Not that she was fulsome5 about it: Madame, in all things worldly, was in nothing weak; there was measure and sense in her hottest pursuit of self-interest, calm and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain; without, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server and a toadie, she marked with tact6 that she was pleased people connected with her establishment should frequent such associates as must cultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate7 and depress. She never praised either me or my friends; only once when she was sitting in the sun in the garden, a cup of coffee at her elbow and the Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up and asked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in this gracious sort:—
“Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de coeur et de gré. Votre travail8 dans ma maison a toujours été admirable, rempli de zèle et de discrétion: vous avez bien le droit de vous amuser. Sortez donc tant que vous voudrez. Quant à votre choix de connaissances, j’en suis contente; c’est sage9, digne, laudable.”
She closed her lips and resumed the Gazette.
The reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance that about this time the triply-enclosed packet of five letters temporarily disappeared from my bureau. Blank dismay was naturally my first sensation on making the discovery; but in a moment I took heart of grace.
“Patience!” whispered I to myself. “Let me say nothing, but wait peaceably; they will come back again.”
And they did come back: they had only been on a short visit to Madame’s chamber10; having passed their examination, they came back duly and truly: I found them all right the next day.
I wonder what she thought of my correspondence? What estimate did she form of Dr. John Bretton’s epistolary powers? In what light did the often very pithy11 thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes original opinions, set, without pretension12, in an easily-flowing, spirited style, appear to her? How did she like that genial13, half humorous vein14, which to me gave such delight? What did she think of the few kind words scattered15 here and there-not thickly, as the diamonds were scattered in the valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems18 lie in unfabled beds? Oh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?
I think in Madame Beck’s eyes the five letters found a certain favour. One day after she had borrowed them of me (in speaking of so suave19 a little woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining me with a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all malevolent20. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the pupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour’s recreation; she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, her thoughts forced themselves partially21 through her lips.
“Il y a,” said she, “quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractère Anglais.”
“How, Madame?”
She gave a little laugh, repeating the word “how” in English.
“Je ne saurais vous dire3 ‘how;’ mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idées à eux, en amitié, en amour, en tout22. Mais au moins il n’est pas besoin de les surveiller,” she added, getting up and trotting23 away like the compact little pony24 she was.
“Then I hope,” murmured I to myself, “you will graciously let alone my letters for the future.”
Alas25! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly26 their vision, blotting27 from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the bright winter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as she had read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river on whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had trickled28 to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving my little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of waters far away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could be said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my Ganges, and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged29, should vanish like a false mirage30. Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic31; drops streamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry shower, heavy and brief.
But soon I said to myself, “The Hope I am bemoaning32 suffered and made me suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following an agony so lingering, death ought to be welcome.”
Welcome I endeavoured to make it. Indeed, long pain had made patience a habit. In the end I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, and composed its limbs with great calm.
The letters, however, must be put away, out of sight: people who have undergone bereavement33 always jealously gather together and lock away mementos34: it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each moment by sharp revival35 of regret.
One vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my treasure, with intent to consider its final disposal, I perceived — and this time with a strong impulse of displeasure — that it had been again tampered36 with: the packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had been untied37 and retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer had been visited.
This was a little too much. Madame Beck herself was the soul of discretion38, besides having as strong a brain and sound a judgment39 as ever furnished a human head; that she should know the contents of my casket, was not pleasant, but might be borne. Little Jesuit inquisitress as she was, she could see things in a true light, and understand them in an unperverted sense; but the idea that she had ventured to communicate information, thus gained, to others; that she had, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over documents, in my eyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly. Yet, that such was the case I now saw reason to fear; I even guessed her confidant. Her kinsman41, M. Paul Emanuel, had spent yesterday evening with her: she was much in the habit of consulting him, and of discussing with him matters she broached42 to no one else. This very morning, in class, that gentleman had favoured me with a glance which he seemed to have borrowed from Vashti, the actress; I had not at the moment comprehended that blue, yet lurid43, flash out of his angry eye; but I read its meaning now. He, I believed, was not apt to regard what concerned me from a fair point of view, nor to judge me with tolerance44 and candour: I had always found him severe and suspicious: the thought that these letters, mere45 friendly letters as they were, had fallen once, and might fall again, into his hands, jarred my very soul.
What should I do to prevent this? In what corner of this strange house was it possible to find security or secresy? Where could a key be a safeguard, or a padlock a barrier?
In the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides, most of the boxes and drawers there were mouldering46, and did not lock. Rats, too, gnawed47 their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests amongst the litter of their contents: my dear letters (most dear still, though Ichabod was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin; certainly the writing would soon become obliterated48 by damp. No; the grenier would not do — but where then?
While pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory window-seat. It was a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun, already setting, gleamed pale on the tops of the garden-shrubs49 in the “allée défendue.” One great old pear-tree — the nun50’s pear-tree — stood up a tall dryad skeleton, grey, gaunt, and stripped. A thought struck me — one of those queer fantastic thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary51 people. I put on my bonnet52, cloak, and furs, and went out into the city.
Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoax53 and overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholy54 moods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed a half deserted55 “place” or square, I found myself before a sort of broker56’s shop; an ancient place, full of ancient things. What I wanted was a metal box which might be soldered57, or a thick glass jar or bottle which might be stoppered or sealed hermetically. Amongst miscellaneous heaps, I found and purchased the latter article.
I then made a little roll of my letters, wrapped them in oiled silk, bound them with twine58, and, having put them in the bottle, got the old Jew broker to stopper, seal, and make it air-tight. While obeying my directions, he glanced at me now and then suspiciously from under his frost-white eyelashes. I believe he thought there was some evil deed on hand. In all this I had a dreary59 something — not pleasure — but a sad, lonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I acted, the mood controlling me, were similar to the impulse and the mood which had induced me to visit the confessional. With quick walking I regained60 the pensionnat just at dark, and in time for dinner.
At seven o’clock the moon rose. At half-past seven, when the pupils and teachers were at study, and Madame Beck was with her mother and children in the salle-à-manger, when the half-boarders were all gone home, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still — I shawled myself, and, taking the sealed jar, stole out through the first-classe door, into the berceau and thence into the “allée défendue.”
Methusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this walk, near my seat: he rose up, dim and gray, above the lower shrubs round him. Now Methusaleh, though so very old, was of sound timber still; only there was a hole, or rather a deep hollow, near his root. I knew there was such a hollow, hidden partly by ivy61 and creepers growing thick round; and there I meditated62 hiding my treasure. But I was not only going to hide a treasure — I meant also to bury a grief. That grief over which I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it in its winding-sheet, must be interred63.
Well, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was large enough to receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a tool-shed at the bottom of the garden, lay the relics65 of building-materials, left by masons lately employed to repair a part of the premises66. I fetched thence a slate67 and some mortar68, put the slate on the hollow, secured it with cement, covered the hole with black mould, and, finally, replaced the ivy. This done, I rested, leaning against the tree; lingering, like any other mourner, beside a newly-sodded grave.
The air of the night was very still, but dim with a peculiar69 mist, which changed the moonlight into a luminous70 haze71. In this air, or this mist, there was some quality — electrical, perhaps — which acted in strange sort upon me. I felt then as I had felt a year ago in England — on a night when the aurora72 borealis was streaming and sweeping73 round heaven, when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watch that mustering74 of an army with banners — that quivering of serried75 lances — that swift ascent76 of messengers from below the north star to the dark, high keystone of heaven’s arch. I felt, not happy, far otherwise, but strong with reinforced strength.
If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. I pondered now how to break up my winter-quarters — to leave an encampment where food and forage77 failed. Perhaps, to effect this change, another pitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to the encounter: too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain. But what road was open? — what plan available?
On this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto, seemed to shine out somewhat brighter: a ray gleamed even white before me, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, to make out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a little suddenly in the obscure alley16: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: it took shape with instantaneous transformation78. I stood about three yards from a tall, sable-robed, snowy-veiled woman.
Five minutes passed. I neither fled nor shrieked79. She was there still. I spoke80.
“Who are you? and why do you come to me?”
She stood mute. She had no face — no features: all below her brow was masked with a white cloth; but she had eyes, and they viewed me.
I felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation will often suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage. I advanced one step. I stretched out my hand, for I meant to touch her. She seemed to recede81. I drew nearer: her recession, still silent, became swift. A mass of shrubs, full-leaved evergreens82, laurel and dense83 yew84, intervened between me and what I followed. Having passed that obstacle, I looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said — “If you have any errand to men, come back and deliver it.” Nothing spoke or re-appeared.
This time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse: there was no one to whom I dared whisper the words, “I have again seen the nun.”
Paulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue40 Crécy. In the old Bretton days, though she had never professed85 herself fond of me, my society had soon become to her a sort of unconscious necessary. I used to notice that if I withdrew to my room, she would speedily come trotting after me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with her little peremptory86 accent — “Come down. Why do you sit here by yourself? You must come into the parlour.”
In the same spirit she urged me now —“Leave the Rue Fossette,” she said, “and come and live with us. Papa would give you far more than Madame Beck gives you.”
Mr. Home himself offered me a handsome sum — thrice my present salary — if I would accept the office of companion to his daughter. I declined. I think I should have declined had I been poorer than I was, and with scantier87 fund of resource, more stinted88 narrowness of future prospect89. I had not that vocation90. I could teach; I could give lessons; but to be either a private governess or a companion was unnatural91 to me. Rather than fill the former post in any great house, I would deliberately92 have taken a housemaid’s place, bought a strong pair of gloves, swept bedrooms and staircases, and cleaned stoves and locks, in peace and independence. Rather than be a companion, I would have made shirts and starved.
I was no bright lady’s shadow — not Miss de Bassompierre’s. Overcast93 enough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued94 habit I was: but the dimness and depression must both be voluntary — such as kept me docile95 at my desk, in the midst of my now well-accustomed pupils in Madame Beck’s fist classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, or in the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden: my qualifications were not convertible96, nor adaptable97; they could not be made the foil of any gem17, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage98 of any greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating, understood each other well. I was not her companion, nor her children’s governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing — not to herself — not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnight been called from home by a near relation’s illness, and on her return, all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest something in her absence should have gone wrong finding that matters had proceeded much as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaring neglect — she made each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgment of steadiness. To my bedside she came at twelve o’clock at night, and told me she had no present for me: “I must make fidelity99 advantageous100 to the St. Pierre,” said she; “if I attempt to make it advantageous to you, there will arise misunderstanding between us — perhaps separation. One thing, however, I can do to please you — leave you alone with your liberty: c’est-ce que je ferai.” She kept her word. Every slight shackle102 she had ever laid on me, she, from that time, with quiet hand removed. Thus I had pleasure in voluntarily respecting her rules: gratification in devoting double time, in taking double pains with the pupils she committed to my charge.
As to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure, though I would not live with her. My visits soon taught me that it was unlikely even my occasional and voluntary society would long be indispensable to her. M. de Bassompierre, for his part, seemed impervious103 to this conjecture104, blind to this possibility; unconscious as any child to the signs, the likelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew to an end, he might not approve.
Whether or not he would cordially approve, I used to speculate. Difficult to say. He was much taken up with scientific interests; keen, intent, and somewhat oppugnant in what concerned his favourite pursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful in the ordinary affairs of life. From all I could gather, he seemed to regard his “daughterling” as still but a child, and probably had not yet admitted the notion that others might look on her in a different light: he would speak of what should be done when “Polly” was a woman, when she should be grown up; and “Polly,” standing101 beside his chair, would sometimes smile and take his honoured head between her little hands, and kiss his iron-grey locks; and, at other times, she would pout105 and toss her curls: but she never said, “Papa, I am grown up.”
She had different moods for different people. With her father she really was still a child, or child-like, affectionate, merry, and playful. With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought and feeling could make her. With Mrs. Bretton she was docile and reliant, but not expansive. With Graham she was shy, at present very shy; at moments she tried to be cold; on occasion she endeavoured to shun106 him. His step made her start; his entrance hushed her; when he spoke, her answers failed of fluency107; when he took leave, she remained self-vexed108 and disconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanour in her.
“My little Polly,” he said once, “you live too retired109 a life; if you grow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fitted for society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how is this? Don’t you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be rather partial to him?”
“Rather, papa,” echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentle and simple tone.
“And you don’t like him now? What has he done?”
“Nothing. Y— e — s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange to each other.”
“Then rub it off, Polly; rub the rust64 and the strangeness off. Talk away when he is here, and have no fear of him?”
“He does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?”
“Oh, to be sure, what man would not be afraid of such a little silent lady?”
“Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is my way, and that I have no unfriendly intention.”
“Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it is only your whim110!”
“Well, I’ll improve, papa.”
And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried to keep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse111 affably with Dr. John on general topics. The attention called into her guest’s face a pleasurable glow; he met her with caution, and replied to her in his softest tones, as if there was a kind of gossamer112 happiness hanging in the air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath. Certainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could not be denied that there was a most exquisite113 and fairy charm.
When the Doctor was gone, she approached her father’s chair.
“Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better?”
“My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her if this improvement continues. By-and-by we shall see her receiving my guests with quite a calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have to look about us, and polish up all our best airs and graces lest we should be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a little flutter, a little tendency to stammer114 now and then, and even, to lisp as you lisped when you were six years old.”
“No, papa,” interrupted she indignantly, “that can’t be true.”
“I appeal to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering Dr. Bretton’s question as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince of Bois l’Etang, say, ‘yeth,’ she had been there ‘theveral’ times?”
“Papa, you are satirical, you are méchant! I can pronounce all the letters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this you are very particular in making me be civil to Dr. Bretton, do you like him yourself?”
“To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then he is a very good son to his mother; besides being a kind-hearted fellow and clever in his profession: yes, the callant is well enough.”
“Callant! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh or the Aberdeen accent you have?”
“Both, my pet, both: and doubtless the Glaswegian into the bargain. It is that which enables me to speak French so well: a gude Scots tongue always succeeds well at the French.”
“The French! Scotch115 again: incorrigible116 papa. You, too, need schooling117.”
“Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake both you and me; to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical.”
The light in which M. de Bassompierre evidently regarded “Miss Snowe,” used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictory118 attributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according to the eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed119 me learned and blue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic120, ironic121, and cynical122; Mr. Home, a model teacher, the essence of the sedate123 and discreet124: somewhat conventional, perhaps, too strict, limited, and scrupulous125, but still the pink and pattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person, Professor Paul Emanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery126 and rash nature — adventurous127, indocile, and audacious. I smiled at them all. If any one knew me it was little Paulina Mary.
As I would not be Paulina’s nominal128 and paid companion, genial and harmonious129 as I began to find her intercourse130, she persuaded me to join her in some study, as a regular and settled means of sustaining communication: she proposed the German language, which, like myself, she found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in the Rue Crécy of the same mistress; this arrangement threw us together for some hours of every week. M. de Bassompierre seemed quite pleased: it perfectly met his approbation131, that Madame Minerva Gravity should associate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dear child.
That other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the Rue Fossette, discovering by some surreptitious spying means, that I was no longer so stationary132 as hitherto, but went out regularly at certain hours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me under surveillance. People said M. Emanuel had been brought up amongst Jesuits. I should more readily have accredited133 this report had his manoeuvres been better masked. As it was, I doubted it. Never was a more undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer134. He would analyze135 his own machinations: elaborately contrive136 plots, and forthwith indulge in explanatory boasts of their skill. I know not whether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering solemnly that he “had his eye on me: he at least would discharge the duty of a friend, and not leave me entirely138 to my own devices. My, proceedings139 seemed at present very unsettled: he did not know what to make of them: he thought his cousin Beck very much to blame in suffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a teacher attached to her house. What had a person devoted140 to a serious calling, that of education, to do with Counts and Countesses, hotels and chateaux? To him, I seemed altogether ‘en l’air.’ On his faith, he believed I went out six days in the seven.”
I said, “Monsieur exaggerated. I certainly had enjoyed the advantage of a little change lately, but not before it had become necessary; and the privilege was by no means exercised in excess.”
“Necessary! How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed? Change necessary! He would recommend me to look at the Catholic ‘religieuses,’ and study their lives. They asked no change.”
I am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke, but it was one which provoked him: he accused me of being reckless, worldly, and epicurean; ambitious of greatness, and feverishly141 athirst for the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no “dévouement,” no “récueillement” in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice, or self-abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, I mutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises.
“He could see in me nothing Christian142: like many other Protestants, I revelled143 in the pride and self-will of paganism.”
I slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing of silence.
A vague sound grumbled144 between his teeth; it could not surely be a “juron:” he was too religious for that; but I am certain I heard the word sacré. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated, with the unequivocal addition of mille something, when I passed him about two hours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go and take my German lesson in the Rue Crécy. Never was a better little man, in some points, than M. Paul: never, in others, a more waspish little despot.
Our German mistress, Fr?ulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty145 woman, of about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to have lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, as she habitually146 consumed, for her first and second breakfasts, beer and beef: also, her direct and downright Deutsch nature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint from what she called our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordial with her: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented to kiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any explosive smack147. These omissions148 oppressed and depressed149 her considerably150; still, on the whole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instruct foreign girls, who hardly ever will think and study for themselves — who have no idea of grappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it by dint151 of reflection or application — our progress, which in truth was very leisurely152, seemed to astound153 her. In her eyes, we were a pair of glacial prodigies154, cold, proud, and preternatural.
The young Countess was a little proud, a little fastidious: and perhaps, with her native delicacy155 and beauty, she had a right to these feelings; but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. I never evaded156 the morning salute157, which Paulina would slip when she could; nor was a certain little manner of still disdain158 a weapon known in my armoury of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine, and bright, and any rough German sally called forth137 at once its steelly glisten159.
Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference; and while she half-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort of dainty nymph — an Undine — she took refuge with me, as a being all mortal, and of easier mood.
A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller’s Ballads160; Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully; the Fr?ulein would listen to her with a broad smile of pleasure, and say her voice sounded like music. She translated them, too, with a facile flow of language, and in a strain of kindred and poetic161 fervour: her cheek would flush, her lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle162 or melt as she went on. She learnt the best by heart, and would often recite them when we were alone together. One she liked well was “Des M?dchens Klage:” that is, she liked well to repeat the words, she found plaintive163 melody in the sound; the sense she would criticise164. She murmured, as we sat over the fire one evening:—
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,
Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
“Lived and loved!” said she, “is that the summit of earthly happiness, the end of life — to love? I don’t think it is. It may be the extreme of mortal misery165, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless torture of feeling. If Schiller had said to be loved, he might have come nearer the truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?”
“I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love to you? What do you know about it?”
She crimsoned166, half in irritation167, half in shame.
“Now, Lucy,” she said, “I won’t take that from you. It may be well for papa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus view me; but you know and shall learn to acknowledge that I am verging168 on my nineteenth year.”
“No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation; we will not talk about love.”
“Indeed, indeed!” said she — all in hurry and heat —“you may think to check and hold me in, as much as you please; but I have talked about it, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, and disagreeably and detrimentally169: and in a way you wouldn’t approve.”
And the vexed, triumphant170, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could not discern what she meant, and I would not ask her: I was nonplussed171. Seeing, however, the utmost innocence172 in her countenance173 — combined with some transient perverseness174 and petulance175 — I said at last —
“Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Who that has near access to you would dare to do it?”
“Lucy,” replied she more softly, “it is a person who makes me miserable176 sometimes; and I wish she would keep away — I don’t want her.”
“But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much.”
“It is — it is my cousin Ginevra. Every time she has leave to visit Mrs. Cholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she begins to talk about her admirers. Love, indeed! You should hear all she has to say about love.”
“Oh, I have heard it,” said I, quite coolly; “and on the whole, perhaps it is as well you should have heard it too: it is not to be regretted, it is all right. Yet, surely, Ginevra’s mind cannot influence yours. You can look over both her head and her heart.”
“She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing my happiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through the feelings and people dearest to me.”
“What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may be counteraction177 of the damage done.”
“The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. She does not spare Mrs. Bretton — she does not spare. . . . Graham.”
“No, I daresay: and how does she mix up these with her sentiment and her. . . . love? She does mix them, I suppose?”
“Lucy, she is insolent178; and, I believe, false. You know Dr. Bretton. We both know him. He may be careless and proud; but when was he ever mean or slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet, pursuing her like her shadow. She — repulsing179 him with insult, and he imploring180 her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of it true?”
“It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does she give him out as still her suitor?”
“She says she might marry him any day: he only waits her consent.”
“It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your manner towards Graham which your father noticed.”
“They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. As Ginevra speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixed truth: I believe she exaggerates — perhaps invents — but I want to know how far.”
“Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof. Give her an opportunity of displaying the power she boasts.”
“I could do that to-morrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner, all savants. Graham, who, papa is beginning to discover, is a savant, too — skilled, they say, in more than one branch of science — is among the number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported, amidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A—— and Z—— the Parisian Academicians: all my new credit for manner would be put in peril181. You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my sake; Ginevra, at a word, will join you.”
“Yes; then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall have the chance of justifying182 her character for veracity183.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
chateau
|
|
| n.城堡，别墅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
fulsome
|
|
| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
deteriorate
|
|
| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
travail
|
|
| n.阵痛；努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
sage
|
|
| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pithy
|
|
| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
pretension
|
|
| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
vein
|
|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
alley
|
|
| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
gem
|
|
| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
gems
|
|
| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
suave
|
|
| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
malevolent
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
partially
|
|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
tout
|
|
| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
trotting
|
|
| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
blotting
|
|
| 吸墨水纸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
trickled
|
|
| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
estranged
|
|
| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
mirage
|
|
| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
stoic
|
|
| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
bemoaning
|
|
| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bereavement
|
|
| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
mementos
|
|
| 纪念品，令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
revival
|
|
| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
tampered
|
|
| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
untied
|
|
| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
kinsman
|
|
| n.男亲属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
broached
|
|
| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
lurid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
tolerance
|
|
| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
mouldering
|
|
| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
gnawed
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
obliterated
|
|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
shrubs
|
|
| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
nun
|
|
| n.修女，尼姑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
hoax
|
|
| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
broker
|
|
| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
soldered
|
|
| v.（使）焊接，焊合( solder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
twine
|
|
| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
regained
|
|
| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
ivy
|
|
| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
meditated
|
|
| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
interred
|
|
| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
rust
|
|
| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
relics
|
|
| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
premises
|
|
| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
slate
|
|
| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
mortar
|
|
| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
haze
|
|
| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
aurora
|
|
| n.极光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
mustering
|
|
| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
serried
|
|
| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
ascent
|
|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
forage
|
|
| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
transformation
|
|
| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
shrieked
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
recede
|
|
| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
evergreens
|
|
| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
yew
|
|
| n.紫杉属树木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
peremptory
|
|
| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
scantier
|
|
| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的比较级 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
stinted
|
|
| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
vocation
|
|
| n.职业，行业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
deliberately
|
|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
overcast
|
|
| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
docile
|
|
| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
convertible
|
|
| adj.可改变的，可交换，同意义的；n.有活动摺篷的汽车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
adaptable
|
|
| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
appendage
|
|
| n.附加物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
advantageous
|
|
| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
shackle
|
|
| n.桎梏，束缚物；v.加桎梏，加枷锁，束缚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
impervious
|
|
| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
pout
|
|
| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
shun
|
|
| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
fluency
|
|
| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
vexed
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
whim
|
|
| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
gossamer
|
|
| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
stammer
|
|
| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
incorrigible
|
|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
schooling
|
|
| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
contradictory
|
|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
esteemed
|
|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
caustic
|
|
| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
ironic
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
sedate
|
|
| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
discreet
|
|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
scrupulous
|
|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
adventurous
|
|
| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
nominal
|
|
| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
approbation
|
|
| n.称赞；认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
stationary
|
|
| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
accredited
|
|
| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
intriguer
|
|
| 密谋者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
135
analyze
|
|
| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
proceedings
|
|
| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
feverishly
|
|
| adv. 兴奋地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
revelled
|
|
| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
grumbled
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
smack
|
|
| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
omissions
|
|
| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
dint
|
|
| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
leisurely
|
|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
astound
|
|
| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
prodigies
|
|
| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
evaded
|
|
| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
salute
|
|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
disdain
|
|
| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
glisten
|
|
| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
ballads
|
|
| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
kindle
|
|
| v.点燃，着火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
plaintive
|
|
| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
criticise
|
|
| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
crimsoned
|
|
| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
verging
|
|
| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
detrimentally
|
|
| adv.有害地，不利地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
nonplussed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
perverseness
|
|
| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
petulance
|
|
| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
counteraction
|
|
| 反对的行动，抵抗，反动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
insolent
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
repulsing
|
|
| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
180
imploring
|
|
| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
justifying
|
|
| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
veracity
|
|
| n.诚实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |