“Lucy will not leave us to-day,” said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly3 at breakfast; “she knows we can procure4 a second respite6.”
“I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word,” said I. “I long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue7 Fossette again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed and corded.”
It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said he would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day, and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words. Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe8 to descend9: that is, I wished the pang10 over. How much I wished it, they could not tell. On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.
It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck’s door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle11, as it had rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted12 with idle eye, while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at which I stood — a solitary13 and a suppliant14. On that night, too, I had briefly15 met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination16 to do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept there.
Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their departure — consequently, Rosine was on the alert.
“Don’t come in,” said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that “the water stood in my eyes,” for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal — to relieve — when, physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation17 were, perhaps, in his power.
“Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true friends. We will not forget you.”
“Nor will I forget you, Dr. John.”
My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go, but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his generous impulses.
“Lucy,”— stepping after me —“shall you feel very solitary here?”
“At first I shall.”
“Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write — just any cheerful nonsense that comes into my head — shall I?”
“Good, gallant18 heart!” thought I to myself; but I shook my head, smiling, and said, “Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task. You write to me! — you’ll not have time.”
“Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!”
He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen — the pang was experienced.
Allowing myself no time to think or feel — swallowing tears as if they had been wine — I passed to Madame’s sitting-room19 to pay the necessary visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly20 well-acted cordiality — was even demonstrative, though brief, in her welcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger I proceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now assembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I think, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.
“And will Graham really write?” I questioned, as I sank tired on the edge of the bed.
Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight22 of that long, dim chamber23, whispered sedately24 —“He may write once. So kind is his nature, it may stimulate25 him for once to make the effort. But it cannot be continued — it may not be repeated. Great were that folly26 which should build on such a promise — insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught27, for the perennial28 spring yielding the supply of seasons.”
I bent29 my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered30 hand, and frostily touching31 my ear with the chill blue lips of eld.
“If,” muttered she, “if he should write, what then? Do you meditate32 pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart — no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling — give holiday to no single faculty33: dally34 with no friendly exchange: foster no genial35 intercommunion. . . . ”
“But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,” I pleaded.
“No,” said she, “I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse36 imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority — no encouragement to delusion37: pain, privation, penury38 stamp your language. . . . ”
“But,” I again broke in, “where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible39, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance40 than faltering42 lips can achieve?”
Reason only answered, “At your peril43 you cherish that idea, or suffer its influence to animate44 any writing of yours!”
“But if I feel, may I never express?”
“Never!“ declared Reason.
I groaned45 under her bitter sternness. Never — never — oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily46 through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant47 hour to Imagination — her soft, bright foe48, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals49, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive50 as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience51 of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage her stint52, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage53, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance54 the gnawed55 bone dogs had forsaken57: sternly has she vowed58 her stores held nothing more for me — harshly denied my right to ask better things. . . . Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent. A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended59 with quiet flight to the waste — bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade — fragrance60 of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased61 with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning62 angels, garnering63 their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day; tenderly has she assuaged64 the insufferable fears which weep away life itself — kindly65 given rest to deadly weariness — generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate66, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun — altars dedicated68 to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate69: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling70 thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome71 — a temple whose floors are space — rites72 whose mysteries transpire73 in presence, to the kindling74, the harmony of worlds!
Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of martyrs75; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies76. Deity77 unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!
This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and she came with comfort: “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep, sweetly — I gild78 thy dreams!”
She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was dashing against the panes80, and the wind uttering a peevish81 cry at intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom mental pain stuns82 instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant’s gripe. How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe83! This was always my cordial, to which, like other dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin84.
Ere long the bell rang its réveillée to the whole school. Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with the nipping severity of a continental85 winter: though now but the beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry blight86 over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.
Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect87 of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying through the wilderness88 of the present, enjoining89 a reliance on faith — a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue90 while they guide, and awe56 while they illumine — hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the longing92 out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be, reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but from the desolate93 and sepulchral94 summit of a Nebo.
By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its throbbings, and made me fit for the day’s work. I lifted my head.
As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall beneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a window, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a brow, two eyes, filled a pane79 of that window; the fixed95 gaze of those two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them now.
This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male spy, what business had brought him to the premises96 at this unwonted hour? What possible right had he to intrude97 on me thus? No other professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side of him: he had seen me through the little window — he now opened the refectory door, and there he stood.
“Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.”
“Monsieur, j’en ai bien le droit.”
“Vous êtes malade de coeur et d’humeur,” he pursued. “You are at once mournful and mutinous99. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while watching you?”
“Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for conversation is very scant100 and brief at this hour — excuse ——”
“I excuse everything,” he interrupted; “my mood is so meek101, neither rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle102 it. You remind me, then, of a young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.”
Unwarrantable accost103! — rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen him vex104 the passionate67 to explosion before now. In me his malice105 should find no gratification; I sat silent.
“You look,” said he, “like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet poison, and spurn106 wholesome107 bitters with disgust.
“Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its own delicious quality — sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.”
“Yet,” said he, “you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I had the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.”
I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly108 displeased109 me, and partly because I wished to shun110 questions: lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.
“Come,” said he, more softly, “tell me the truth — you grieve at being parted from friends — is it not so?”
The insinuating111 softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered112 long, and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation — attempts necessarily unavailing, because I could not talk. At last I entreated113 to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered114, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.
I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared at that meal as serene115 as any other person: not, however, quite as jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully, and frankly116 stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken. Miss Fanshawe’s travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with her mightily117; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire118. I don’t know that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily119 plaided with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph; enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.
“I am glad you are come back, Timon,” said she. Timon was one of her dozen names for me. “You don’t know how often I have wanted you in this dismal120 hole.”
“Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something for me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps.” I never gave Ginevra a minute’s or a farthing’s credit for disinterestedness121.
“Crabbed and crusty as ever!” said she. “I expected as much: it would not be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you disposed to barter122?”
“Take your own way.”
This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite, like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls, which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others used to covet123 the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught; hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched124. I don’t know why I chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes happened — for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and halted for refreshment125 at a farm — I always contrived126 that she should be my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion’s share, whether of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however, and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled127 daily, we were never alienated128.
After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit and read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the nine-o’clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on that bustle129 and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.
I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew on tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, “Que mademoiselle est appliquée!”
Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but I was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing. Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to warn me not to study too much, lest “the blood should all go to my head.” Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition130 that “Meess Lucie” was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel, who, by means peculiar131 to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had obtained a not inaccurate132 inkling of my real qualifications, and used to take quiet opportunities of chuckling133 in my ear his malign134 glee over their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose style or sentiment the writer’s individual nature was plainly stamped; flagging inevitably135 over characterless books, however clever and meritorious136: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited its powers and, its action — thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed137, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture.
The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with wholesome and, for me, commodious138 effect, on the manners of my co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive139 treatment. When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous140 Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the playground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the “Pas de Géant,” or to join in a certain romping141 hide-and-seek game called “Un, deux, trois,” were formerly142 also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had ceased some time ago — ceased, too, without my finding it necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had now no familiar demonstration143 to dread144 or endure, save from one quarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made no scruple145 of — at times — catching146 me as I was crossing the carré, whirling me round in a compulsory147 waltz, and heartily148 enjoying the mental and physical discomfiture149 her proceeding150 induced. Ginevra Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon “my learned leisure.” She carried a huge music-book under her arm.
“Go to your practising,” said I to her at once: “away with you to the little salon151!”
“Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle152. I saw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse?”
“Tittle-tattle: how prettily153 it begins! My tailleuse! — a fiddlestick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don’t want your company.”
“But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little reluctance154 on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvre155 with our gifted compatriote — the learned ‘ourse Britannique.’ And so, Ourson, you know Isidore?”
“I know John Bretton.”
“Oh, hush91!” (putting her fingers in her ears) “you crack my tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my behaviour the other night? Wasn’t I cruel?”
“Do you think I noticed you?”
“It was a delightful156 evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady — my future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude in quizzing her.”
“Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what you did, don’t make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive your sneer157.”
“She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.”
“He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.”
“Did he?” she cried with delight. “He noticed that? How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy158?”
“Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to give you up?”
“Oh! you know he can’t do that: but wasn’t he mad?”
“Quite mad,” I assented159; “as mad as a March hare.”
“Well, and how ever did you get him home?”
“How ever, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving160 between us, fit to drive everybody delirious161. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way.”
“You don’t say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe —”
“I assure you it is fact — and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would not stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and would ride outside.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards — when he did reach home — the scene transcends162 description.”
“Oh, but describe it — you know it is such fun!”
“Fun for you, Miss Fanshawe? but” (with stern gravity) you know the proverb —‘What is sport to one may be death to another.’”
“Go on, there’s a darling Timon.”
“Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.”
“I have — such an immensity, you don’t know!”
“Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton rejecting his supper in the first instance — the chicken, the sweetbread prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then —— but it is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it to say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy163, had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that night.”
“He wouldn’t lie still?”
“He wouldn’t lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in, but the thing was to keep them tucked in.”
“And what did he say?”
“Say! Can’t you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra, anathematizing that demon21, de Hamal — raving about golden locks, blue eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets165?”
“No, did he? He saw the bracelet164?”
“Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has encircled your arm. Ginevra” (rising, and changing my tone), “come, we will have an end of this. Go away to your practising.”
And I opened the door.
“But you have not told me all.”
“You had better not wait until I do tell you all. Such extra communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!”
“Cross thing!” said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe was my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of quittance from me.
Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between the reality and my description — to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive home, eating his supper with relish166, and retiring to rest with Christian167 composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really vexed168 with the fair, frail169 cause of his suffering.
A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured170 to the harness of school, and lapsing171 from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of custom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré, on my way to the first classe, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of “style and literature,” I saw, standing172 by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante. She always “stood at ease;” one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter, whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused173 the address, and deliberately174 studied the seal.
A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last night. Strong magnetism175 drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked176 past in terror of a rebuff from Disappointment: my heart throbbed177 now as if I already heard the tramp of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him. Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt178 me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should be sure to come in for a special harangue179. I had time to get seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his vehement180 burst of latch181 and panel, and his deep, redundant182 bow, prophetic of choler.
As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look — such a look as might have licensed183 me to stand straight up and demand what he meant — a look of scowling184 distrust.
“Voilà! pour vous,” said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, and placing on my desk a letter — the very letter I had seen in Rosine’s hand — the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop’s-eye of vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the retina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom185 from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering186 habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.
I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, at least, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial, satisfying. And here was the direction, “Miss Lucy Snowe,” in a clean, clear, equal, decided187 hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly188 dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of initials, “J. G. B.” I experienced a happy feeling — a glad emotion which went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins189. For once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel190 of real solid joy: not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot live; not a mess of that manna I drearily191 eulogized awhile ago — which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely loathe192; longing deliriously193 for natural and earth-grown food, wildly praying Heaven’s Spirits to reclaim194 their own spirit-dew and essence — an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither sweet hail nor small coriander-seed — neither slight wafer, nor luscious195 honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter, nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising196 in requital197 the blessing198 of his last breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had vouchsafed199 it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, “Thank you, thank you, Monsieur!”
Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and strode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though he had good points.
Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once and with haste, as if Esau’s shaft201 flew every day?
I knew better. The cover with its address — the seal, with its three clear letters — was bounty202 and abundance for the present. I stole from the room, I procured203 the key of the great dormitory, which was kept locked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and trembling lest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer, unlocked a box, and took out a case, and — having feasted my eyes with one more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shame and delight, to my lips — I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair and inviolate204, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box and drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange, sweet insanity205! And this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet read: did not yet know the number of its lines.
When I re-entered the schoolroom, behold206 M. Paul raging like a pestilence207! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to suit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he was raving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as I appeared, he fell on me.
“Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess98 to teach them the conduct befitting ladies? — and did I permit and, he doubted not, encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, to mince208 and mash209 it between their teeth, as if they had some base cause to be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty210? He knew better. It was a vile211 pseudo sentiment — the offspring or the forerunner212 of evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing213, this mincing214 and grimacing215, this, grinding of a noble tongue, this general affectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the first class, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petites ma?tresses, and confine himself to teaching the abc to the babies of the third division.”
What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he would allow me to be silent. The storm recommenced.
“Every answer to his queries216 was then refused? It seemed to be considered in that place — that conceited217 boudoir of a first classe, with its pretentious218 book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish of flower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreign surveillante, forsooth! — it seemed to be the fashion to think there that the Professor of Literature was not worthy219 of a reply! These were new ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from ‘la Grande Bretagne:’ they savoured of island insolence220 and arrogance221.”
Lull222 the second — the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep a tear for the rebukes223 of any other master, now all melting like snow-statues before the intemperate224 heat of M. Emanuel: I not yet much shaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work.
Something — either in my continued silence or in the movement of my hand, stitching — transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary of patience; he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near my desk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel was made to fly.
“Est-ce que vous avez l’intention de m’insulter?” said he to me, in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged225, under pretence226 of arranging the fire.
It was time to soothe227 him a little if possible.
“Mais, Monsieur,” said I, “I would not insult you for the world. I remember too well that you once said we should be friends.”
I did not intend my voice to falter41, but it did: more, I think, through the agitation228 of late delight than in any spasm229 of present fear. Still there certainly was something in M. Paul’s anger — a kind of passion of emotion — that specially230 tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, nor much afraid, yet I wept.
“Allons, allons!” said he presently, looking round and seeing the deluge231 universal. “Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have only one pocket-handkerchief,” he added, “but if I had twenty, I would offer you each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss Lucy.”
And he took forth232 and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now a person who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and his impulses, would naturally have bungled233 at this offer — declined accepting the same — et cetera. But I too plainly felt this would never do: the slightest hesitation234 would have been fatal to the incipient235 treaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received it with decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, and retaining the flag of truce236 in my hand and on my lap, took especial care during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle nor thimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul cast at these implements237; he hated them mortally, considering sewing a source of distraction238 from the attention due to himself. A very eloquent239 lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere he had done, the clouds were dispersed240 and the sun shining out — tears were exchanged for smiles.
In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk.
“And your letter?” said he, this time not quite fiercely.
“I have not yet read it, Monsieur.”
“Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as, when I was a boy, I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?”
The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising warmth in my face from revealing as much.
“You promise yourself a pleasant moment,” said he, “in reading that letter; you will open it when alone — n’est-ce pas? Ah! a smile answers. Well, well! one should not be too harsh; ‘la jeunesse n’a qu’un temps.’”
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” I cried, or rather whispered after him, as he turned to go, “do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely a friend’s letter. Without reading it, I can vouch200 for that.”
“Je con5?ois, je con?ois: on sait ce que c’est qu’un ami. Bonjour, Mademoiselle!”
“But, Monsieur, here is your handkerchief.”
“Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shall read the billet’s tenor242 in your eyes.”
When he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of the schoolroom into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court to take their customary recreation before the five-o’clock dinner, I stood a moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief round my arm. For some reason — gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the golden glimmer243 of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal244 of its buoyancy, made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, above all, solaced245 at heart by the joyous246 consciousness of that treasure in the case, box, drawer up-stairs — I fell to playing with the handkerchief as if it were a ball, casting it into the air and catching it — as it fell. The game was stopped by another hand than mine-a hand emerging from a palet?t-sleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught the extemporised plaything and bore it away with these sullen247 words:
“Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets.”
Really that little man was dreadful: a mere241 sprite of caprice and, ubiquity: one never knew either his whim248 or his whereabout.
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收听单词发音
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1
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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2
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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4
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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7
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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8
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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9
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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10
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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12
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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13
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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14
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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15
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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16
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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17
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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18
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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19
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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20
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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21
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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22
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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23
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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24
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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25
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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26
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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27
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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28
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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29
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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30
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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31
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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32
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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33
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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34
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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35
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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37
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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38
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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39
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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40
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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41
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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42
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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43
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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44
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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45
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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46
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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47
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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48
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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49
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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50
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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51
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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52
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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53
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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54
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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55
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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56
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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57
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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58
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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60
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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61
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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62
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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63
garnering
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的现在分词 ) | |
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64
assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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65
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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66
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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67
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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68
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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69
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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70
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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71
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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72
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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73
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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74
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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75
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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76
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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77
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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78
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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79
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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80
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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81
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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82
stuns
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| v.击晕( stun的第三人称单数 )；使大吃一惊；给（某人）以深刻印象；使深深感动 | |
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83
carafe
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| n.玻璃水瓶 | |
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84
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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85
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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86
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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87
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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88
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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89
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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90
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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91
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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92
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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93
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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94
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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95
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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96
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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97
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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98
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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99
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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100
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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101
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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102
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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103
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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104
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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105
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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106
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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107
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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108
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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109
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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110
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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111
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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112
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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115
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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116
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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117
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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118
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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119
dingily
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| adv.暗黑地，邋遢地 | |
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120
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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121
disinterestedness
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122
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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123
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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124
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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125
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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126
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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127
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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129
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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130
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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131
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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132
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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133
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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134
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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135
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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136
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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137
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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139
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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140
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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141
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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142
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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143
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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144
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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145
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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146
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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147
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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148
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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149
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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150
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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151
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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152
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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153
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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154
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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155
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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156
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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157
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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158
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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159
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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161
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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162
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… | |
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163
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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164
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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165
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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166
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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167
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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168
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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169
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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170
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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171
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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172
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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173
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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174
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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175
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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176
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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177
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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178
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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179
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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180
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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181
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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182
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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183
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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184
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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185
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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186
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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187
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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188
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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189
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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190
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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191
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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192
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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193
deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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194
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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195
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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196
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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197
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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198
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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199
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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200
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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201
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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202
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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203
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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204
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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205
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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206
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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207
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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208
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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209
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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210
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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211
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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212
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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213
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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214
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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215
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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216
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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217
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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218
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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219
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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220
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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221
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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222
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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223
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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224
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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225
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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226
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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227
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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228
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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229
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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230
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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231
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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232
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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233
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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234
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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235
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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236
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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237
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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238
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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239
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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240
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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241
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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242
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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243
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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244
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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245
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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246
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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247
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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248
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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