Great was my chagrin5 to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bed indisposed — greater when I recognised, amid the muslin nightcap borders, the “figure chiffonnée” of Mistress Ginevra Fanshawe; supine at this moment, it is true — but certain to wake and overwhelm me with chatter6 when the interruption would be least acceptable: indeed, as I watched her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids7 warned me that the present appearance of repose8 might be but a ruse9, assumed to cover sly vigilance over “Timon’s” movements; she was not to be trusted. And I had so wished to be alone, just to read my precious letter in peace.
Well, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize in its casket, I descended10. Ill-luck pursued me. The classes were undergoing sweeping11 and purification by candle-light, according to hebdomadal custom: benches were piled on desks, the air was dim with dust, damp coffee-grounds (used by Labassecourien housemaids instead of tea-leaves) darkened the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled, but not beaten, I withdrew, bent12 as resolutely13 as ever on finding solitude14 somewhere.
Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases in succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret. Here none would follow me — none interrupt — not Madame herself. I shut the garret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and mouldy chest of drawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter; trembling with sweet impatience15, I broke its seal.
“Will it be long — will it be short?” thought I, passing my hand across my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave16, south-wind shower.
It was long.
“Will it be cool? — will it be kind?”
It was kind.
To my checked, bridled17, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind: to my longing18 and famished19 thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it was.
So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fulness of delight in this taste of fruition — such, perhaps, as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing. The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering20 in the wintry air, a letter simply good-natured — nothing more; though that good-nature then seemed to me godlike — was happier than most queens in palaces.
Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet, while it lasted it was genuine and exquisite21: a bubble — but a sweet bubble — of real honey-dew. Dr. John had written to me at length; he had written to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood, dwelling22 with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine — on places we had visited together — on conversations we had held — on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few halcyon23 weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a conviction the blithe24, genial25 language generously imparted, that it had been poured out not merely to content me — but to gratify himself. A gratification he might never more desire, never more seek — an hypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but that concerned the future. This present moment had no pain, no blot27, no want; full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me. A passing seraph28 seemed to have rested beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed29 on its throb30 a softening31, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John, you pained me afterwards: forgiven be every ill — freely forgiven — for the sake of that one dear remembered good!
Are there wicked things, not human, which envy human bliss32? Are there evil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man? What was near me?
Something in that vast solitary33 garret sounded strangely. Most surely and certainly I heard, as it seemed, a stealthy foot on that floor: a sort of gliding34 out from the direction of the black recess35 haunted by the malefactor36 cloaks. I turned: my light was dim; the room was long — but as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber37 a figure all black and white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the head bandaged, veiled, white.
Say what you will, reader — tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that I dreamed; this I vow39 — I saw there — in that room — on that night — an image like — a nun40.
I cried out; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might have swooned. It receded41: I made for the door. How I descended all the stairs I know not. By instinct I shunned42 the refectory, and shaped my course to Madame’s sitting-room43: I burst in. I said —
“There is something in the grenier; I have been there: I saw something. Go and look at it, all of you!”
I said, “All of you;” for the room seemed to me full of people, though in truth there were but four present: Madame Beck; her mother, Madame Kint, who was out of health, and now staying with her on a visit; her brother, M. Victor Kint, and another gentleman, who, when I entered the room, was conversing44 with the old lady, and had his back towards the door.
My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I felt cold and shaking. They all rose in consternation45; they surrounded me. I urged them to go to the grenier; the sight of the gentlemen did me good and gave me courage: it seemed as if there were some help and hope, with men at hand. I turned to the door, beckoning46 them to follow. They wanted to stop me, but I said they must come this way: they must see what I had seen —-something strange, standing47 in the middle of the garret. And, now, I remembered my letter, left on the drawers with the light. This precious letter! Flesh or spirit must be defied for its sake. I flew up-stairs, hastening the faster as I knew I was followed: they were obliged to come.
Lo! when I reached the garret-door, all within was dark as a pit: the light was out. Happily some one — Madame, I think, with her usual calm sense — had brought a lamp from the room; speedily, therefore, as they came up, a ray pierced the opaque48 blackness. There stood the bougie quenched49 on the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked for that now, and not for the nun.
“My letter! my letter!” I panted and plained, almost beside myself. I groped on the floor, wringing50 my hands wildly. Cruel, cruel doom51! To have my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me, ere I had well tasted its virtue52!
I don’t know what the others were doing; I could not watch them: they asked me questions I did not answer; they ransacked53 all corners; they prattled54 about this and that disarrangement of cloaks, a breach55 or crack in the sky-light — I know not what. “Something or somebody has been here,” was sagely56 averred57.
“Oh! they have taken my letter!” cried the grovelling58, groping, monomaniac.
“What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, what letter?” asked a known voice in my ear. Could I believe that ear? No: and I looked up. Could I trust my eyes? Had I recognised the tone? Did I now look on the face of the writer of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dim garret, John Graham — Dr. Bretton himself?
Yes: it was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe for some access of illness in old Madame Kint; he was the second gentleman present in the salle-à-manger when I entered.
“Was it my letter, Lucy?”
“Your own: yours — the letter you wrote to me. I had come here to read it quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible to have it to myself. I had saved it all day — never opened it till this evening: it was scarcely glanced over: I cannot bear to lose it. Oh, my letter!”
“Hush2! don’t cry and distress59 yourself so cruelly. What is it worth? Hush! Come out of this cold room; they are going to send for the police now to examine further: we need not stay here — come, we will go down.”
A warm hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a room where there was a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the stove. He talked to me and soothed60 me with unutterable goodness, promising61 me twenty letters for the one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep-inflicted lacerations never heal — cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poison-dripping edge — so, too, there are consolations62 of tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo: caressing63 kindnesses — loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven64 cloud foreshadowing Death himself. I have been told since that Dr. Bretton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him: that his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed65 in my creed66. I don’t know: he was as good to me as the well is to the parched67 wayfarer68 — as the sun to the shivering jailbird. I remember him heroic. Heroic at this moment will I hold him to be.
He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much. I thought, but did not say, that I prized it like the blood in my veins69. I only answered that I had so few letters to care for.
“I am sure you did not read it,” said he; “or you would think nothing of it!”
“I read it, but only once. I want to read it again. I am sorry it is lost.” And I could not help weeping afresh.
“Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such a relationship), here — here is your letter. Why is it not better worth such tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith?”
Curious, characteristic manoeuvre70! His quick eye had seen the letter on the floor where I sought it; his hand, as quick, had snatched it up. He had hidden it in his waistcoat pocket. If my trouble had wrought71 with a whit38 less stress and reality, I doubt whether he would ever have acknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degree cooler than those I shed would only have amused Dr. John.
Pleasure at regaining72 made me forget merited reproach for the teasing torment73; my joy was great; it could not be concealed75: yet I think it broke out more in countenance76 than language. I said little.
“Are you satisfied now?” asked Dr. John.
I replied that I was — satisfied and happy.
“Well then,” he proceeded, “how do you feel physically77? Are you growing calmer? Not much: for you tremble like a leaf still.”
It seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently78 calm: at least I felt no longer terrified. I expressed myself composed.
“You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw? Your account was quite vague, do you know? You looked white as the wall; but you only spoke79 of ‘something,’ not defining what. Was it a man? Was it an animal? What was it?”
“I never will tell exactly what I saw,” said I, “unless some one else sees it too, and then I will give corroborative80 testimony81; but otherwise, I shall be discredited82 and accused of dreaming.”
“Tell me,” said Dr. Bretton; “I will hear it in my professional character: I look on you now from a professional point of view, and I read, perhaps, all you would conceal74 — in your eye, which is curiously83 vivid and restless: in your cheek, which the blood has forsaken84; in your hand, which you cannot steady. Come, Lucy, speak and tell me.”
“You would laugh —?”
“If you don’t tell me you shall have no more letters.”
“You are laughing now.”
“I will again take away that single epistle: being mine, I think I have a right to reclaim85 it.”
I felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet; but I folded up the letter and covered it from sight.
“You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose. You don’t know my skill in sleight86 of hand; I might practise as a conjuror87 if I liked. Mamma says sometimes, too, that I have a harmonizing property of tongue and eye; but you never saw that in me — did you, Lucy?”
“Indeed — indeed — when you were a mere26 boy I used to see both: far more then than now — for now you are strong, and strength dispenses88 with subtlety89. But still — Dr. John, you have what they call in this country ’un air fin,’ that nobody can, mistake. Madame Beck saw it, and —-”
“And liked it,” said he, laughing, “because she has it herself. But, Lucy, give me that letter — you don’t really care for it”
To this provocative90 speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful mood must not be humoured too far. Just now there was a new sort of smile playing about his lips — very sweet, but it grieved me somehow — a new sort of light sparkling in his eyes: not hostile, but not reassuring91. I rose to go — I bid him good-night a little sadly.
His sensitiveness — that peculiar92, apprehensive93, detective faculty94 of his — felt in a moment the unspoken complaint — the scarce-thought reproach. He asked quietly if I was offended. I shook my head as implying a negative.
“Permit me, then, to speak a little seriously to you before you go. You are in a highly nervous state. I feel sure from what is apparent in your look and manner, however well controlled, that whilst alone this evening in that dismal95, perishing sepulchral96 garret — that dungeon97 under the leads, smelling of damp and mould, rank with phthisis and catarrh: a place you never ought to enter — that you saw, or thought you saw, some appearance peculiarly calculated to impress the imagination. I know that you are not, nor ever were, subject to material terrors, fears of robbers, &c. — I am not so sure that a visitation, bearing a spectral98 character, would not shake your very mind. Be calm now. This is all a matter of the nerves, I see: but just specify99 the vision.”
“You will tell nobody?”
“Nobody — most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly100 as you did Père Silas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer confessor of the two, though he has not grey hair.”
“You will not laugh?”
“Perhaps I may, to do you good: but not in scorn. Lucy, I feel as a friend towards you, though your timid nature is slow to trust.”
He now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and sparkle were gone; those formidable arched curves of lip, nostril101, eyebrow102, were depressed103; repose marked his attitude — attention sobered his aspect. Won to confidence, I told him exactly what I had seen: ere now I had narrated104 to him the legend of the house — whiling away with that narrative105 an hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when be and I rode through Bois l’Etang.
He sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them all coming down-stairs.
“Are they going to interrupt?” said he, glancing at the door with an annoyed expression.
“They will not come here,” I answered; for we were in the little salon106 where Madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chance that heat was still lingering in the stove. They passed the door and went on to the salle-à-manger.
“Now,” he pursued, “they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so on: let them do so — mind you say nothing, and keep your resolution of describing your nun to nobody. She may appear to you again: don’t start.”
“You think then,” I said, with secret horror, “she came out of my brain, and is now gone in there, and may glide3 out again at an hour and a day when I look not for her?”
“I think it a case of spectral illusion: I fear, following on and resulting from long-continued mental conflict.”
“Oh, Doctor John — I shudder107 at the thought of being liable to such an illusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cure? — no preventive?”
“Happiness is the cure — a cheerful mind the preventive: cultivate both.”
No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure108. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise.
“Cultivate happiness!” I said briefly109 to the doctor: “do you cultivate happiness? How do you manage?”
“I am a cheerful fellow by nature: and then ill-luck has never dogged me. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl110 and brush, but we defied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by.”.
“There is no cultivation111 in all this.”
“I do not give way to melancholy112.”
“Yes: I have seen you subdued113 by that feeling.”
“About Ginevra Fanshawe — eh?”
“Did she not sometimes make you miserable114?”
“Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now.”
If a laughing eye with a lively light, and a face bright with beaming and healthy energy, could attest115 that he was better, better he certainly was.
“You do not look much amiss, or greatly out of condition,” I allowed.
“And why, Lucy, can’t you look and feel as I do — buoyant, courageous116, and fit to defy all the nuns117 and flirts118 in Christendom? I would give gold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try the manoeuvre.”
“If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now?”
“I vow, Lucy, she should not move me: or, she should move me but by one thing — true, yes, and passionate119 love. I would accord forgiveness at no less a price.”
“Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a while since.”
“Transformed, Lucy: transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave! but I am a free man now!”
He stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, in his beaming eye and mien120, there revealed itself a liberty which was more than ease — a mood which was disdain121 of his past bondage122.
“Miss Fanshawe,” he pursued, “has led me through a phase of feeling which is over: I have entered another condition, and am now much disposed to exact love for love — passion for passion — and good measure of it, too.”
“Ah, Doctor! Doctor! you said it was your nature to pursue Love under difficulties — to be charmed by a proud insensibility!”.
He laughed, and answered, “My nature varies: the mood of one hour is sometimes the mockery of the next. Well, Lucy” (drawing on his gloves), “will the Nun come again to-night, think you?”
“I don’t think she will.”
“Give her my compliments, if she does — Dr. John’s compliments — and entreat123 her to have the goodness to wait a visit from him. Lucy, was she a pretty nun? Had she a pretty face? You have not told me that yet; and that is the really important point.”
“She had a white cloth over her face,” said I, “but her eyes glittered.”
“Confusion to her goblin trappings!” cried he, irreverently: “but at least she had handsome eyes — bright and soft.”
“Cold and fixed,” was the reply.
“No, no, we’ll none of her: she shall not haunt you, Lucy. Give her that shake of the hand, if she comes again. Will she stand that, do you think?”
I thought it too kind and cordial for a ghost to stand: and so was the smile which matched it, and accompanied his “Good-night.”
And had there been anything in the garret? What did they discover? I believe, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted to very little. They talked, at first, of the cloaks being disturbed; but Madame Beck told me afterwards she thought they hung much as usual: and as for the broken pane124 in the skylight, she affirmed that aperture125 was rarely without one or more panes126 broken or cracked: and besides, a heavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me very closely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figure clothed in black: I took care not to breathe the word “nun,” certain that this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and unreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant, pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion127 in coming to her private salle-à-manger, instead of carrying the tale of horror to the school refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was left secretly and sadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this world, or of a realm beyond the grave; or whether indeed it was only the child of malady128, and I of that malady the prey129.
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1
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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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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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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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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gliding
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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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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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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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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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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49
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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50
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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51
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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52
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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53
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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54
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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55
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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56
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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57
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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58
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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59
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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60
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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61
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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62
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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63
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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64
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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65
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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66
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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67
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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68
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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69
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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70
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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71
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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72
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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73
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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74
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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75
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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76
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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77
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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78
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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79
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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80
corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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81
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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82
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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83
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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84
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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85
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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86
sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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87
conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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88
dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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89
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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90
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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91
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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92
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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93
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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94
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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95
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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96
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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97
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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98
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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99
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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100
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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101
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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102
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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103
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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104
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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106
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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107
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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108
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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109
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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110
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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111
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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112
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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113
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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114
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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115
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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116
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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117
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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118
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
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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120
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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121
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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122
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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123
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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124
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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125
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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126
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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127
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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128
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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129
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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