There were influences of a wholly unsuspected kind already gathering1 round the poor vicar, William Wylder; as worlds first begin in thinnest vapour, and whirl themselves in time into consistency2 and form, so do these dark machinations, which at times gather round unsuspecting mortals as points of revolution, begin nebulously and intangibly, and grow in volume and in density5, till a colossal6 system, with its inexorable tendencies and forces, crushes into eternal darkness the centre it has enveloped7.
Thou shalt not covet8; thou shalt not cast an eye of desire; out of the heart proceed murders; — these dreadful realities shape themselves from so filmy a medium as thought!
Ever since his conference with the vicar, good Mr. Larkin had been dimly thinking of a thing. The good attorney’s weakness was money. It was a speck9 at first; a metaphysical microscope of no conceivable power could have developed its exact shape and colour — a mere10 speck, floating, as it were, in a transparent11 kyst, in his soul — a mere germ — by-and-by to be an impish embryo12, and ripe for action. When lust13 hath conceived it bringeth forth14 sin, and sin when it is finished bringeth forth death.
The vicar’s troubles grew and gathered, as such troubles will; and the attorney gave him his advice; and the business of the Rev4. William Wylder gradually came to occupy a good deal of his time. Here was a new reason for wishing to know really how Mark Wylder stood. William had undoubtedly16 the reversion of the estate; but the attorney suspected sometimes — just from a faint phrase which had once escaped Stanley Lake — as the likeliest solution, that Mark Wylder had made a left-handed marriage somehow and somewhere, and that a subterranean17 wife and family would emerge at an unlucky moment, and squat18 upon that remainder, and defy the world to disturb them. This gave to his plans and dealings in relation to the vicar a character of irresolution19 and caprice foreign to his character, which was grim and decided20 enough when his data were clear, and his object in sight.
William Wylder, meanwhile, was troubled, and his mind clouded by more sorrows than one.
Poor William Wylder had those special troubles which haunt nervous temperaments21 and speculative22 minds, when under the solemn influence of religion. What the great Luther called, without describing them, his ‘tribulations’— those dreadful doubts and apathies which at times menace and darken the radiant fabric24 of faith, and fill the soul with nameless horrors. The worst of these is, that unlike other troubles, they are not always safely to be communicated to those who love us best. These terrors and dubitations are infectious. Other spiritual troubles, too, there are; and I suppose our good vicar was not exempt25 from them any more than other Christians26.
The best man, the simplest man that ever lived, has his reserves. The conscious frailty27 of mortality owes that sad reverence28 to itself, and to the esteem29 of others. You can’t be too frank and humble30 when you have wronged your neighbour; but keep your offences against God to yourself, and let your battle with your own heart be waged under the eye of Him alone. The frankness of the sentimental31 Jean Jacques Rousseau, and of my coarse friend, Mark Wylder, is but a damnable form of vicious egotism. A miserable32 sinner have I been, my friend, but details profit neither thee nor me. The inner man had best be known only to himself and his Maker33. I like that good and simple Welsh parson, of Beaumaris, near two hundred years ago, who with a sad sort of humour, placed for motto under his portrait, done in stained glass, nunc primum transparui.
But the spiritual tribulation23 which came and went was probably connected with the dreadful and incessant34 horrors of his money trouble. The gigantic Brocken spectre projected from himself upon the wide horizon of his futurity.
The poor vicar! He felt his powers forsaking35 him. Hope, the life of action, was gone. Despair is fatalism, and can’t help itself. The inevitable36 mountain was always on his shoulders. He could not rise — he could not stir. He could scarcely turn his head and look up beseechingly37 from the corners of his eyes.
Why is that fellow so supine? Why is his work so ill done, when he ought most to exert himself? He disgusts the world with his hang-dog looks. Alas38! with the need for action, the power of action is gone. Despair — distraction39 — the Furies sit with him. Stunned40, stupid, and wild — always agitated41 — it is not easy to compose his sermons as finely as heretofore. He is always jotting42 down little sums in addition and subtraction43. The cares of the world — the miseries44 of what the world calls ‘difficulties’ and a ‘struggle’— these were for the poor vicar; — the worst torture, for aught we know, which an average soul out of hell can endure. Other sorrows bear healing on their wings; — this one is the Promethean vulture. It is a falling into the hands of men, not of God. The worst is, that its tendencies are so godless. It makes men bitter; its promptings are blasphemous45. Wherefore, He who knew all things, in describing the thorns which choke the word, places the cares of this world first, and after them the deceitfulness of riches and the lusts46 of other things. So if money is a root of evil, the want of it, with debt, is root, and stem, and branches.
But all human pain has its intervals47 of relief. The pain is suspended, and the system recruits itself to endure the coming paroxysm. An hour of illusion — an hour of sleep — an hour’s respite48 of any sort, to six hours of pain — and so the soul, in anguish49, finds strength for its long labour, abridged50 by neither death nor madness.
The vicar, with his little boy, Fairy, by the hand, used twice, at least, in the week to make, sometimes an hour’s, sometimes only half an hours, visit at Redman’s Farm. Poor Rachel Lake made old Tamar sit at her worsteds in the window of the little drawing-room while these conversations proceeded. The young lady was so intelligent that William Wylder was obliged to exert himself in controversy51 with her eloquent52 despair; and this combat with the doubts and terrors of a mind of much more than ordinary vigour53 and resource, though altogether feminine, compelled him to bestir himself, and so, for the time, found him entire occupation; and thus memory and forecast, and suspense54, were superseded55, for the moment, by absorbing mental action.
Rachel’s position had not been altered by her brother’s marriage. Dorcas had urged her earnestly to give up Redman’s Farm, and take up her abode56 permanently57 at Brandon. This kindness, however, she declined. She was grateful, but no, nothing could move her. The truth was, she recoiled58 from it with a species of horror.
The marriage had been, after all, as great a surprise to Rachel as to any of the Gylingden gossips. Dorcas, knowing how Rachel thought upon it, had grown reserved and impenetrable upon the subject; indeed, at one time, I think, she had half made up her mind to fight the old battle over again and resolutely59 exercise this fatal passion. She had certainly mystified Rachel, perhaps was mystifying herself.
Rachel grew more sad and strange than ever after this marriage. I think that Stanley was right, and that living in that solitary60 and darksome dell helped to make her hypochondriac.
One evening Stanley Lake stood at her door.
‘I was just thinking, dear Radie,’ he said in his sweet low tones, which to her ear always bore a suspicion of mockery in them, ‘how pretty you contrive61 to make this bright little garden at all times of the year — you have such lots of those evergreens62, and ivy63, and those odd flowers.’
‘They call them immortelles in France,’ said Rachel, in a cold strange tone, ‘and make chaplets of them to lay upon the coffin-lids and the graves.’
‘Ah, yes, to be sure, I have seen them there and in Père la Chaise — so they do; they have them in all the cemeteries64 — I forgot that. How cheerful; how very sensible. Don’t you think it would be a good plan to stick up a death’s-head and cross-bones here and there, and to split up old coffin-lids for your setting-sticks, and get old Mowlders, the sexton, to bury your roots, and cover them in with a “dust to dust,” and so forth, and plant a yew65 tree in the middle, and stick those bits of painted board, that look so woefully like gravestones, all round it, and then let old Tamar prowl about for a ghost? I assure you, Radie, I think you, all to nothing, the perversest fool I ever encountered or heard of in the course of my life.’
‘Well, Stanley, suppose you do, I’ll not dispute it. Perhaps you are right,’ said Rachel, still standing66 at the door of her little porch.
‘Perhaps,’ he repeated with a sneer67; ‘I venture to say, most positively68, I can’t conceive any sane69 reason for your refusing Dorcas’s entreaty70 to live with us at Brandon, and leave this triste, and unwholesome, and everyway objectionable place.’
‘She was very kind, but I can’t do it.’
‘Yes, you can’t do it, simply because it would be precisely71 the most sensible, prudent72, and comfortable arrangement you could possibly make; you won’t do it — but you can and will practise all the airs and fooleries of a bad melodrama73. You have succeeded already in filling Dorcas’s mind with surmise74 and speculation75, and do you think the Gylingden people are either blind or dumb? You are taking, I’ve told you again and again, the very way to excite attention and gossip. What good can it possibly do you? You’ll not believe until it happens, and when it does, you’d give your eyes you could undo15 it. It is so like you.’
‘I have said how very kind I thought it of Dorcas to propose it. I can’t explain to her all my reasons for declining; and to you I need not. But I cannot overcome my repugnance76 — and I won’t try.’
‘I wonder,’ said Stanley, with a sly look of enquiry, ‘that you who read the Bible — and a very good book it is no doubt — and believe in all sorts of things —’
‘That will do, Stanley. I’m not so weak as you suppose.’
‘You know, Radie, I’m a Sadducee and that sort of thing does not trouble me the least in the world. It is a little cold here. May we go into the drawing-room? You can’t think how I hate this — house. We are always unpleasant in it.’
This auspicious77 remark he made taking off his hat, and placing it and his cane78 on her work-table.
But this was not a tempestuous79 conference by any means. I don’t know precisely what they talked about. I think it was probably the pros80 and cons3 of that migration81 to Brandon, against which Rachel had pronounced so firmly.
‘I can’t do it, Stanley. My motives82 are unintelligible83 to you, I know, and you think me obstinate84 and stupid; but, be I what I may, my objections are insurmountable. And does it not strike you that my staying here, on the contrary, would — would tend to prevent the kind of conversation you speak of?’
‘Not the least, dear Radie — that is, I mean, it could have no possible effect, unless the circumstances were first supposed, and then it could be of no appreciable85 use. And your way of life and your looks — for both are changed — are likely, in a little prating86 village, where every human being is watched and discussed incessantly87, to excite conjecture88; that is all, and that is every thing.’
It had grown dark while Stanley sat in the little drawing-room, and Rachel stood on her doorstep, and saw his figure glide89 away slowly into the thin mist and shadow, and turn upward to return to Brandon, by that narrow ravine where they had held rendezvous90 with Mark Wylder, on that ill-omened night when trouble began for all.
To Rachel’s eyes, that disappearing form looked like the moping spirit of guilt91 and regret, haunting the scene of the irrevocable.
When Stanley took his leave after one of these visits — stolen visits, somehow, they always seemed to her — the solitary mistress of Redman’s Farm invariably experienced the nervous reaction which follows the artificial calm of suppressed excitement. Something of panic or horror, relieved sometimes by a gush92 of tears — sometimes more slowly and painfully subsiding93 without that hysterical94 escape.
She went in and shut the door, and called Tamar. But Tamar was out of the way. She hated that little drawing-room in her present mood — its associations were odious95 and even ghastly; so she sat herself down by the kitchen fire, and placed her pretty feet — cold now — upon the high steel fender, and extended her cold hands towards the embers, leaning back in her rude chair.
And so she got the girl to light candles, and asked her a great many questions, and obliged her, in fact, to speak constantly though she seemed to listen but little. And when at last the girl herself, growing interested in her own narrative96 about a kidnapper97, grew voluble and animated98, and looked round upon the young lady at the crisis of the tale, she was surprised to remark, on a sudden, that she was gazing vacantly into the bars; and when Margery, struck by her fixed99 and melancholy100 countenance101, stopped in the midst of a sentence, the young lady turned and gazed on her wistfully, with large eyes and pale face, and sighed heavily.
点击收听单词发音
1 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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2 consistency | |
n.一贯性,前后一致,稳定性;(液体的)浓度 | |
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3 cons | |
n.欺骗,骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗,哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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4 rev | |
v.发动机旋转,加快速度 | |
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5 density | |
n.密集,密度,浓度 | |
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6 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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7 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 covet | |
vt.垂涎;贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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9 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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10 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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11 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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12 embryo | |
n.胚胎,萌芽的事物 | |
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13 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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14 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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15 undo | |
vt.解开,松开;取消,撤销 | |
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16 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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17 subterranean | |
adj.地下的,地表下的 | |
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18 squat | |
v.蹲坐,蹲下;n.蹲下;adj.矮胖的,粗矮的 | |
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19 irresolution | |
n.不决断,优柔寡断,犹豫不定 | |
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20 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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21 temperaments | |
性格( temperament的名词复数 ); (人或动物的)气质; 易冲动; (性情)暴躁 | |
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22 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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23 tribulation | |
n.苦难,灾难 | |
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24 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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25 exempt | |
adj.免除的;v.使免除;n.免税者,被免除义务者 | |
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26 Christians | |
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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27 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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28 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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29 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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30 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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31 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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32 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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33 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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34 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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35 forsaking | |
放弃( forsake的现在分词 ); 弃绝; 抛弃; 摒弃 | |
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36 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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37 beseechingly | |
adv. 恳求地 | |
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38 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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39 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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40 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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42 jotting | |
n.简短的笔记,略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 );草草记下,匆匆记下 | |
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43 subtraction | |
n.减法,减去 | |
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44 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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45 blasphemous | |
adj.亵渎神明的,不敬神的 | |
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46 lusts | |
贪求(lust的第三人称单数形式) | |
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47 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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48 respite | |
n.休息,中止,暂缓 | |
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49 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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50 abridged | |
削减的,删节的 | |
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51 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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52 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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53 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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54 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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55 superseded | |
[医]被代替的,废弃的 | |
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56 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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57 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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58 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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59 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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60 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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61 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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62 evergreens | |
n.常青树,常绿植物,万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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63 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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64 cemeteries | |
n.(非教堂的)墓地,公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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65 yew | |
n.紫杉属树木 | |
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66 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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67 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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68 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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69 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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70 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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71 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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72 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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73 melodrama | |
n.音乐剧;情节剧 | |
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74 surmise | |
v./n.猜想,推测 | |
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75 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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76 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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77 auspicious | |
adj.吉利的;幸运的,吉兆的 | |
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78 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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79 tempestuous | |
adj.狂暴的 | |
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80 pros | |
abbr.prosecuting 起诉;prosecutor 起诉人;professionals 自由职业者;proscenium (舞台)前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 );赞成的理由;抵偿物;交换物 | |
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81 migration | |
n.迁移,移居,(鸟类等的)迁徙 | |
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82 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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83 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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84 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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85 appreciable | |
adj.明显的,可见的,可估量的,可觉察的 | |
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86 prating | |
v.(古时用语)唠叨,啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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87 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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88 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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89 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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90 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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91 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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92 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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93 subsiding | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的现在分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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94 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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95 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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96 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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97 kidnapper | |
n.绑架者,拐骗者 | |
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98 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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99 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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100 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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101 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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