Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses7, if the hermit8 but knew them. Though he is stagnant9 in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval10 which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod11 by in the likeness12 of tired tramps prone13 to rest at milestones14 — that same interval, perhaps, teems15 with events, and pants with hurry for his friends.
The hermit — if he be a sensible hermit — will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life’s wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season.
Let him say, “It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is.” And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring’s softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated17 streams, will call him to kindly18 resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw19 more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the way of all flesh, “As well soon as syne20.”
Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me seven weeks as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written on one of them; not a visit, not a token.
About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had happened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always a beclouded point for the solitary21: his nerves ache with the strain of long expectancy22; the doubts hitherto repelled23 gather now to a mass and — strong in accumulation — roll back upon him with a force which savours of vindictiveness24. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and sleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harass25 his couch: the sinister26 band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity27, and sick dread28 of entire desertion at their head, join the league against him. Poor wretch29! He does his best to bear up, but he is a poor, pallid30, wasting wretch, despite that best.
Towards the last of these long seven weeks I admitted, what through the other six I had jealously excluded — the conviction that these blanks were inevitable31: the result of circumstances, the fiat32 of fate, a part of my life’s lot and — above all — a matter about whose origin no question must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur33 ever uttered. Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God I had a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile extravagance of self-accusation; and as to blaming others for silence, in my reason I well knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledged them so: but it was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed for better days.
I tried different expedients35 to sustain and fill existence: I commenced an elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German pretty hard, I undertook a course of regular reading of the driest and thickest books in the library; in all my efforts I was as orthodox as I knew how to be. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only know the result was as if I had gnawed36 a file to satisfy hunger, or drank brine to quench37 thirst.
My hour of torment38 was the post-hour. Unfortunately, I knew it too well, and tried as vainly as assiduously to cheat myself of that knowledge; dreading39 the rack of expectation, and the sick collapse40 of disappointment which daily preceded and followed upon that well-recognised ring.
I suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily41 fed as to be always upon the verge42 of famine, await their food as I awaited a letter. Oh! — to speak truth, and drop that tone of a false calm which long to sustain, outwears nature’s endurance — I underwent in those seven weeks bitter fears and pains, strange inward trials, miserable43 defections of hope, intolerable encroachments of despair. This last came so near me sometimes that her breath went right through me. I used to feel it like a baleful air or sigh, penetrate44 deep, and make motion pause at my heart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression. The letter — the well-beloved letter — would not come; and it was all of sweetness in life I had to look for.
In the very extremity45 of want, I had recourse again, and yet again, to the little packet in the case — the five letters. How splendid that month seemed whose skies had beheld46 the rising of these five stars! It was always at night I visited them, and not daring to ask every evening for a candle in the kitchen, I bought a wax taper47 and matches to light it, and at the study-hour stole up to the dormitory and feasted on my crust from the Barmecide’s loaf. It did not nourish me: I pined on it, and got as thin as a shadow: otherwise I was not ill.
Reading there somewhat late one evening, and feeling that the power to read was leaving me — for the letters from incessant48 perusal49 were losing all sap and significance: my gold was withering50 to leaves before my eyes, and I was sorrowing over the disillusion51 — suddenly a quick tripping foot ran up the stairs. I knew Ginevra Fanshawe’s step: she had dined in town that afternoon; she was now returned, and would come here to replace her shawl, &c. in the wardrobe.
Yes: in she came, dressed in bright silk, with her shawl falling from her shoulders, and her curls, half-uncurled in the damp of night, drooping52 careless and heavy upon her neck. I had hardly time to recasket my treasures and lock them up when she was at my side her humour seemed none of the best.
“It has been a stupid evening: they are stupid people,” she began.
“Who? Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found her house charming?”
“I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley’s.”
“Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance?”
“My uncle de Bassompierre is come.”
“Your uncle de Bassompierre! Are you not glad? — I thought he was a favourite.”
“You thought wrong: the man is odious53; I hate him.”
“Because he is a foreigner? or for what other reason of equal weight?”
“He is not a foreigner. The man is English enough, goodness knows; and had an English name till three or four years ago; but his mother was a foreigner, a de Bassompierre, and some of her family are dead and have left him estates, a title, and this name: he is quite a great man now.”
“Do you hate him for that reason?”
“Don’t I know what mamma says about him? He is not my own uncle, but married mamma’s sister. Mamma detests55 him; she says he killed aunt Ginevra with unkindness: he looks like a bear. Such a dismal56 evening!” she went on. “I’ll go no more to his big hotel. Fancy me walking into a room alone, and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, and after a few minutes’ conversation actually turning his back upon me, and then abruptly57 going out of the room. Such odd ways! I daresay his conscience smote58 him, for they all say at home I am the picture of aunt Ginevra. Mamma often declares the likeness is quite ridiculous.”
“Were you the only visitor?”
“The only visitor? Yes; then there was missy, my cousin: little spoiled, pampered59 thing.”
“M. de Bassompierre has a daughter?”
“Yes, yes: don’t tease one with questions. Oh, dear! I am so tired.”
She yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed she added, “It seems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hubbub60 at the theatre some weeks ago.”
“Ah! indeed. And they live at a large hotel in the Rue34 Crécy?”
“Justement. How do you know?”
“I have been there.”
“Oh, you have? Really! You go everywhere in these days. I suppose Mother Bretton took you. She and Esculapius have the entrée of the de Bassompierre apartments: it seems ‘my son John’ attended missy on the occasion of her accident — Accident? Bah! All affectation! I don’t think she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her airs. And now there is quite an intimacy61 struck up: I heard something about ‘auld lang syne,’ and what not. Oh, how stupid they all were!”
“All! You said you were the only visitor.”
“Did I? You see one forgets to particularize an old woman and her boy.”
“Dr. and Mrs. Bretton were at M. de Bassompierre’s this evening?”
“Ay, ay! as large as life; and missy played the hostess. What a conceited62 doll it is!”
Soured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was beginning to disclose the causes of her prostrate63 condition. There had been a retrenchment64 of incense65, a diversion or a total withholding66 of homage67 and attention coquetry had failed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification68. She lay fuming69 in the vapours.
“Is Miss de Bassompierre quite well now?” I asked.
“As well as you or I, no doubt; but she is an affected70 little thing, and gave herself invalid71 airs to attract medical notice. And to see the old dowager making her recline on a couch, and ‘my son John’ prohibiting excitement, etcetera — faugh! the scene was quite sickening.”
“It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed: if you had taken Miss de Bassompierre’s place.”
“Indeed! I hate ‘my son John!’”
“‘My son John!’— whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton’s mother never calls him so.”
“Then she ought. A clownish, bearish72 John he is.”
“You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patience is now spun73 off the distaff, I peremptorily74 desire you to rise from that bed, and vacate this room.”
“Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonder what always makes you so mighty75 testy76 à l’endroit du gros Jean? ‘John Anderson, my Joe, John!’ Oh, the distinguished77 name!”
Thrilling with exasperation78, to which it would have been sheer folly79 to have given vent16 — for there was no contending with that unsubstantial feather, that mealy-winged moth54 — I extinguished my taper, locked my bureau, and left her, since she would not leave me. Small-beer as she was, she had turned insufferably acid.
The morrow was Thursday and a half-holiday. Breakfast was over; I had withdrawn80 to the first classe. The dreaded81 hour, the post-hour, was nearing, and I sat waiting it, much as a ghost-seer might wait his spectre. Less than ever was a letter probable; still, strive as I would, I could not forget that it was possible. As the moments lessened82, a restlessness and fear almost beyond the average assailed83 me. It was a day of winter east wind, and I had now for some time entered into that dreary84 fellowship with the winds and their changes, so little known, so incomprehensible to the healthy. The north and east owned a terrific influence, making all pain more poignant85, all sorrow sadder. The south could calm, the west sometimes cheer: unless, indeed, they brought on their wings the burden of thunder-clouds, under the weight and warmth of which all energy died.
Bitter and dark as was this January day, I remember leaving the classe, and running down without bonnet86 to the bottom of the long garden, and then lingering amongst the stripped shrubs87, in the forlorn hope that the postman’s ring might occur while I was out of hearing, and I might thus be spared the thrill which some particular nerve or nerves, almost gnawed through with the unremitting tooth of a fixed88 idea, were becoming wholly unfit to support. I lingered as long as I dared without fear of attracting attention by my absence. I muffled89 my head in my apron90, and stopped my ears in terror of the torturing clang, sure to be followed by such blank silence, such barren vacuum for me. At last I ventured to re-enter the first classe, where, as it was not yet nine o’clock, no pupils had been admitted. The first thing seen was a white object on my black desk, a white, flat object. The post had, indeed, arrived; by me unheard. Rosine had visited my cell, and, like some angel, had left behind her a bright token of her presence. That shining thing on the desk was indeed a letter, a real letter; I saw so much at the distance of three yards, and as I had but one correspondent on earth, from that one it must come. He remembered me yet. How deep a pulse of gratitude92 sent new life through my heart.
Drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but almost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, on the contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown — a pale female scrawl93, instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thought fate was too hard for me, and I said, audibly, “This is cruel.”
But I got over that pain also. Life is still life, whatever its pangs94: our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect95 of what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles be quite silenced.
I opened the billet: by this time I had recognised its handwriting as perfectly96 familiar. It was dated “La Terrasse,” and it ran thus:—
“Dear Lucy — It occurs to me to inquire what you have been doing with yourself for the last month or two? Not that I suspect you would have the least difficulty in giving an account of your proceedings97. I daresay you have been just as busy and as happy as ourselves at La Terrasse. As to Graham, his professional connection extends daily: he is so much sought after, so much engaged, that I tell him he will grow quite conceited. Like a right good mother, as I am, I do my best to keep him down: no flattery does he get from me, as you know. And yet, Lucy, he is a fine fellow: his mother’s heart dances at the sight of him. After being hurried here and there the whole day, and passing the ordeal98 of fifty sorts of tempers, and combating a hundred caprices, and sometimes witnessing cruel sufferings — perhaps, occasionally, as I tell him, inflicting99 them — at night he still comes home to me in such kindly, pleasant mood, that really, I seem to live in a sort of moral antipodes, and on these January evenings my day rises when other people’s night sets in.
“Still he needs keeping in order, and correcting, and repressing, and I do him that good service; but the boy is so elastic100 there is no such thing as vexing101 him thoroughly102. When I think I have at last driven him to the sullens, he turns on me with jokes for retaliation103: but you know him and all his iniquities104, and I am but an elderly simpleton to make him the subject of this epistle.
“As for me, I have had my old Bretton agent here on a visit, and have been plunged105 overhead and ears in business matters. I do so wish to regain106 for Graham at least some part of what his father left him. He laughs to scorn my anxiety on this point, bidding me look and see how he can provide for himself and me too, and asking what the old lady can possibly want that she has not; hinting about sky-blue turbans; accusing me of an ambition to wear diamonds, keep livery servants, have an hotel, and lead the fashion amongst the English clan91 in Villette.
“Talking of sky-blue turbans, I wish you had been with us the other evening. He had come in really tired, and after I had given him his tea, he threw himself into my chair with his customary presumption107. To my great delight, he dropped asleep. (You know how he teases me about being drowsy108; I, who never, by any chance, close an eye by daylight.) While he slept, I thought he looked very bonny, Lucy: fool as I am to be so proud of him; but who can help it? Show me his peer. Look where I will, I see nothing like him in Villette. Well, I took it into my head to play him a trick: so I brought out the sky-blue turban, and handling it with gingerly precaution, I managed to invest his brows with this grand adornment109. I assure you it did not at all misbecome him; he looked quite Eastern, except that he is so fair. Nobody, however, can accuse him of having red hair now — it is genuine chestnut110 — a dark, glossy111 chestnut; and when I put my large cashmere about him, there was as fine a young bey, dey, or pacha improvised113 as you would wish to see.
“It was good entertainment; but only half-enjoyed, since I was alone: you should have been there.
“In due time my lord awoke: the looking-glass above the fireplace soon intimated to him his plight114: as you may imagine, I now live under threat and dread of vengeance115.
“But to come to the gist116 of my letter. I know Thursday is a half-holiday in the Rue Fossette: be ready, then, by five in the afternoon, at which hour I will send the carriage to take you out to La Terrasse. Be sure to come: you may meet some old acquaintance. Good-by, my wise, dear, grave little god-daughter. — Very truly yours,
“Louisa Bretton.”.
Now, a letter like that sets one to rights! I might still be sad after reading that letter, but I was more composed; not exactly cheered, perhaps, but relieved. My friends, at least, were well and happy: no accident had occurred to Graham; no illness had seized his mother-calamities that had so long been my dream and thought. Their feelings for me too were — as they had been. Yet, how strange it was to look on Mrs: Bretton’s seven weeks and contrast them with my seven weeks! Also, how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional position to hold their tongues and not rashly declare how such position galls117 them! The world can understand well enough the process of perishing for want of food: perhaps few persons can enter into or follow out that of going mad from solitary confinement118. They see the long-buried prisoner disinterred, a maniac119 or an idiot! — how his senses left him — how his nerves, first inflamed120, underwent nameless agony, and then sunk to palsy — is a subject too intricate for examination, too abstract for popular comprehension. Speak of it! you might almost as well stand up in an European market-place, and propound121 dark sayings in that language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperial hypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans. And long, long may the minds to whom such themes are no mystery — by whom their bearings are sympathetically seized — be few in number, and rare of rencounter. Long may it be generally thought that physical privations alone merit compassion122, and that the rest is a figment. When the world was younger and haler than now, moral trials were a deeper mystery still: perhaps in all the land of Israel there was but one Saul — certainly but one David to soothe123 or comprehend him.
The keen, still cold of the morning was succeeded, later in the day, by a sharp breathing from Russian wastes: the cold zone sighed over the temperate124 zone, and froze it fast. A heavy firmament125, dull, and thick with snow, sailed up from the north, and settled over expectant Europe. Towards afternoon began the descent. I feared no carriage would come, the white tempest raged so dense126 and wild. But trust my godmother! Once having asked, she would have her guest. About six o’clock I was lifted from the carriage over the already blocked-up front steps of the chateau127, and put in at the door of La Terrasse.
Running through the vestibule, and up-stairs to the drawing-room, there I found Mrs. Bretton — a summer-day in her own person. Had I been twice as cold as I was, her kind kiss and cordial clasp would have warmed me. Inured128 now for so long a time to rooms with bare boards, black benches, desks, and stoves, the blue saloon seemed to me gorgeous. In its Christmas-like fire alone there was a clear and crimson129 splendour which quite dazzled me.
When my godmother had held my hand for a little while, and chatted with me, and scolded me for having become thinner than when she last saw me, she professed130 to discover that the snow-wind had disordered my hair, and sent me up-stairs to make it neat and remove my shawl.
Repairing to my own little sea-green room, there also I found a bright fire, and candles too were lit: a tall waxlight stood on each side the great looking glass; but between the candles, and before the glass, appeared something dressing131 itself — an airy, fairy thing — small, slight, white — a winter spirit.
I declare, for one moment I thought of Graham and his spectral132 illusions. With distrustful eye I noted133 the details of this new vision. It wore white, sprinkled slightly with drops of scarlet134; its girdle was red; it had something in its hair leafy, yet shining — a little wreath with an evergreen135 gloss112. Spectral or not, here truly was nothing frightful136, and I advanced.
Turning quick upon me, a large eye, under long lashes137, flashed over me, the intruder: the lashes were as dark as long, and they softened138 with their pencilling the orb139 they guarded.
“Ah! you are come!” she breathed out, in a soft, quiet voice, and she smiled slowly, and gazed intently.
I knew her now. Having only once seen that sort of face, with that cast of fine and delicate featuring, I could not but know her.
“Miss de Bassompierre,” I pronounced.
“No,” was the reply, “not Miss de Bassompierre for you!“ I did not inquire who then she might be, but waited voluntary information.
“You are changed, but still you are yourself,” she said, approaching nearer. “I remember you well — your countenance140, the colour of your hair, the outline of your face. . . . ”
I had moved to the fire, and she stood opposite, and gazed into me; and as she gazed, her face became gradually more and more expressive141 of thought and feeling, till at last a dimness quenched142 her clear vision.
“It makes me almost cry to look so far back,” said she: “but as to being sorry, or sentimental143, don’t think it: on the contrary, I am quite pleased and glad.”
Interested, yet altogether at fault, I knew not what to say. At last I stammered144, “I think I never met you till that night, some weeks ago, when you were hurt . . .?”
She smiled. “You have forgotten then that I have sat on your knee, been lifted in your arms, even shared your pillow? You no longer remember the night when I came crying, like a naughty little child as I was, to your bedside, and you took me in. You have no memory for the comfort and protection by which you soothed145 an acute distress146? Go back to Bretton. Remember Mr. Home.”
At last I saw it all. “And you are little Polly?”
“I am Paulina Mary Home de Bassompierre.”
How time can change! Little Polly wore in her pale, small features, her fairy symmetry, her varying expression, a certain promise of interest and grace; but Paulina Mary was become beautiful — not with the beauty that strikes the eye like a rose — orbed, ruddy, and replete147; not with the plump, and pink, and flaxen attributes of her blond cousin Ginevra; but her seventeen years had brought her a refined and tender charm which did not lie in complexion148, though hers was fair and clear; nor in outline, though her features were sweet, and her limbs perfectly turned; but, I think, rather in a subdued149 glow from the soul outward. This was not an opaque150 vase, of material however costly151, but a lamp chastely152 lucent, guarding from extinction153, yet not hiding from worship, a flame vital and vestal. In speaking of her attractions, I would not exaggerate language; but, indeed, they seemed to me very real and engaging. What though all was on a small scale, it was the perfume which gave this white violet distinction, and made it superior to the broadest camelia — the fullest dahlia that ever bloomed.
“Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?”
“Better,” said she, “better, perhaps, than you. I remember it with minute distinctness: not only the time, but the days of the time, and the hours of the days.”
“You must have forgotten some things?”
“Very little, I imagine.”
“You were then a little creature of quick feelings: you must, long ere this, have outgrown154 the impressions with which joy and grief, affection and bereavement155, stamped your mind ten years ago.”
“You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what degree I liked them when a child?”
“The sharpness must be gone — the point, the poignancy156 — the deep imprint157 must be softened away and effaced158?”
“I have a good memory for those days.”
She looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who can remember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whose youth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely and incoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered on another: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement, and so grow in harmony and consistency159 as she grew in years. Still I could not quite admit the conviction that all the pictures which now crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fond attachments160, her sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, the patient, true devotion of her child’s heart, her fears, her delicate reserves, her little trials, the last piercing pain of separation. . . . I retraced161 these things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. “The child of seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen,” said she.
“You used to be excessively fond of Mrs. Bretton,” I remarked, intending to test her. She set me right at once.
“Not excessively fond,” said she; “I liked her: I respected her as I should do now: she seems to me very little altered.”
“She is not much changed,” I assented162.
We were silent a few minutes. Glancing round the room she said, “There are several things here that used to be at Bretton! I remember that pincushion and that looking-glass.”
Evidently she was not deceived in her estimate of her own memory; not, at least, so far.
“You think, then, you would have known Mrs. Bretton?” I went on.
“I perfectly remembered her; the turn of her features, her olive complexion, and black hair, her height, her walk, her voice.”
“Dr. Bretton, of course,” I pursued, “would be out of the question: and, indeed, as I saw your first interview with him, I am aware that he appeared to you as a stranger.”
“That first night I was puzzled,” she answered.
“How did the recognition between him and your father come about?”
“They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home de Bassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on the second day; but before then I was beginning to know something.”
“How — know something?”
“Why,” she said, “how strange it is that most people seem so slow to feel the truth — not to see, but feel! When Dr. Bretton had visited me a few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I had observed the look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form of his chin, the carriage of his head, and all that we do observe in persons who approach us — how could I avoid being led by association to think of Graham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and had a smoother face, and longer and lighter163 hair, and spoke164 — not so deeply — more like a girl; but yet he is Graham, just as I am little Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe.”
I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are certain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems a miracle when that chance befalls.
“You and Graham were once playmates.”
“And do you remember that?” she questioned in her turn.
“No doubt he will remember it also,” said I.
“I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to find that he did. I suppose his disposition165 is still gay and careless?”
“Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?”
“I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he was studious; sometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books or disposed for play, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; not much heeding166 those with whom he read or amused himself.”
“Yet to you he was partial.”
“Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates — his school-fellows; I was of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kind on Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary’s, and his finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and still he was on Sunday evenings! So mild for such a proud, lively boy; so patient with all my blunders in reading; and so wonderfully to be depended on, for he never spent those evenings from home: I had a constant fear that he would accept some invitation and forsake167 us; but he never did, nor seemed ever to wish to do it. Thus, of course, it can be no more. I suppose Sunday will now be Dr. Bretton’s dining-out day. . . .?”
“Children, come down!” here called Mrs. Bretton from below. Paulina would still have lingered, but I inclined to descend168: we went down.
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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16
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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17
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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18
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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19
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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20
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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21
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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22
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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23
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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24
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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25
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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26
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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27
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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28
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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29
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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30
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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31
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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32
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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33
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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34
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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35
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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36
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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37
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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38
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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39
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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40
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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41
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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42
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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43
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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44
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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45
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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46
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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47
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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48
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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49
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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50
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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51
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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52
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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53
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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54
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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55
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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57
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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58
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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59
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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61
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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62
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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63
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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64
retrenchment
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| n.节省，删除 | |
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65
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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66
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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67
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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68
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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69
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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70
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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71
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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72
bearish
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| adj.(行情)看跌的，卖空的 | |
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73
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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74
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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75
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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76
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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77
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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78
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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79
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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80
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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81
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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82
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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83
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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84
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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85
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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86
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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87
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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88
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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89
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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90
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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91
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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92
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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93
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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94
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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95
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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96
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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97
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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98
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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99
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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100
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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101
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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102
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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103
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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104
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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105
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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106
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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107
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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108
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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109
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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110
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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111
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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112
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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113
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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114
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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115
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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116
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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117
galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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118
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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119
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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120
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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122
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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123
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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124
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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125
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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126
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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127
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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128
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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129
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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130
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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131
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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132
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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133
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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134
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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135
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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136
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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137
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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138
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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139
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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140
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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141
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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142
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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143
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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144
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
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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146
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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147
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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148
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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149
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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150
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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151
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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152
chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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153
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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154
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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155
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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156
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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157
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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158
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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159
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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160
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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161
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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162
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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164
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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165
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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166
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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167
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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168
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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