be fastened upon her. What! to know that her beautiful tresses would be shorn ignominiously—a felon’s dress forced upon her—a vile taskmaster with authority to——; blistered674 be the tongue that could go on to utter, in connection with her innocent name, the vile dishonours675 which were to settle upon her person! I, however, and her brother had taken such resolutions that this result was one barely possible; and yet I sickened (yes, literally I many times experienced the effect of physical sickness) at contemplating our own utter childish helplessness, and recollecting that every night during our seclusion from the prison the last irreversible step might be taken—and in the morning we might find a solitary cell, and the angel form that had illuminated it gone where we could not follow, and leaving behind her the certainty that we should see her no more. Every night, at the hour of locking up, she, at least, manifestly had a fear that she saw us for the last time; she put her arms feebly about my neck, sobbed676 convulsively, and, I believe, guessed—but, if really so, did not much reprove or quarrel with the desperate purposes which I struggled with in regard t o her own life. One thing was quite evident—that to the peace of her latter days, now hurrying to their close, it was indispensable that she should pass them undivided from me; and possibly, as was afterwards alleged, when it became easy to allege506 anything, some relenting did take place in high quarters at this time; for upon some medical reports made just now, a most seasonable indulgence was granted, viz. that Hannah was permitted to attend her mistress constantly; and it was also felt as a great alleviation of the horrors belonging to this prison, that candles were now allowed throughout the nights. But I was warned privately that these indulgences were with no consent from the police minister; and that circumstances might soon withdraw the momentary intercession by which we profited. With this knowledge we could not linger in our preparations; we had resolved upon accomplishing an escape for Agnes, at whatever risk or price; the main difficulty was her own extreme feebleness, which might forbid her to co-operate with us in any degree at the critical moment; and the main danger was—delay. We pushed forward, therefore, in our attempts with prodigious energy, and I for my part with an energy like that of insanity.
The first attempt we made was upon the fidelity to his trust of the chief jailer. He was a coarse vulgar man, brutal in his manners, but with vestiges of generosity in his character—though damaged a good deal by his daily associates. Him we invited to a meeting at a tavern677 in the neighbourhood of the prison, disguising our names as too certain to betray our objects, and baiting our invitation with some hints which we had ascertained were likely to prove temptations under his immediate238 circumstances. He had a graceless young son whom he was most anxious to wean from his dissolute connections, and to steady, by placing him in some office of no great responsibility. Upon this knowledge we framed the terms of our invitation.
These proved to be effectual, as regarded our immediate object of obtaining an interview of persuasion678. The night was wet; and at seven o’clock, the hour fixed for the interview, we were seated in readiness, much perplexed to know whether he would take any notice of our invitation. We had waited three quarters of an hour, when we heard a heavy lumbering679 step ascending the stair. The door was thrown open to its widest extent, and in the centre of the door-way stood a short, stout-built man, and the very broadest I ever beheld—staring at us with bold enquiring680 eyes. His salutation was something to this effect.
‘What the hell do you gay fellows want with me? What the blazes is this humbugging letter about? My son, and be hanged! what do you know of my son?’
Upon this overture664 we ventured to request that he would come in and suffer us to shut the door, which we also locked. Next we produced the official paper nominating his son to a small place in the customs,—not yielding much, it was true, in the way of salary, but fortunately, and in accordance with the known wishes of the father, unburdened with any dangerous trust.
‘Well, I suppose I must say thank ye: but what comes next? What am I to do to pay the damages?’ We informed him that for this particular little service we asked no return.
‘No, no,’ said he, ‘that’ll not go down: that cat’ll not jump. I’m not green enough for that. So, say away—what’s the damage?’ We then explained that we had certainly a favour and a great one to ask: [‘Ay, I’ll be bound you have,’ was his parenthesis:] but that for this we were prepared to offer a separate remuneration; repeating that with respect to the little place procured681 for his son, it had not cost us anything, and therefore we did really and sincerely decline to receive anything in return; satisfied that, by this little offering, we had procured the opportunity of this present interview. At this point we withdrew a covering from a table upon which we had previously arranged a heap of gold coins, amounting in value to twelve hundred English guineas: this being the entire sum which circumstances allowed us to raise on so sudden a warning: for some landed property that we both had was so settled and limited, that we could not convert it into money either by way of sale, loan, or mortgage. This sum, stating to him its exact amount, we offered to his acceptance, upon the single condition that he would look aside, or wink467 hard, or (in whatever way he chose to express it) would make, or suffer to be made, such facilities for our liberating682 a female prisoner as we would point out. He mused683: full five minutes he sat deliberating without opening his lips; At length he shocked us by saying, in a firm decisive tone that left us little hope of altering his resolution,—‘No: gentlemen, it’s a very fair offer, and a good deal of money for a single prisoner. I think I can guess at the person. It’s a fair offer—fair enough. But, bless your heart! if I were to do the thing you want——why perhaps another case might be overlooked: but this prisoner, no: there’s too much depending. No, they would turn me out of my place. Now the place is worth more to me in the long run than what you offer; though you bid fair enough, if it were only for my time in it. But look here: in case I can get my son to come into harness, I’m expecting to get the office for him after I’ve retired. So I can’t do it. But I’ll tell you what: you’ve been kind to my son: and therefore I’ll not say a word about it. You’re safe for me. And so good-night to you.’ Saying which, and standing no further question, he walked resolutely684 out of the room and down-stairs.
Two days we mourned over this failure, and scarcely knew which way to turn for another ray of hope;—on the third morning we received intelligence that this very jailer had been attacked by the fever, which, after long desolating685 the city, had at length made its way into the prison. In a very few days the jailer was lying without hope of recovery: and of necessity another person was appointed to fill his station for the present. This person I had seen, and I liked him less by much than the one he succeeded: he had an Italian appearance, and he wore an air of Italian subtlety686 and dissimulation687. I was surprised to find, on proposing the same service to him, and on the same terms, that he made no objection whatever, but closed instantly with my offers. In prudence, however, I had made this change in the articles: a sum equal to two hundred English guineas, or one-sixth part of the whole money, he was to receive beforehand as a retaining fee; but the remainder was to be paid only to himself, or to anybody of his appointing, at the very moment of our finding the prison gates thrown open to us. He spoke fairly enough, and seemed to meditate355 no treachery; nor was there any obvious or known interest to serve by treachery; and yet I doubted him grievously.
The night came: it was chosen as a gala night, one of two nights throughout the year in which the prisoners were allowed to celebrate a great national event: and in those days of relaxed prison management the utmost license was allowed to the rejoicing. This indulgence was extended to prisoners of all classes, though, of course, under more restrictions688 with regard to the criminal class. Ten o’clock came—the hour at which we had been instructed to hold ourselves in readiness. We had been long prepared. Agnes had been dressed by Hannah in such a costume externally (a man’s hat and cloak, &c.) that, from her height, she might easily have passed amongst a mob of masquerading figures in the debtors’ halls and galleries for a young stripling. Pierpoint and myself were also to a certain degree disguised; so far at least, that we should not have been recognised at any hurried glance by those of the prison officers who had become acquainted with our persons. We were all more or less disguised about the face; and in that age when masks were commonly used at all hours by people of a certain rank, there would have been nothing suspicious in any possible costume of the kind in a night like this, if we could succeed in passing for friends of debtors.
I am impatient of these details, and I hasten over the ground. One entire hour passed away, and no jailer appeared. We began to despond heavily; and Agnes, poor thing! was now the most agitated of us all. At length eleven struck in the harsh tones of the prison-clock. A few minutes after, we heard the sound of bolts drawing, and bars unfastening. The jailer entered—drunk, and much disposed to be insolent689. I thought it advisable to give him another bribe528, and he resumed the fawning690 insinuation of his manner. He now directed us, by passages which he pointed out, to gain the other side of the prison. There we were to mix with the debtors and their mob of friends, and to await his joining us, which in that crowd he could do without much suspicion. He wished us to traverse the passages separately; but this was impossible, for it was necessary that one of us should support Agnes on each side. I previously persuaded her to take a small quantity of brandy, which we rejoiced to see had given her, at this moment of starting, a most seasonable strength and animation. The gloomy passages were more than usually empty, for all the turnkeys were employed in a vigilant custody of the gates, and examination of the parties going out. So the jailer had told us, and the news alarmed us. We came at length to a turning which brought us in sight of a strong iron gate, that divided the two main quarters of the prison. For this we had not been prepared. The man, however, opened the gate without a word spoken, only putting out his hand for a fee; and in my joy, perhaps, I gave him one imprudently large. After passing this gate, the distant uproar691 of the debtors guided us to the scene of their merriment; and when there, such was the tumult and the vast multitude assembled, that we now hoped in good earnest to accomplish our purpose without accident. Just at this moment the jailer appeared in the distance; he seemed looking towards us, and at length one of our party could distinguish that he was beckoning692 to us. We went forward, and found him in some agitation, real or counterfeit693. He muttered a word or two quite unintelligible694 about the man at the wicket, told us we must wait a while, and he would then see what could be done for us. We were beginning to demur695, and to express the suspicions which now too seriously arose, when he, seeing, or affecting to see some object of alarm, pushed us with a hurried movement into a cell opening upon the part of the gallery at which we were now standing. Not knowing whether we really might not be retreating from some danger, we could do no otherwise than comply with his signals; but we were troubled at finding ourselves immediately locked in from the outside, and thus apparently all our motions had only sufficed to exchange one prison for another.
We were now completely in the dark, and found, by a hard breathing from one corner of the little dormitory, that it was not unoccupied. Having taken care to provide ourselves separately with means for striking a light, we soon had more than one torch burning. The brilliant light falling upon the eyes of a man who lay stretched on the iron bedstead, woke him. It proved to be my friend the under-jailer, Ratcliffe, but no longer holding any office in the prison. He sprang up, and a rapid explanation took place. He had become a prisoner for debt; and on this evening, after having caroused696 through the day with some friends from the country, had retired at an early hour to sleep away his intoxication697. I on my part thought it prudent to entrust698 him unreservedly with our situation and purposes, not omitting our gloomy suspicions. Ratcliffe looked, with a pity that won my love, upon the poor wasted Agnes. He had seen her on her first entrance into the prison, had spoken to her, and therefore knew from what she had fallen, to what. Even then he had felt for her; how much more at this time, when he beheld, by the fierce light of the torches, her wo-worn features!
‘Who was it,’ he asked eagerly, ‘you made the bargain with? Manasseh?’
‘The same.’
‘Then I can tell you this—not a greater villain384 walks the earth. He is a Jew from Portugal; he has betrayed many a man, and will many another, unless he gets his own neck stretched, which might happen, if I told all I know.’
‘But what was it probable that this man meditated? Or how could it profit him to betray us?’
‘That’s more than I can tell. He wants to get your money, and that he doesn’t know how to bring about without doing his part. But that’s what he never will do, take my word for it. That would cut him out of all chance for the head-jailer’s place.’ He mused a little, and then told us that he could himself put us outside the prison-walls, and would do it without fee or reward. ‘But we must be quiet, or that devil will bethink him of me. I’ll wager699 something he thought that I was out merry-making like the rest; and if he should chance to light upon the truth, he’ll be back in no time.’ Ratcliffe then removed an old fire-grate, at the back of which was an iron plate, that swung round into a similar fireplace in the contiguous cell. From that, by a removal of a few slight obstacles, we passed, by a long avenue, into the chapel. Then he left us, whilst he went out alone to reconnoitre his ground. Agnes was now in so pitiable a condition of weakness, as we stood on the very brink of our final effort, that we placed her in a pew, where she could rest as upon a sofa. Previously we had stood upon graves, and with monuments more or less conspicuous all around us: some raised by friends to the memory of friends—some by subscriptions700 in the prison—some by children, who had risen into prosperity, to the memory of a father, brother, or other relative, who had died in captivity701. I was grieved that these sad memorials should meet the eye of my wife at this moment of awe and terrific anxiety. Pierpoint and I were well armed, and all of us determined not to suffer a recapture, now that we were free of the crowds that made resistance hopeless. This Agnes easily perceived; and that, by suggesting a bloody arbitration702, did not lessen703 her agitation. I hoped therefore that, by placing her in the pew, I might at least liberate162 her for the moment from the besetting704 memorials of sorrow and calamity. But, as if in the very teeth of my purpose, one of the large columns which supported the roof of the chapel had its basis and lower part of the shaft705 in this very pew. On the side of it, and just facing her as she lay reclining on the cushions, appeared a mural tablet, with a bas-relief in white marble, to the memory of two children, twins, who had lived and died at the same time, and in this prison—children who had never breathed another air than that of captivity, their parents having passed many years within these walls, under confinement for debt. The sculptures were not remarkable, being a trite, but not the less affecting, representation of angels descending706 to receive the infants; but the hallowed words of the inscription707, distinct and legible—‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God’—met her eye, and, by the thoughts they awakened, made me fear that she would become unequal to the exertions708 which yet awaited her. At this moment Ratcliffe returned, and informed us that all was right; and that, from the ruinous state of all the buildings which surrounded the chapel, no difficulty remained for us, who were, in fact, beyond the strong part of the prison, excepting at a single door, which we should be obliged to break down. But had we any means arranged for pursuing our flight, and turning this escape to account when out of confinement? All that, I assured him, was provided for long ago. We proceeded, and soon reached the door. We had one crow-bar amongst us, but beyond that had no better weapons than the loose stones found about some new-made graves in the chapel. Ratcliffe and Pierpoint, both powerful men, applied themselves by turns to the door, whilst Hannah and I supported Agnes. The door did not yield, being of enormous strength; but the wall did, and a large mass of stone-work fell outwards709, twisting the door aside; so that, by afterwards working with our hands, we removed stones many enough to admit of our egress710. Unfortunately this aperture711 was high above the ground, and it was necessary to climb over a huge heap of loose rubbish in order to profit by it. My brother-in-law passed first in order to receive my wife, quite helpless at surmounting712 the obstacle by her own efforts, out of my arms. He had gone through the opening, and, turning, round so as to face me, he naturally could see something that I did not see. ‘Look behind!’ he called out rapidly. I did so, and saw the murderous villain Manasseh with his arm uplifted and in the act of cutting at my wife, nearly insensible as she was, with a cutlass. The blow was not for me, but for her, as the fugitive prisoner; and the law would have borne him out in the act. I saw, I comprehended the whole. I groped, as far as I could without letting my wife drop, for my pistols; but all that I could do would have been unavailing, and too late—she would have been murdered in my arms. But—and that was what none of us saw—neither I, nor Pierpoint, nor the hound Manasseh—one person stood back in the shade; one person had seen, but had not uttered a word on seeing Manasseh advancing through the shades; one person only had forecast the exact succession of all that was coming; me she saw embarrassed and my hands preoccupied—Pierpoint and Ratcliffe useless by position—and the gleam of the dog’s eye directed her to his aim. The crow-bar was leaning against the shattered wall. This she had silently seized. One blow knocked up the sword; a second laid the villain prostrate713. At this moment appeared another of the turnkeys advancing from the rear, for the noise of our assault upon the door had drawn attention in the interior of the prison, from which, however, no great number of assistants could on this dangerous night venture to absent themselves. What followed for the next few minutes hurried onwards, incident crowding upon incident, like the motions of a dream:—Manasseh, lying on the ground, yelled out ‘The bell! the bell!’ to him who followed. The man understood, and made for the belfry-door attached to the chapel; upon which Pierpoint drew a pistol, and sent the bullet whizzing past his ear so truly, that fear made the man obedient to the counter-orders of Pierpoint for the moment. He paused and awaited the issue.—In a moment had all cleared the wall, traversed the waste ground beyond it, lifted Agnes over the low railing, shaken hands with our benefactor714 Ratcliffe and pushed onwards as rapidly as we were able to the little dark lane, a quarter of a mile distant, where had stood waiting for the last two hours a chaise-and-four.
[Ratcliffe, before my story closes, I will pursue to the last of my acquaintance with him, according to the just claims of his services. He had privately whispered to me, as we went along, that he could speak to the innocence of that lady, pointing to my wife, better than anybody. He was the person whom (as then holding an office in the prison) Barratt had attempted to employ as agent in conveying any messages that he found it safe to send—obscurely hinting the terms on which he would desist from prosecution. Ratcliffe had at first undertaken the negotiation715 from mere levity of character. But when the story and the public interest spread, and after himself becoming deeply struck by the prisoner’s affliction, beauty, and reputed innocence, he had pursued it only as a means of entrapping716 Barratt into such written communications and such private confessions718 of the truth as might have served Agnes effectually. He wanted the art, however, to disguise his purposes: Barratt came to suspect him violently, and feared his evidence so far, even for those imperfect and merely oral overtures which he had really sent through Ratcliffe—that on the very day of the trial he, as was believed, though by another nominally719, contrived720 that Ratcliffe should be arrested for debt; and, after harassing721 him with intricate forms of business, had finally caused him to be conveyed to prison. Ratcliffe was thus involved in his own troubles at the time; and afterwards supposed that, without written documents to support his evidence, he could not be of much service to the re-establishment of my wife’s reputation. Six months after his services in the night-escape from the prison, I saw him, and pressed him to take the money so justly forfeited to him by Manasseh’s perfidy722. He would, however, be persuaded to take no more than paid his debts. A second and a third time his debts were paid by myself and Pierpoint. But the same habits of intemperance and dissolute pleasure which led him into these debts, finally ruined his constitution; and he died, though otherwise of a fine generous manly nature, a martyr to dissipation at the early age of twenty-nine. With respect to his prison confinement, it was so frequently recurring in his life, and was alleviated723 by so many indulgences, that he scarcely viewed it as a hardship: having once been an officer of the prison, and having thus formed connections with the whole official establishment, and done services to many of them, and being of so convivial724 a turn, he was, even as a prisoner, treated with distinction, and considered as a privileged son of the house.]
It was just striking twelve o’clock as we entered the lane where the carriage was drawn up. Rain, about the profoundest I had ever witnessed, was falling. Though near to midsummer, the night had been unusually dark to begin with, and from the increasing rain had become much more so. We could see nothing; and at first we feared that some mistake had occurred as to the station of the carriage—in which case we might have sought for it vainly through the intricate labyrinth725 of the streets in that quarter. I first descried it by the light of a torch, reflected powerfully from the large eyes of the leaders. All was ready. Horse-keepers were at the horses’ heads. The postilions were mounted; each door had the steps let down: Agnes was lifted in: Hannah and I followed: Pierpoint mounted his horse; and at the word—Oh! how strange a word!—‘All’s right,’ the horses sprang off like leopards726, a manner ill suited to the slippery pavement of a narrow street. At that moment, but we valued it little indeed, we heard the prison-bell ringing out loud and clear. Thrice within the first three minutes we had to pull up suddenly, on the brink of formidable accidents, from the dangerous speed we maintained, and which, nevertheless, the driver had orders to maintain, as essential to our plan. All the stoppages and hinderances of every kind along the road had been anticipated previously, and met by contrivance, of one kind or other; and Pierpoint was constantly a little ahead of us to attend to anything that had been neglected. The consequence of these arrangements was—- that no person along the road could possibly have assisted to trace us by anything in our appearance: for we passed all objects at too flying a pace, and through darkness too profound, to allow of any one feature in our equipage being distinctly noticed. Ten miles out of town, a space which we traversed in forty-four minutes, a second relay of horses was ready; but we carried on the same postilions throughout. Six miles a-head of this distance we had a second relay; and with this set of horses, after pushing two miles further along the road, we crossed by a miserable lane five miles long, scarcely even a bridge road, into another of the great roads from the capital; and by thus crossing the country, we came back upon the city at a point far distant from that at which we left it. We had performed a distance of forty-two miles in three hours, and lost a fourth hour upon the wretched five miles of cross-road. It was therefore four o’clock, and broad daylight, when we drew near the suburbs of the city; but a most happy accident now favoured us; a fog the most intense now prevailed; nobody could see an object six feet distant; we alighted in an uninhabited new-built street, plunged727 into the fog, thus confounding our traces to any observer. We then stepped into a hackney-coach which had been stationed at a little distance. Thence, according to our plan, we drove to a miserable quarter of the town, whither the poor only and the wretched resorted; mounted a gloomy dirty staircase, and, befriended by the fog, still growing thicker and thicker, and by the early hour of the morning, reached a house previously hired, which, if shocking to the eye and the imagination from its squalid appearance and its gloom, still was a home—a sanctuary—an asylum728 from treachery, from captivity, from persecution729. Here Pierpoint for the present quitted us: and once more Agnes, Hannah, and I, the shattered members of a shattered family, were thus gathered together in a house of our own.
Yes: once again, daughter of the hills, thou sleptst as heretofore in my encircling arms; but not again in that peace which crowned thy innocence in those days, and should have crowned it now. Through the whole of our flying journey, in some circumstances at its outset strikingly recalling to me that blessed one which followed our marriage, Agnes slept away unconscious of our movements. She slept through all that day and the following night; and I watched over her with as much jealousy of all that might disturb her, as a mother watches over her new-born baby; for I hoped, I fancied, that a long—long rest, a rest, a halcyon730 calm, a deep, deep Sabbath of security, might prove healing and medicinal. I thought wrong; her breathing became more disturbed, and sleep was now haunted by dreams; all of us, indeed, were agitated by dreams; the past pursued me, and the present, for high rewards had been advertised by Government to those who traced us; and though for the moment we were secure, because we never went abroad, and could not have been naturally sought in such a neighbourhood, still that very circumstance would eventually operate against us. At length, every night I dreamed of our insecurity under a thousand forms; but more often by far my dreams turned upon our wrongs; wrath moved me rather than fear. Every night, for the greater part, I lay painfully and elaborately involved, by deep sense of wrong,
‘——in long orations731, which I pleaded
Before unjust tribunals.’1
And for poor Agnes, her also did the remembrance of mighty wrongs occupy through vast worlds of sleep in the same way—though coloured by that tenderness which belonged to her gentler nature. One dream in particular—a dream of sublime732 circumstances—she repeated to me so movingly, with a pathos so thrilling, that by some profound sympathy it transplanted itself to my own sleep, settled itself there, and is to this hour a part of the fixed dream-scenery which revolves733 at intervals through my sleeping life. This it was:—She would hear a trumpet734 sound—though perhaps as having been the prelude735 to the solemn entry of the judges at a town which she had once visited in her childhood; other preparations would follow, and at last all the solemnities of a great trial would shape themselves and fall into settled images. The audience was assembled, the judges were arrayed, the court was set. The prisoner was cited. Inquest was made, witnesses were called; and false witnesses came tumultuously to the bar. Then again a trumpet was heard, but the trumpet of a mighty archangel; and then would roll away thick clouds and vapours. Again the audience, but another audience, was assembled; again the tribunal was established; again the court was set; but a tribunal and a court—how different to her! That had been composed of men seeking indeed for truth, but themselves erring366 and fallible creatures; the witnesses had been full of lies, the judges of darkness. But here was a court composed of heavenly witnesses—here was a righteous tribunal—and then at last a judge that could not be deceived. The judge smote736 with his eye a person who sought to hide himself in the crowd; the guilty man stepped forward; the poor prisoner was called up to the presence of the mighty judge; suddenly the voice of a little child was heard ascending before her. Then the trumpet sounded once again; and then there were new heavens and a new earth; and her tears and her agitation (for she had seen her little Francis) awoke the poor palpitating dreamer.
Two months passed on: nothing could possibly be done materially to raise the standard of those wretched accommodations which the house offered. The dilapidated walls, the mouldering737 plaster, the blackened mantel-pieces, the stained and polluted wainscots—what could be attempted to hide or to repair all this by those who durst not venture abroad? Yet whatever could be done, Hannah did, and, in the meantime, very soon indeed my Agnes ceased to see or to be offended by these objects. First of all her sight went from her; and nothing which appealed to that sense could ever more offend her. It is to me the one only consolation I have, that my presence and that of Hannah, with such innocent frauds as we concerted together, made her latter days pass in a heavenly calm, by persuading her that our security was absolute, and that all search after us had ceased, under a belief on the part of Government that we had gained the shelter of a foreign land. All this was a delusion738; but it was a delusion—blessed be Heaven!—which lasted exactly as long as her life, and was just commensurate with its necessity. I hurry over the final circumstances.
There was fortunately now, even for me, no fear that the hand of any policeman or emissary of justice could effectually disturb the latter days of my wife; for, besides pistols always lying loaded in an inner room, there happened to be a long narrow passage on entering the house, which, by means of a blunderbuss, I could have swept effectually, and cleared many times over; and I know what to do in a last extremity. Just two months it was, to a day, since we had entered the house; and it happened that the medical attendant upon Agnes, who awakened no suspicion by his visits, had prescribed some opiate or anodyne739 which had not come; being dark early, for it was now September, I had ventured out to fetch it. In this I conceived there could be no danger. On my return I saw a man examining the fastenings of the door. He made no opposition to my entrance, nor seemed much to observe it—but I was disturbed. Two hours after, both Hannah and I heard a noise about the door, and voices in low conversation. It is remarkable that Agnes heard this also—so quick had grown her hearing. She was agitated, but was easily calmed; and at ten o’clock we were all in bed. The hand of Agnes was in mine; so only she felt herself in security. She had been restless for an hour, and talking at intervals in sleep. Once she certainly wakened, for she pressed her lips to mine. Two minutes after, I heard something in her breathing which did not please me. I rose hastily—brought a light—raised her head—two long, long gentle sighs, that scarcely moved the lips, were all that could be perceived. At that moment, at that very moment, Hannah called out to me that the door was surrounded. ‘Open it!’ I said; six men entered; Agnes it was they sought; I pointed to the bed; they advanced, gazed, and walked away in silence.
After this I wandered about, caring little for life or its affairs, and roused only at times to think of vengeance upon all who had contributed to lay waste my happiness. In this pursuit, however, I was confounded as much by my own thoughts as by the difficulties of accomplishing my purpose. To assault and murder either of the two principal agents in this tragedy, what would it be, what other effect could it have, than to invest them with the character of injured and suffering people, and thus to attract a pity or a forgiveness at least to their persons which never otherwise could have illustrated740 their deaths? I remembered, indeed, the words of a sea-captain who had taken such vengeance as had offered at the moment upon his bitter enemy and persecutor589 (a young passenger on board his ship), who had informed against him at the Custom-house on his arrival in port, and had thus effected the confiscation741 of his ship, and the ruin of the captain’s family. The vengeance, and it was all that circumstances allowed, consisted in coming behind the young man clandestinely742 and pushing him into the deep waters of the dock, when, being unable to swim, he perished by drowning. ‘And the like,’ said the captain, when musing743 on his trivial vengeance, ‘and the like happens to many an honest sailor.’ Yes, thought I, the captain was right. The momentary shock of a pistol-bullet—what is it? Perhaps it may save the wretch after all from the pangs of some lingering disease; and then again I shall have the character of a murderer, if known to have shot him; he will with many people have no such character, but at worst the character of a man too harsh (they will say), and possibly mistaken in protecting his property. And then, if not known as the man who shot him, where is the shadow even of vengeance? Strange, it seemed to me, and passing strange, that I should be the person to urge arguments in behalf of letting this man escape. For at one time I had as certainly, as inexorably, doomed him as ever I took any resolution in my life. But the fact is, and I began to see it upon closer view, it is not easy by any means to take an adequate vengeance for any injury beyond a very trivial standard; and that with common magnanimity one does not care to avenge744. Whilst I was in this mood of mind, still debating with myself whether I should or should not contaminate my hands with the blood of this monster, and still unable to shut my eyes upon one fact, viz. that my buried Agnes could above all things have urged me to abstain745 from such acts of violence, too evidently useless, listlessly and scarcely knowing what I was in quest of, I strayed by accident into a church where a venerable old man was preaching at the very moment I entered; he was either delivering as a text, or repeating in the course of his sermon, these words—‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’ By some accident also he fixed his eyes upon me at the moment; and this concurrence746 with the subject then occupying my thoughts so much impressed me, that I determined very seriously to review my half-formed purposes of revenge; and well it was that I did so: for in that same week an explosion of popular fury brought the life of this wretched Barratt to a shocking termination, pretty much resembling the fate of the De Witts in Holland. And the consequences to me were such, and so full of all the consolation and indemnification which this world could give me, that I have often shuddered747 since then at the narrow escape I had had from myself intercepting748 this remarkable retribution. The villain had again been attempting to play off the same hellish scheme with a beautiful young rustic which had succeeded in the case of my ill-fated Agnes. But the young woman in this instance had a high, and, in fact, termagant spirit. Rustic as she was, she had been warned of the character of the man; everybody, in fact, was familiar with the recent tragedy. Either her lover or her brother happened to be waiting for her outside the window. He saw in part the very tricks in the act of perpetration by which some article or other, meant to be claimed as stolen property, was conveyed into a parcel she had incautiously laid down. He heard the charge against her made by Barratt, and seconded by his creatures—heard her appeal—sprang to her aid—dragged the ruffian into the street, when in less time than the tale could be told, and before the police (though tolerably alert) could effectually interpose for his rescue, the mob had so used or so abused the opportunity they had long wished for, that he remained the mere disfigured wreck of what had once been a man, rather than a creature with any resemblance to humanity. I myself heard the uproar at a distance, and the shouts and yells of savage749 exultation; they were sounds I shall never forget, though I did not at that time know them for what they were, or understood their meaning. The result, however, to me was something beyond this, and worthy to have been purchased with my heart’s blood. Barratt still breathed; spite of his mutilations he could speak; he was rational. One only thing he demanded—it was that his dying confession717 might be taken. Two magistrates and a clergyman attended. He gave a list of those whom he had trepanned, and had failed to trepan, by his artifices750 and threats, into the sacrifice of their honour. He expired before the record was closed, but not before he had placed my wife’s name in the latter list as the one whose injuries in his dying moments most appalled751 him. This confession on the following day went into the hands of the hostile minister, and my revenge was perfect.
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wreck
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n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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2
miserable
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adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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humiliation
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n.羞辱 | |
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prerogative
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n.特权 | |
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tenure
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n.终身职位;任期;(土地)保有权,保有期 | |
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enjoyment
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n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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enjoyments
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愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 ); 令人愉快的事物; 享有; 享受 | |
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omen
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n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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frail
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adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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haughty
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adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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ascend
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vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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rebellious
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adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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opprobrium
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n.耻辱,责难 | |
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everlasting
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adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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15
aspirations
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强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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raptures
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极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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rapture
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n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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18
underneath
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adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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repose
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v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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20
trite
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adj.陈腐的 | |
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21
groans
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n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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22
groan
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vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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23
monotonous
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adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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24
vacancy
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n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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25
bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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26
strife
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n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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anarchy
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n.无政府状态;社会秩序混乱,无秩序 | |
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chaos
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n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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inevitable
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adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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30
backwards
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adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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31
pompous
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adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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32
whatsoever
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adv.(用于否定句中以加强语气)任何;pron.无论什么 | |
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animates
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v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 );驱动;使栩栩如生地动作;赋予…以生命 | |
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dread
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vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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frailty
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n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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chambers
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n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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exquisite
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adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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consummate
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adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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flux
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n.流动;不断的改变 | |
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vestiges
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残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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landmarks
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n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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memorable
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adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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scatters
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v.(使)散开, (使)分散,驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 );撒 | |
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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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45
abolition
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n.废除,取消 | |
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fugitive
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adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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vessel
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n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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wrecked
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adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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obliterated
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v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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50
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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51
wilderness
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n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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52
shipwreck
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n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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53
shipwrecks
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海难,船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 ); 沉船 | |
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conflagrations
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n.大火(灾)( conflagration的名词复数 ) | |
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wholesale
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n.批发;adv.以批发方式;vt.批发,成批出售 | |
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56
calamities
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n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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pestilence
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n.瘟疫 | |
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58
scourges
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带来灾难的人或东西,祸害( scourge的名词复数 ); 鞭子 | |
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scourge
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n.灾难,祸害;v.蹂躏 | |
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populous
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adj.人口稠密的,人口众多的 | |
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61
overthrown
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adj. 打翻的,推倒的,倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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62
wrought
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v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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appalling
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adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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forgery
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n.伪造的文件等,赝品,伪造(行为) | |
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breaches
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破坏( breach的名词复数 ); 破裂; 缺口; 违背 | |
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embezzlement
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n.盗用,贪污 | |
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countersign
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v.副署,会签 | |
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countersigned
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v.连署,副署,会签 (文件)( countersign的过去式 ) | |
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catastrophe
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n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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accomplished
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adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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71
revolving
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adj.旋转的,轮转式的;循环的v.(使)旋转( revolve的现在分词 );细想 | |
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dire
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adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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mighty
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adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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grandeur
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n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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conceal
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v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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conceals
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v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prodigious
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adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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concealed
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a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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monsoons
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n.(南亚、尤指印度洋的)季风( monsoon的名词复数 );(与季风相伴的)雨季;(南亚地区的)雨季 | |
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tornadoes
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n.龙卷风,旋风( tornado的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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derived
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vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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consolation
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n.安慰,慰问 | |
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vile
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adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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85
arrears
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n.到期未付之债,拖欠的款项;待做的工作 | |
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entail
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vt.使承担,使成为必要,需要 | |
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87
strictly
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adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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88
agitating
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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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narrative
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n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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requisite
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adj.需要的,必不可少的;n.必需品 | |
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solitary
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adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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upwards
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adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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transformation
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n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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genial
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adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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fleeting
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adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
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awakened
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v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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torpor
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n.迟钝;麻木;(动物的)冬眠 | |
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resonant
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adj.(声音)洪亮的,共鸣的 | |
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nay
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adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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100
tempted
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v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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101
jovial
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adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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102
luxurious
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adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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103
delightful
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adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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104
shunned
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v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ennui
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n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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temperament
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n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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ardent
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adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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108
blessing
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n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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109
blessings
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n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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110
organisation
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n.组织,安排,团体,有机休 | |
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111
enumerated
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v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
forfeited
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(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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113
philosophic
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adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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114
dispensed
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v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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115
consolations
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n.安慰,慰问( consolation的名词复数 );起安慰作用的人(或事物) | |
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116
remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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117
transcending
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超出或超越(经验、信念、描写能力等)的范围( transcend的现在分词 ); 优于或胜过… | |
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118
constituents
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n.选民( constituent的名词复数 );成分;构成部分;要素 | |
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119
incapable
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adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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120
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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121
benign
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adj.善良的,慈祥的;良性的,无危险的 | |
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122
gratitude
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adj.感激,感谢 | |
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123
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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124
afflicted
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使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
undoubtedly
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adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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126
overflowed
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溢出的 | |
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127
overflow
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v.(使)外溢,(使)溢出;溢出,流出,漫出 | |
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128
providence
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n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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129
piety
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n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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130
simplicity
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n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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131
ascending
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adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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132
climax
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133
almighty
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adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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134
ratified
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v.批准,签认(合约等)( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
utterance
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n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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136
vividly
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adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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137
scorch
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v.烧焦,烤焦;高速疾驶;n.烧焦处,焦痕 | |
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138
vocal
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adj.直言不讳的;嗓音的;n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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139
anguish
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n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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140
ravening
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a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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141
fawn
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n.未满周岁的小鹿;v.巴结,奉承 | |
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142
inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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143
bloody
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adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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144
impure
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adj.不纯净的,不洁的;不道德的,下流的 | |
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145
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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146
evade
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vt.逃避,回避;避开,躲避 | |
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147
heralded
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v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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148
pang
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n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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149
pangs
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突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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150
martyr
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n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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151
fiery
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adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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152
torment
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n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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153
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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154
wrath
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n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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155
malice
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n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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156
vengeance
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n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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157
maniac
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n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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158
vindictive
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adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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159
honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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160
countenance
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n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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161
deliberately
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adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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162
liberate
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v.解放,使获得自由,释出,放出;vt.解放,使获自由 | |
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163
memorably
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难忘的 | |
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164
random
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adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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165
behold
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v.看,注视,看到 | |
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166
pretension
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n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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167
innocence
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n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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168
cherub
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n.小天使,胖娃娃 | |
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169
purely
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adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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170
confiding
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adj.相信人的,易于相信的v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的现在分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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171
pensive
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a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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172
pensiveness
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n.pensive(沉思的)的变形 | |
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173
complexion
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n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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174
allied
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adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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175
virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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176
aurora
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n.极光 | |
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177
manly
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adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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178
isles
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岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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179
sketched
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v.草拟(sketch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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180
unity
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n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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181
solitude
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n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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182
penetration
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n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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183
chivalrous
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adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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184
homage
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n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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185
exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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186
immortal
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adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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187
barb
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n.(鱼钩等的)倒钩,倒刺 | |
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188
celestial
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adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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189
latitudes
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纬度 | |
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190
temperate
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adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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191
exultation
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n.狂喜,得意 | |
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192
touching
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adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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193
chiselled
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adj.凿过的,凿光的; (文章等)精心雕琢的v.凿,雕,镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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194
premature
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adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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195
serene
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adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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196
tranquil
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adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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197
tranquillity
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n. 平静, 安静 | |
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198
ruffled
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adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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199
azure
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adj.天蓝色的,蔚蓝色的 | |
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200
stagnates
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v.停滞,不流动,不发展( stagnate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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201
plethora
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n.过量,过剩 | |
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202
insipid
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adj.无味的,枯燥乏味的,单调的 | |
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203
droops
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弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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204
annoyances
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n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 );烦恼;打扰;使人烦恼的事 | |
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205
undesirable
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adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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206
stimulating
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adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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207
slumber
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n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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208
morbid
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adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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209
petulance
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n.发脾气,生气,易怒,暴躁,性急 | |
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210
agitations
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(液体等的)摇动( agitation的名词复数 ); 鼓动; 激烈争论; (情绪等的)纷乱 | |
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211
agitation
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n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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212
distresses
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n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 );痛苦;贫困;危险 | |
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213
solicitudes
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n.关心,挂念,渴望( solicitude的名词复数 ) | |
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214
mutual
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adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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215
foresight
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n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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216
cloying
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adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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217
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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218
precluded
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v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 );排除;妨碍;使…行不通 | |
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219
remarkable
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adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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220
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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221
peculiarity
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n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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222
jealousy
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n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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223
gems
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growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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224
propitiating
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v.劝解,抚慰,使息怒( propitiate的现在分词 ) | |
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225
deity
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n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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226
intestines
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n.肠( intestine的名词复数 ) | |
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227
portentous
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adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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228
propitiatory
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adj.劝解的;抚慰的;谋求好感的;哄人息怒的 | |
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229
peal
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n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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230
overthrows
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n.推翻,终止,结束( overthrow的名词复数 )v.打倒,推翻( overthrow的第三人称单数 );使终止 | |
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231
misgiving
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n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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232
superstitious
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adj.迷信的 | |
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233
apprehensive
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adj.担心的,恐惧的,善于领会的 | |
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234
disastrous
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adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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235
abiding
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adj.永久的,持久的,不变的 | |
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236
presentiment
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n.预感,预觉 | |
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237
calamity
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n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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238
immediate
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adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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239
assuage
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v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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240
motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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241
remarkably
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ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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242
prone
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adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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243
adverted
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引起注意(advert的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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244
fully
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adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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245
rivet
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n.铆钉;vt.铆接,铆牢;集中(目光或注意力) | |
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246
gathering
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n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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247
professed
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公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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248
pecuniary
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adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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249
levied
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征(兵)( levy的过去式和过去分词 ); 索取; 发动(战争); 征税 | |
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250
disinterestedness
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251
generosity
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n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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252
disposition
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n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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253
applicants
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申请人,求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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254
cant
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n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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255
levity
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n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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256
sincerity
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n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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257
consternation
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n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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258
maternal
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adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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259
seizure
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n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
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260
distressing
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a.使人痛苦的 | |
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261
impeded
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阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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262
respiration
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n.呼吸作用;一次呼吸;植物光合作用 | |
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263
qualified
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adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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264
applied
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adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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265
convalescence
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n.病后康复期 | |
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266
professing
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声称( profess的现在分词 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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267
previously
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adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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268
intervals
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n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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269
interval
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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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270
fervently
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adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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271
ordains
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v.任命(某人)为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 );授予(某人)圣职;(上帝、法律等)命令;判定 | |
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272
haven
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n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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273
awe
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n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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274
insanity
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n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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275
judgment
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n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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276
softening
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变软,软化 | |
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277
perused
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v.读(某篇文字)( peruse的过去式和过去分词 );(尤指)细阅;审阅;匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览(某篇文字) | |
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278
scrutiny
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n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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279
steadily
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adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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280
remonstrated
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v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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281
odious
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adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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282
prophesy
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v.预言;预示 | |
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283
frightful
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adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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284
vigilant
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adj.警觉的,警戒的,警惕的 | |
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285
oracles
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神示所( oracle的名词复数 ); 神谕; 圣贤; 哲人 | |
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286
drooping
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adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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287
recoil
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vi.退却,退缩,畏缩 | |
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288
elasticity
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n.弹性,伸缩力 | |
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289
acquitted
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宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(自己)作出某种表现 | |
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290
sinister
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adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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291
superstition
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n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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292
enthusiast
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n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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293
melancholy
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n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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294
equilibrium
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n.平衡,均衡,相称,均势,平静 | |
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295
illuminated
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adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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296
incense
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v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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297
trifling
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adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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298
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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299
ornaments
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n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 );点缀;装饰品;首饰v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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300
bonnet
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n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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301
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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302
ingenuously
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adv.率直地,正直地 | |
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303
ingenuous
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adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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304
gracefully
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ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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305
fascinations
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n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 );有魅力的东西;迷恋;陶醉 | |
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306
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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307
seclusion
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n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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308
apprehensiveness
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忧虑感,领悟力 | |
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309
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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310
touchingly
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adv.令人同情地,感人地,动人地 | |
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311
arrogant
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adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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312
durability
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n.经久性,耐用性 | |
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313
propriety
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n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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314
guardianship
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n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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315
consignment
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n.寄售;发货;委托;交运货物 | |
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316
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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317
discretion
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n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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318
presumptuously
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adv.自以为是地,专横地,冒失地 | |
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319
presumptuous
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adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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320
irrational
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adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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321
tremors
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震颤( tremor的名词复数 ); 战栗; 震颤声; 大地的轻微震动 | |
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322
ridicule
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v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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323
prudence
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n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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324
reassure
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v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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325
anticipation
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n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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326
converse
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vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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327
conversed
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v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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328
mimic
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v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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329
toll
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n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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330
knell
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n.丧钟声;v.敲丧钟 | |
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331
descrying
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v.被看到的,被发现的,被注意到的( descried的过去分词 ) | |
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332
descry
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v.远远看到;发现;责备 | |
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333
agitated
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adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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334
sprained
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v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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335
hazy
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adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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336
grotesque
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adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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337
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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338
seaman
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n.海员,水手,水兵 | |
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339
desolate
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adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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340
fickle
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adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的,不坚定的 | |
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341
suspense
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n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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342
disperses
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v.(使)分散( disperse的第三人称单数 );疏散;驱散;散布 | |
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343
pageant
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n.壮观的游行;露天历史剧 | |
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344
pageants
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n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 );穿古代服装的游行;再现历史场景的娱乐活动;盛会 | |
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345
deception
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n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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346
elegance
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n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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347
recollecting
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v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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348
besieged
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包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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349
tumult
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n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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350
deluded
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v.欺骗,哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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351
intensity
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n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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352
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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353
inflicted
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把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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354
inflict
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vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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355
meditate
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v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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356
meditated
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深思,沉思,冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 ); 内心策划,考虑 | |
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357
unaware
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a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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358
devotedly
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专心地; 恩爱地; 忠实地; 一心一意地 | |
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359
devoted
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adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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360
inquiries
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n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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361
beguiled
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v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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362
conjecture
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n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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363
impatience
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n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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364
accounting
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n.会计,会计学,借贷对照表 | |
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365
contagiously
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传染性地,蔓延地 | |
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366
erring
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做错事的,错误的 | |
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367
justified
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a.正当的,有理的 | |
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368
metropolis
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n.首府;大城市 | |
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369
positively
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adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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370
secondly
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adv.第二,其次 | |
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371
tallying
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v.计算,清点( tally的现在分词 );加标签(或标记)于;(使)符合;(使)吻合 | |
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372
parched
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adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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373
alas
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int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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374
entangling
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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的现在分词 ) | |
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375
dwelling
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n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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376
nominal
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adj.名义上的;(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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377
wrench
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v.猛拧;挣脱;使扭伤;n.扳手;痛苦,难受 | |
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378
overflowing
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n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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379
profligacy
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n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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380
culpable
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adj.有罪的,该受谴责的 | |
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381
alleviating
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减轻,缓解,缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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382
accomplices
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从犯,帮凶,同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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383
hoary
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adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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384
villain
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|
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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385
villains
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n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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386
meek
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adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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387
meekness
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n.温顺,柔和 | |
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388
distinguished
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adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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389
fervid
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adj.热情的;炽热的 | |
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390
frantic
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|
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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391
provincial
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adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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392
alteration
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n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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393
moody
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adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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394
faculties
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n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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395
precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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396
soothing
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adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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397
irritation
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n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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398
dungeon
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n.地牢,土牢 | |
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399
injustice
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|
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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|
400
compassion
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|
n.同情,怜悯 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
401
equity
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|
n.公正,公平,(无固定利息的)股票 | |
参考例句: |
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|
402
justifications
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|
正当的理由,辩解的理由( justification的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
403
reverence
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|
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
参考例句: |
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|
404
abhorrence
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|
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
参考例句: |
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|
405
contemplating
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|
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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|
|
406
misery
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|
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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|
407
abatement
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|
n.减(免)税,打折扣,冲销 | |
参考例句: |
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|
408
Christian
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|
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句: |
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|
409
technically
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|
adv.专门地,技术上地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
410
omens
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|
n.前兆,预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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|
411
anecdote
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|
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
参考例句: |
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|
412
altercation
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|
n.争吵,争论 | |
参考例句: |
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|
413
pathos
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|
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
参考例句: |
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|
414
perverse
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|
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
415
wilt
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|
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
416
immortality
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|
n.不死,不朽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
417
beset
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|
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
参考例句: |
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|
418
apparently
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|
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
参考例句: |
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|
419
transcends
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|
超出或超越(经验、信念、描写能力等)的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 ); 优于或胜过… | |
参考例句: |
|
|
420
quells
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|
v.(用武力)制止,结束,镇压( quell的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
421
descended
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|
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
422
respite
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|
n.休息,中止,暂缓 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
423
maliciously
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|
adv.有敌意地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
424
privately
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|
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
425
accusation
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|
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
参考例句: |
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|
426
rustic
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|
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
参考例句: |
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|
427
alleviate
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|
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
428
thither
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|
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
429
conversing
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|
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
430
violation
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|
n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
431
dense
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|
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
432
prevailing
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|
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
433
varied
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|
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
434
magistrate
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|
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
参考例句: |
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|
435
magistrates
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|
地方法官,治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
436
retired
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|
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
437
harassed
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|
adj. 疲倦的,厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
438
chronological
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|
adj.按年月顺序排列的,年代学的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
439
guilt
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|
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
440
aliases
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|
n.别名,化名( alias的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
441
infamous
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|
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
442
conspicuous
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|
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
443
secreted
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|
v.(尤指动物或植物器官)分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 );隐匿,隐藏 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
444
brutal
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|
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
445
alleviation
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|
n. 减轻,缓和,解痛物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
446
motives
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|
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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|
447
sentimental
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|
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
448
exclusion
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|
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
449
delicacy
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|
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
450
unconditional
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|
adj.无条件的,无限制的,绝对的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
451
supreme
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|
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
452
blight
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|
n.枯萎病;造成破坏的因素;vt.破坏,摧残 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
453
blighting
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|
使凋萎( blight的现在分词 ); 使颓丧; 损害; 妨害 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
454
artillery
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|
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
455
procure
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|
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
456
torrent
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|
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
457
momentary
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|
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
458
hindrance
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|
n.妨碍,障碍 | |
参考例句: |
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|
459
admonished
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|
v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 );训诫;(温和地)责备;轻责 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
460
retrace
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|
v.折回;追溯,探源 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
461
extremity
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|
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
462
tempestuous
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|
adj.狂暴的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
463
doom
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|
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
464
doomed
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|
命定的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
465
semblance
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|
n.外貌,外表 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
466
serenity
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|
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
467
wink
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|
n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
468
justify
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|
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
469
discourse
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|
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
470
descried
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|
adj.被注意到的,被发现的,被看到的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
471
vistas
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|
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
472
entirely
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|
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
473
slumbered
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|
微睡,睡眠(slumber的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
474
attained
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|
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
475
dispersed
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|
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
476
fabric
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|
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
477
beguilement
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|
n.欺骗,散心,欺瞒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
478
insidious
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|
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
479
slumbers
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|
睡眠,安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
480
dispersing
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|
adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
481
steadfast
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|
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
482
besieges
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|
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
483
literally
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|
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
484
whit
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|
n.一点,丝毫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
485
hush
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|
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
486
consecrated
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|
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
487
attachments
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|
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
488
feverishness
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|
参考例句: |
|
|
489
feverish
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|
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
490
refreshment
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|
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
491
thaw
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|
v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
492
susceptible
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|
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
493
defendant
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|
n.被告;adj.处于被告地位的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
494
licentious
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|
adj.放纵的,淫乱的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
495
abode
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|
n.住处,住所 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
496
concurred
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|
同意(concur的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
497
hatred
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|
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
498
crooked
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|
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
499
hesitation
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|
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
500
evasion
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|
n.逃避,偷漏(税) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
501
evasions
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|
逃避( evasion的名词复数 ); 回避; 遁辞; 借口 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
502
tainted
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|
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
503
confided
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|
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
504
deposition
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|
n.免职,罢官;作证;沉淀;沉淀物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
505
alleged
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|
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
506
allege
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|
vt.宣称,申述,主张,断言 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
507
appropriation
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|
n.拨款,批准支出 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
508
acting
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|
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
509
retract
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|
vt.缩回,撤回收回,取消 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
510
conspiracy
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|
n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
511
prosecutor
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|
n.起诉人;检察官,公诉人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
512
determined
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|
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
513
solaced
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|
v.安慰,慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
514
presumption
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|
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
515
sanguine
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|
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
516
hideous
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|
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
517
sifted
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|
v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 );筛滤;细查;详审 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
518
triumphant
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|
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
519
wretch
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|
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
520
pointed
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|
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
521
habitual
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|
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
522
anomalous
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|
adj.反常的;不规则的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
523
mightiest
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|
adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 );巨大的;强有力的;浩瀚的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
524
beholds
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|
v.看,注视( behold的第三人称单数 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
525
fortitude
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|
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
526
lustre
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|
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
527
corrupt
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|
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
528
bribe
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|
n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
529
bribery
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|
n.贿络行为,行贿,受贿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
530
vigour
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|
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
531
opposition
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|
n.反对,敌对 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
532
mandates
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|
托管(mandate的第三人称单数形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
533
prudent
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|
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
534
tampered
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|
v.窜改( tamper的过去式 );篡改;(用不正当手段)影响;瞎摆弄 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
535
jealousies
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|
n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 );妒羡 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
536
allotted
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|
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
537
apprehended
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|
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
538
construe
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|
v.翻译,解释 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
539
corpses
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|
n.死尸,尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
540
chapel
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|
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
541
confinement
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|
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
542
dependence
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|
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
543
attentively
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|
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
544
recurred
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|
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
545
peril
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|
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
546
tampering
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|
v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 );篡改;(用不正当手段)影响;瞎摆弄 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
547
annually
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|
adv.一年一次,每年 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
548
tempting
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|
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
549
skilful
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|
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
550
superfluous
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|
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
551
custody
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|
n.监护,照看,羁押,拘留 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
552
lodged
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|
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
553
swelled
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|
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
554
needy
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|
adj.贫穷的,贫困的,生活艰苦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
555
debtors
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|
n.债务人,借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
556
expenditure
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|
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
557
Christians
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|
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
558
stationary
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|
adj.固定的,静止不动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
559
awfully
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|
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
560
distraction
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|
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
561
abjectly
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|
凄惨地; 绝望地; 糟透地; 悲惨地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
562
contagion
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|
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
563
lurking
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|
潜在 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
564
malignant
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|
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
565
devastator
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|
n.蹂躏者,破坏者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
566
irritable
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|
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
567
afflicting
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|
痛苦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
568
decided
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|
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
569
assailed
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|
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
570
hovering
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|
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
571
disturbance
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|
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
572
maniacal
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|
adj.发疯的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
573
submission
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|
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
574
subdued
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|
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
575
clogged
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|
(使)阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 ); 淤滞 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
576
ascertain
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|
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
577
outrage
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|
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
578
amenable
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|
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
579
majesty
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|
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
580
intemperance
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|
n.放纵 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
581
sufficiently
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|
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
582
dallied
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|
v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 );不很认真地考虑;浪费时间;调情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
583
dally
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|
v.荒废(时日),调情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
584
prosecution
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|
n.起诉,告发,检举,执行,经营 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
585
dubious
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|
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
586
partisans
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|
游击队员( partisan的名词复数 ); 党人; 党羽; 帮伙 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
587
recoiled
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|
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
588
recurring
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|
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
589
persecutor
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|
n. 迫害者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
590
indignities
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|
n.侮辱,轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
591
joint
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|
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
592
imputed
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|
v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
593
heartily
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|
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
594
aggravates
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|
使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
595
avowal
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|
n.公开宣称,坦白承认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
596
diffuse
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|
v.扩散;传播;adj.冗长的;四散的,弥漫的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
597
emanating
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|
v.从…处传出,传出( emanate的现在分词 );产生,表现,显示 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
598
outraged
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|
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
599
hectic
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|
adj.肺病的;消耗热的;发热的;闹哄哄的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
600
stupor
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|
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
601
starry
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|
adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
602
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
603
beseech
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|
v.祈求,恳求 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
604
testimony
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|
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
605
perjury
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|
n.伪证;伪证罪 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
606
indifference
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|
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
607
bravado
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|
n.虚张声势,故作勇敢,逞能 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
608
strut
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|
v.肿胀,鼓起;大摇大摆地走;炫耀;支撑;撑开;n.高视阔步;支柱,撑杆 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
609
clamorous
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|
adj.吵闹的,喧哗的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
610
murmurs
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|
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
611
brink
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|
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
612
ascertained
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|
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
613
sullen
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|
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
614
growl
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|
v.(狗等)嗥叫,(炮等)轰鸣;n.嗥叫,轰鸣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
615
prosecuted
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|
a.被起诉的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
616
favourable
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|
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
617
delirium
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|
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
618
obstinate
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|
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
619
censure
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|
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
620
awakening
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|
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
621
mightiness
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|
n.强大 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
622
frigid
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|
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
623
eloquent
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|
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
624
license
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|
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
625
supervision
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|
n.监督,管理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
626
animation
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|
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
627
potent
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|
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
628
soothe
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|
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
629
exhaustion
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|
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
630
ravages
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|
劫掠后的残迹,破坏的结果,毁坏后的残迹 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
631
frenzied
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|
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
632
exclamations
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|
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
633
apprehension
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|
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
634
drooped
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|
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
635
infancy
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|
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
636
gasp
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|
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
637
obstinately
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|
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
638
horrid
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|
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
639
ignoble
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|
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
640
propensity
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|
n.倾向;习性 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
641
abated
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|
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
642
elevation
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|
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
643
suffused
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|
v.(指颜色、水气等)弥漫于,布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
644
frankly
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|
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
645
interpretation
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|
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
646
conscientious
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|
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
647
gulf
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|
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
648
noted
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|
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
649
recoiling
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|
v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
650
plausible
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|
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
651
dexterity
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|
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
652
disarm
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|
v.解除武装,回复平常的编制,缓和 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
653
disarmed
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|
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
654
proprietor
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|
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
655
persecuted
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|
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
656
presumptions
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|
n.假定( presumption的名词复数 );认定;推定;放肆 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
657
fidelity
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|
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
658
embroidered
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|
adj.绣花的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
659
lining
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|
n.衬里,衬料 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
660
cabal
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|
n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
661
extorting
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|
v.敲诈( extort的现在分词 );曲解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
662
pretensions
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|
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
663
perplexed
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|
adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
664
overture
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|
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
665
overtures
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|
n.主动的表示,提议;(向某人做出的)友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 );(歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的)序曲,前奏曲 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
666
explicit
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|
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
667
snare
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|
n.陷阱,诱惑,圈套;(去除息肉或者肿瘤的)勒除器;响弦,小军鼓;vt.以陷阱捕获,诱惑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
668
intercourse
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|
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
669
interdict
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|
v.限制;禁止;n.正式禁止;禁令 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
670
precipitated
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|
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
671
extremities
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|
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
672
resolute
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|
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
673
chimera
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|
n.神话怪物;梦幻 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
674
blistered
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|
adj.水疮状的,泡状的v.(使)起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 );(使表皮等)涨破,爆裂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
675
dishonours
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|
不名誉( dishonour的名词复数 ); 耻辱; 丢脸; 丢脸的人或事 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
676
sobbed
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|
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
677
tavern
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|
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
678
persuasion
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|
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
679
lumbering
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|
n.采伐林木 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
680
enquiring
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|
a.爱打听的,显得好奇的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
681
procured
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|
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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682
liberating
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解放,释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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683
mused
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v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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684
resolutely
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adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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685
desolating
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毁坏( desolate的现在分词 ); 极大地破坏; 使沮丧; 使痛苦 | |
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686
subtlety
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n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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687
dissimulation
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n.掩饰,虚伪,装糊涂 | |
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688
restrictions
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约束( restriction的名词复数 ); 管制; 制约因素; 带限制性的条件(或规则) | |
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689
insolent
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adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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690
fawning
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adj.乞怜的,奉承的v.(尤指狗等)跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 );巴结;讨好 | |
参考例句: |
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691
uproar
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n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
参考例句: |
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692
beckoning
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adj.引诱人的,令人心动的v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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693
counterfeit
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vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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694
unintelligible
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adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
参考例句: |
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695
demur
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v.表示异议,反对 | |
参考例句: |
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696
caroused
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v.痛饮,闹饮欢宴( carouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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697
intoxication
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n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
参考例句: |
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698
entrust
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v.信赖,信托,交托 | |
参考例句: |
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699
wager
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n.赌注;vt.押注,打赌 | |
参考例句: |
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700
subscriptions
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n.(报刊等的)订阅费( subscription的名词复数 );捐款;(俱乐部的)会员费;捐助 | |
参考例句: |
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701
captivity
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n.囚禁;被俘;束缚 | |
参考例句: |
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702
arbitration
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n.调停,仲裁 | |
参考例句: |
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703
lessen
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vt.减少,减轻;缩小 | |
参考例句: |
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704
besetting
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adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 );不断围攻;镶;嵌 | |
参考例句: |
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705
shaft
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n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
参考例句: |
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706
descending
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n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句: |
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707
inscription
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|
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
参考例句: |
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708
exertions
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n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
参考例句: |
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709
outwards
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adj.外面的,公开的,向外的;adv.向外;n.外形 | |
参考例句: |
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710
egress
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n.出去;出口 | |
参考例句: |
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711
aperture
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n.孔,隙,窄的缺口 | |
参考例句: |
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712
surmounting
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战胜( surmount的现在分词 ); 克服(困难); 居于…之上; 在…顶上 | |
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713
prostrate
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v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
参考例句: |
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714
benefactor
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n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
参考例句: |
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715
negotiation
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n.谈判,协商 | |
参考例句: |
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716
entrapping
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v.使陷入圈套,使入陷阱( entrap的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
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717
confession
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n.自白,供认,承认 | |
参考例句: |
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718
confessions
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n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
参考例句: |
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719
nominally
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在名义上,表面地; 应名儿 | |
参考例句: |
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720
contrived
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adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
参考例句: |
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721
harassing
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v.侵扰,骚扰( harass的现在分词 );不断攻击(敌人) | |
参考例句: |
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722
perfidy
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n.背信弃义,不忠贞 | |
参考例句: |
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723
alleviated
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减轻,缓解,缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
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724
convivial
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adj.狂欢的,欢乐的 | |
参考例句: |
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725
labyrinth
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n.迷宫;难解的事物;迷路 | |
参考例句: |
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726
leopards
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n.豹( leopard的名词复数 );本性难移 | |
参考例句: |
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727
plunged
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v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
参考例句: |
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728
asylum
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n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
参考例句: |
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729
persecution
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n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
参考例句: |
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730
halcyon
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n.平静的,愉快的 | |
参考例句: |
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731
orations
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n.(正式仪式中的)演说,演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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732
sublime
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adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
733
revolves
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v.(使)旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 );细想 | |
参考例句: |
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|
734
trumpet
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n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
参考例句: |
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735
prelude
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n.序言,前兆,序曲 | |
参考例句: |
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|
736
smote
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v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句: |
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737
mouldering
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v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
参考例句: |
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|
738
delusion
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n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
参考例句: |
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739
anodyne
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n.解除痛苦的东西,止痛剂 | |
参考例句: |
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740
illustrated
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adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
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|
741
confiscation
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n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
参考例句: |
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742
clandestinely
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adv.秘密地,暗中地 | |
参考例句: |
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743
musing
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n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
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744
avenge
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v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
参考例句: |
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745
abstain
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v.自制,戒绝,弃权,避免 | |
参考例句: |
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|
746
concurrence
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n.同意;并发 | |
参考例句: |
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747
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 | |
参考例句: |
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|
748
intercepting
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截取(技术),截接 | |
参考例句: |
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749
savage
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adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句: |
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750
artifices
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n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 );诡计;巧妙办法;虚伪行为 | |
参考例句: |
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751
appalled
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v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
参考例句: |
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