I tried to get up next morning, but while I was dressing11, and at intervals12 drinking cold water from the carafe13 on my washstand, with design to brace14 up that trembling weakness which made dressing so difficult, in came Mrs. Bretton.
“Here is an absurdity15!” was her morning accost16. “Not so,” she added, and dealing17 with me at once in her own brusque, energetic fashion — that fashion which I used formerly18 to enjoy seeing applied19 to her son, and by him vigorously resisted — in two minutes she consigned20 me captive to the French bed.
“There you lie till afternoon,” said she. “My boy left orders before he went out that such should be the case, and I can assure you my son is master and must be obeyed. Presently you shall have breakfast.”
Presently she brought that meal — brought it with her own active hands — not leaving me to servants. She seated herself on the bed while I ate. Now it is not everybody, even amongst our respected friends and esteemed21 acquaintance, whom we like to have near us, whom we like to watch us, to wait on us, to approach us with the proximity22 of a nurse to a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sick room, whose presence is there a solace23: but all this was Mrs. Bretton to me; all this she had ever been. Food or drink never pleased me so well as when it came through her hands. I do not remember the occasion when her entrance into a room had not made that room cheerier. Our natures own predilections24 and antipathies25 alike strange. There are people from whom we secretly shrink, whom we would personally avoid, though reason confesses that they are good people: there are others with faults of temper, &c., evident enough, beside whom we live content, as if the air about them did us good. My godmother’s lively black eye and clear brunette cheek, her warm, prompt hand, her self-reliant mood, her decided26 bearing, were all beneficial to me as the atmosphere of some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her “the old lady;” it filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the alacrity27 and power of five-and-twenty still breathed from her and around her.
“I would bring my work here,” she said, as she took from me the emptied teacup, “and sit with you the whole day, if that overbearing John Graham had not put his veto upon such a proceeding28. ‘Now, mamma,’ he said, when he went out, ‘take notice, you are not to knock up your god-daughter with gossip,’ and he particularly desired me to keep close to my own quarters, and spare you my fine company. He says, Lucy, he thinks you have had a nervous fever, judging from your look, — is that so?”
I replied that I did not quite know what my ailment29 had been, but that I had certainly suffered a good deal especially in mind. Further, on this subject, I did not consider it advisable to dwell, for the details of what I had undergone belonged to a portion of my existence in which I never expected my godmother to take a share. Into what a new region would such a confidence have led that hale, serene30 nature! The difference between her and me might be figured by that between the stately ship cruising safe on smooth seas, with its full complement31 of crew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident32; and the life-boat, which most days of the year lies dry and solitary33 in an old, dark boat-house, only putting to sea when the billows run high in rough weather, when cloud encounters water, when danger and death divide between them the rule of the great deep. No, the “Louisa Bretton” never was out of harbour on such a night, and in such a scene: her crew could not conceive it; so the half-drowned life-boat man keeps his own counsel, and spins no yarns34.
She left me, and I lay in bed content: it was good of Graham to remember me before he went out.
My day was lonely, but the prospect35 of coming evening abridged36 and cheered it. Then, too, I felt weak, and rest seemed welcome; and after the morning hours were gone by — those hours which always bring, even to the necessarily unoccupied, a sense of business to be done, of tasks waiting fulfilment, a vague impression of obligation to be employed — when this stirring time was past, and the silent descent of afternoon hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the chambers37, I then passed into a dreamy mood, not unpleasant.
My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea. There was no colour about it, except that white and pale green, suggestive of foam39 and deep water; the blanched40 cornice was adorned41 with shell-shaped ornaments42, and there were white mouldings like dolphins in the ceiling-angles. Even that one touch of colour visible in the red satin pincushion bore affinity43 to coral; even that dark, shining glass might have mirrored a mermaid44. When I closed my eyes, I heard a gale45, subsiding46 at last, bearing upon the house-front like a settling swell47 upon a rock-base. I heard it drawn48 and withdrawn49 far, far off, like a tide retiring from a shore of the upper world — a world so high above that the rush of its largest waves, the dash of its fiercest breakers, could sound down in this submarine home, only like murmurs50 and a lullaby.
Amidst these dreams came evening, and then Martha brought a light; with her aid I was quickly dressed, and stronger now than in the morning, I made my way down to the blue saloon unassisted.
Dr. John, it appears, had concluded his round of professional calls earlier than usual; his form was the first object that met my eyes as I entered the parlour; he stood in that window-recess opposite the door, reading the close type of a newspaper by such dull light as closing day yet gave. The fire shone clear, but the lamp stood on the table unlit, and tea was not yet brought up.
As to Mrs. Bretton, my active godmother — who, I afterwards found, had been out in the open air all day — lay half-reclined in her deep-cushioned chair, actually lost in a nap. Her son seeing me, came forward. I noticed that he trod carefully, not to wake the sleeper52; he also spoke53 low: his mellow54 voice never had any sharpness in it; modulated55 as at present, it was calculated rather to soothe56 than startle slumber57.
“This is a quiet little chateau58,” he observed, after inviting59 me to sit near the casement60. “I don’t know whether you may have noticed it in your walks: though, indeed, from the chaussée it is not visible; just a mile beyond the Porte de Crécy, you turn down a lane which soon becomes an avenue, and that leads you on, through meadow and shade, to the very door of this house. It is not a modern place, but built somewhat in the old style of the Basse-Ville. It is rather a manoir than a chateau; they call it ‘La Terrasse,’ because its front rises from a broad turfed walk, whence steps lead down a grassy61 slope to the avenue. See yonder! The moon rises: she looks well through the tree-boles.”
Where, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb9 does not hallow? Rosy62 or fiery63, she mounted now above a not distant bank; even while we watched her flushed ascent64, she cleared to gold, and in very brief space, floated up stainless65 into a now calm sky. Did moonlight soften66 or sadden Dr. Bretton? Did it touch him with romance? I think it did. Albeit67 of no sighing mood, he sighed in watching it: sighed to himself quietly. No need to ponder the cause or the course of that sigh; I knew it was wakened by beauty; I knew it pursued Ginevra. Knowing this, the idea pressed upon me that it was in some sort my duty to speak the name he meditated68. Of course he was ready for the subject: I saw in his countenance69 a teeming70 plenitude of comment, question and interest; a pressure of language and sentiment, only checked, I thought, by sense of embarrassment71 how to begin. To spare him this embarrassment was my best, indeed my sole use. I had but to utter the idol72’s name, and love’s tender litany would flow out. I had just found a fitting phrase, “You know that Miss Fanshawe is gone on a tour with the Cholmondeleys,” and was opening my lips to speak to it, when he scattered73 my plans by introducing another theme.
“The first thing this morning,” said he, putting his sentiment in his pocket, turning from the moon, and sitting down, “I went to the Rue74 Fossette, and told the cuisinière that you were safe and in good hands. Do you know that I actually found that she had not yet discovered your absence from the house: she thought you safe in the great dormitory. With what care you must have been waited on!”
“Oh! all that is very conceivable,” said I. “Goton could do nothing for me but bring me a little tisane and a crust of bread, and I had rejected both so often during the past week, that the good woman got tired of useless journeys from the dwelling-house kitchen to the school-dormitory, and only came once a day at noon to make my bed. I believe, however, that she is a good-natured creature, and would have been delighted to cook me c?telettes de mouton, if I could have eaten them.”
“What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone?”
“Madame Beck could not foresee that I should fall ill.”
“Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?”
“I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfully low-spirited.”
“Which disables me from helping76 you by pill or potion. Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of Hypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber38 of torture, but can neither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should be as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise.”
Acquiescence77 and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded all right, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the well-worn stamp of use.
“Miss Snowe,” recommenced Dr. John — my health, nervous system included, being now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with — “is it permitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic?”
I looked up in some surprise —“A Catholic? No! Why suggest such an idea?”
“The manner in which you were consigned to me last night made me doubt.”
“I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It yet remains78 for me to learn how I fell into your hands.”
“Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical character; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw a similar and still finer case in a hospital in Paris; but that will not interest you. At last a mitigation of the patient’s most urgent symptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated79 me, and I set out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse-Ville, and as the night was excessively dark, wild, and wet, I took it. In riding past an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by a lamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priest lifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest’s features clearly, and I recognised him; he was a man I have often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and chiefly the latter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of his class in this country; superior, indeed, in every way, better informed, as well as more devoted80 to duty. Our eyes met; he called on me to stop: what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted.
“‘This person is one of your countrywomen,’ he said: ‘save her, if she is not dead.’
“My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacher at Madame Beck’s pensionnat. She was perfectly81 unconscious, perfectly bloodless, and nearly cold.
“‘What does it all mean?’ was my inquiry82.
“He communicated a curious account; that you had been to him that evening at confessional; that your exhausted84 and suffering appearance, coupled with some things you had said —”
“Things I had said? I wonder what things!”
“Awful crimes, no doubt; but he did not tell me what: there, you know, the seal of the confessional checked his garrulity85, and my curiosity. Your confidences, however, had not made an enemy of the good father; it seems he was so struck, and felt so sorry that you should he out on such a night alone, that he had esteemed it a Christian86 duty to watch you when you quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sight of you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy87 man might, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding some little of the subtlety88 of his class: it might have been his resolve to learn the locality of your home — did you impart that in your confession83?”
“I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow of any indication: and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you will think me mad for taking such a step, but I could not help it: I suppose it was all the fault of what you call my ‘nervous system.’ I cannot put the case into words, but my days and nights were grown intolerable: a cruel sense of desolation pained my mind: a feeling that would make its way, rush out, or kill me — like (and this you will understand, Dr. John) the current which passes through the heart, and which, if aneurism or any other morbid89 cause obstructs90 its natural channels, seeks abnormal outlet91. I wanted companionship, I wanted friendship, I wanted counsel. I could find none of these in closet or chamber, so I went and sought them in church and confessional. As to what I said, it was no confidence, no narrative92. I have done nothing wrong: my life has not been active enough for any dark deed, either of romance or reality: all I poured out was a dreary93, desperate complaint.”
“Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why, your calm nature is growing quite excitable! Confound Madame Beck! Has the little buxom94 widow no bowels95, to condemn96 her best teacher to solitary confinement97?”
“It was not Madame Beck’s fault,” said I; “it is no living being’s fault, and I won’t hear any one blamed.”
“Who is in the wrong, then, Lucy?”
“Me — Dr. John — me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I like to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: me and Fate.”
“‘Me’ must take better care in future,” said Dr. John — smiling, I suppose, at my bad grammar.
“Change of air — change of scene; those are my prescriptions,” pursued the practical young doctor. “But to return to our muttons, Lucy. As yet, Père Silas, with all his tact98 (they say he is a Jesuit), is no wiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the Rue Fossette, your fevered wanderings — there must have been high fever —”
“No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night — now, don’t make out that I was delirious99, for I know differently.”
“Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt. Your wanderings had taken an opposite direction to the pensionnat. Near the Béguinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust100, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to your succour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us we procured101 a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would carry you up-stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He would certainly have remained with you till suspended animation102 had been restored: and so should I, but, at that juncture103, a hurried messenger arrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left — the last duties were called for — the physician’s last visit and the priest’s last rite75; extreme unction could not be deferred104. Père Silas and myself departed together, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave you in charge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems she followed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?”
“Not yet,” said I, with a smile. “And never let Père Silas know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money for his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea.”
Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up — astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed105, and fully51 prepared to deny that she had slept at all — her son came gaily106 to the attack.
“Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence107 in your slumbers108.”
“My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day: it was the slightest doze109 possible.”
“Exactly! a seraph’s gentle lapse110 — a fairy’s dream. Mamma, under such circumstances, you always remind me of Titania.”
“That is because you, yourself, are so like Bottom.”
“Miss Snowe — did you ever hear anything like mamma’s wit? She is a most sprightly111 woman of her size and age.”
“Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect your own size: which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, has he not rather the air of an incipient112 John Bull? He used to be slender as an eel3, and now I fancy in him a sort of heavy dragoon bent — a beef-eater tendency. Graham, take notice! If you grow fat I disown you.”
“As if you could not sooner disown your own personality! I am indispensable to the old lady’s happiness, Lucy. She would pine away in green and yellow melancholy113 if she had not my six feet of iniquity114 to scold. It keeps her lively — it maintains the wholesome115 ferment116 of her spirits.”
The two were now standing117 opposite to each other, one on each side the fire-place; their words were not very fond, but their mutual118 looks atoned119 for verbal deficiencies. At least, the best treasure of Mrs. Bretton’s life was certainly casketed in her son’s bosom120; her dearest pulse throbbed121 in his heart. As to him, of course another love shared his feelings with filial love, and, no doubt, as the new passion was the latest born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin’s portion. Ginevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose feet her own young idol had laid his homage122? Would she approve that choice? I could not tell; but I could well guess that if she knew Miss Fanshawe’s conduct towards Graham: her alternations between coldness and coaxing123, and repulse124 and allurement125; if she could at all suspect the pain with which she had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had seen, his fine spirits subdued126 and harassed127, his inferior preferred before him, his subordinate made the instrument of his humiliation128 — then Mrs. Bretton would have pronounced Ginevra imbecile, or perverted129, or both. Well — I thought so too.
That second evening passed as sweetly as the first — more sweetly indeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought; old troubles were not reverted130 to, acquaintance was better cemented; I felt happier, easier, more at home. That night — instead of crying myself asleep — I went down to dreamland by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts.
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1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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carafe
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| n.玻璃水瓶 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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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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yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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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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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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46
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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47
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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50
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 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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53
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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54
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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55
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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56
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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57
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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58
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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59
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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60
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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61
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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62
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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63
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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64
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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65
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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66
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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67
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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68
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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69
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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70
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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71
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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72
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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73
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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74
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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75
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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76
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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77
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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78
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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79
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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80
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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83
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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84
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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86
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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87
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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88
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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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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90
obstructs
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| 阻塞( obstruct的第三人称单数 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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92
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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93
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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94
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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95
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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98
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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99
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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100
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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101
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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102
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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103
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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104
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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105
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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106
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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107
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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108
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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109
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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110
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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111
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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112
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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113
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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114
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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115
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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116
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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117
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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118
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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119
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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120
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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121
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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122
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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123
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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124
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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125
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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126
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 | |
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127
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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129
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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130
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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