For a short time after this unfortunate occurrence Mr. Whiffle was disconsolate8. Though latterly Arthur’s progress under his tuition had been very far from satisfying his requirements, the curate had still clung to the hope of being the instrument whereby that somewhat intractable young nature should be modelled into that form of spiritual and intellectual nullity most adapted to ecclesiastical preferment. To instil9 his favourite doctrines10 into the mind of an apt and ready listener was Mr. Whiffle’s ideal of happiness, and to have such a chance as this suddenly withdrawn11 was grievous, to say the least of it. In speaking to Mr. Norman of their mutual12 loss, he waxed eloquent13 on the glowing future which he had planned out in his own thoughts, tracing in imagination the whole life of his former pupil from a curacy upwards14, and well nigh weeping when he came back to the sad reality. Mr. Whiffle had somewhat of a fondness for theatrical15 display, and it is not at all improbable that he used the present occasion to the profit of his eloquence17 long after his veritable chagrin18 had worked itself off.
“Such a boy, sir!” he exclaimed, on one occasion. “Bishop was written upon every line of his countenance19! What an opportunity for putting into practice the precepts20 contained in my (as yet unpublished) pamphlets on the Principles of Education, and on the Rudiments21 of Ecclesiastical Training! I assure you, sir, I could sit in sack-cloth and ashes for the loss of that child. He was already more than a son to me.”
“And yet you have sons of your own, Mr. Whiffle,” interposed the Rector. “Would it not be easy and natural to transfer to your eldest22 boy the care you would have bestowed23 on poor Arthur?”
“My eldest boy?” exclaimed Mr. Whiffle, as if in astonishment24. “That — that young scamp? Upon my word I never thought of it.”
This was doubtless very true. In all likelihood the curate did not think of his family once in a month. The most distant object of interest had a closer claim upon his attention than the inmates25 of his home.
“Upon my word, that’s quite a new idea to me!” he cried. “Ah! now suppose I were to tackle young Augustus. I don’t know. He might turn out something, with a little care.”
“I think it very possible,” replied Mr. Norman.
“You do really sir? Well, very possibly you are right. Young Augustus! Ha, ha, ha! The young dog!”
Mr. Whiffle laughed heartily26, rising the while on his toes and falling back again on to his heels alternately. The idea had evidently all the charm of novelty for him.
“Upon my word, I think I shall try. When I come to think of it, I believe the youngster has brains, if only he can be made to use them. And if he won’t take his learning patiently, why it can be licked into him, like doses of physic. An admirable idea!”
From that day Mr. Whiffle took his eldest son in hand, and proceeded very vigorously with his education, which had hitherto been entrusted27 to a village schoolmaster of no very distinguished28 abilities. Master Augustus, whom we have already seen receiving personal chastisement29 at the hand of his father, was a lanky30, overgrown lad of some twelve years, bearing a rather striking resemblance in outward characteristics to Mr. Whiffle himself. He was by no means destitute31 of ability, but had acquired the unfortunate habit of employing it in the service of a somewhat impish disposition32, the result being that he was in constant trouble, at home and abroad. It was to the young gentleman’s considerable surprise, and very little to his satisfaction, when he became aware of his father’s intention to devote an unusual degree of care to his future progress in the paths of literature. The first few days of the new régime were stormy in the extreme. As Mr. Whiffle had feared, young Augustus took by no means kindly33 to the strong food thus suddenly administered to him, and in consequence the curate, to use his own expression, “licked it into him.” The lessons took place in Mr. Whiffle’s study, whilst the rest of the family were assembled in the usual manner in the parlour. Mrs. Whiffle, whose nerves were sadly out of order, had a tremulous anticipation34 of the character of these interviews in the study, and sat, with her attention on the alert, to catch the least sounds which should issue from thence. As a rule she was rewarded at the expiration35 of the first ten minutes, when Mr. Whiffle’s shrill36 tones, and Master Augustus’ still shriller piping, would be heard rising to an ominous37 pitch. These sounds would increase, till at length both attained38 the character of a prolonged and piercing squeal39, amid which would be heard the peculiar40 wish produced by the sharp descent of a cane41 upon tightened42 clothing. At this point poor Mrs. Whiffle would burst into tears, and, when at length she could bear her suffering no longer, would step sobbing43 to the study door and knock. As a rule her knock was either unheard or unheeded, and she would hurry back with her fingers in her ears, throw herself in her chair, and, encircling all her brood within her arms, weep till the termination of the lesson. When that moment happily arrived, the study door opened and Mr. Whiffle came into the parlour, followed, at a slinking pace, by Master Augustus, carrying his books and slate44 under his arm, both perspiring45 and both very much out of temper. Then, as a rule, Mr. Whiffle would set out on a walk, to restore his habitual46 calm, and Master Augustus would be pressed in his mother’s arms with the rest of the brood, sobbing out the while that “it is a jolly shame to be so hard on a fellow,” and that “I wish there was no such thing as a church in the world,” whereupon Mrs. Whiffle would cast up her eyes in horror, or ask him where he expected to go to after his death, if he allowed himself to give utterance47 to such sentiments.
Evidently affairs could not long rest at this stage, which was, in the nature of things, transitional, Mr. Whiffle persevering48, for a wonder, in the task to which he had applied49 himself. Master Augustus did not lack the wit to observe that he would gain very little save beatings by an obstinate50 persistence51 in a refractory52 course of behaviour, whereupon he gradually adopted a more conciliatory attitude, and before long discovered that he could, at the expense of very little trouble, master such tasks as were daily set him, earning in consequence a degree of liberty during the remainder of the day to which he had by no means been accustomed. Finding that the show of interest and attention was what his father principally required, and seeing how easily he was pleased with the recitation of a few stock phrases and formul? which it was by no means difficult to remember, young Augustus ere long progressed very considerably53 in the art of hypocrisy54. If before he had been a noisy, careless young imp16, it took only a year or so of Mr. Whiffle’s discipline to convert him into a demure-faced, canting little rascal55, always ready on the sly for freaks quite remarkable56 for precocious57 villainy, but always preserving before his father and mother a sobriety of demeanour and facility in the quotation58 of text and rubric which constituted the delight of Mr. Whiffle’s soul. Verily, he said to himself, the seeds of his sowing were already bearing fruit.
In the meantime the Rectory was also the scene of parental59 instruction — instruction however, somewhat different in its character and its aims. However much Mr. Norman might feel justified60 in neglecting the duties of his care of souls, his constitutional idleness never led him to neglect the intellectual welfare of his little daughter Helen. When she reached the age of nine, Mr. Norman took her away from the school in which she had been taught to read and write, and devoted61 himself henceforth to her education, as to the main object of his life. During certain hours every day the two were alone together in the study which looked out upon the lawn, the little girl reading aloud, her father commenting upon what she read, and smoothing away all difficulties.
In pursuance of a clearly defined theory, Mr. Norman directed his efforts mainly towards the development of the emotional part of the child’s nature, paying no attention whatever to many of the “branches” esteemed63 vital in the ordinary seminaries for female youth. Above all, first and foremost in his scheme of instruction, came the reading, marking, learning, and inward digestion64 of the poets. To know the poets, those who are unquestionably great in all ages, to read them with facility in the tongue they wrote in, this was the great end of his educational scheme. For inasmuch as poetry represents the highest phase of emotional activity, in that degree does it deserve to take a foremost place among the influences which may be relied upon for the moulding of the female character into the noblest form of which earth has knowledge. Not a day was allowed to pass on which Helen did not commit to memory, and carefully repeat to her father, certain verses, which the latter always chose with judicious65 consideration of the learner’s age and disposition. But when she had attained her eleventh year, Helen had already stored up in her mind a veritable thesaurus of English poetical66 gems67, had brooded over them till they had become a part of her rich nature, till they seemed to endue68 her very form with the essence of their own rhythmic69 grace and sweetness.
For Helen Norman was a wonderfully beautiful child, and seemed to bear promise of a womanhood fertile in all perfection of female loveliness. By her eleventh year the light gold of her many curls had deepened to a rich chestnut70 hue71, the face had developed to a perfect oval, the nose had become Grecian in type and of exquisite72 delicacy73, the lips and chin were adapting themselves to an expression at once infinitely74 sweet, and indicating a character far above the more distinctly female feebleness in energy and decision. She was already tall for her age, and gave promise of a figure little less than stately; her walk was upright, her step at once light and firm, her face ever looking upwards. Her fingers, already skilled either to hold the needle, direct the pencil, or touch the keys, were models of fairy delicacy; the flowers which she loved to train in the garden were scarcely more beautiful, they seemed to revive always, instead of drooping75 beneath her touch. Already she was the directing spirit in the household, inspiring involuntary respect even in so respectable a retainer as Mrs. Cope. The poultry-yard owned her as its mistress, and to no one did the shaken orchard76 trees yield a more abundant shower of ripe autumn fruit. She had two especial pets, the one a parrot, the tale of whose years was lost in the backward abyss of time, the door of whose cage stood always open that its tenant77 might remain within or sally forth5 to pace the room as it saw fit; the other, a magnificent Angora cat, who was on very excellent terms with the parrot, and whose place was at Helen’s feet, whether she was sitting in the parlour, in the study, or in the garden. Master Augustus Whiffle, who occasionally visited at the Rectory and appeared to entertain a high esteem62 for Helen, had once brought her a lark78 of his own capture, securely fastened in a small cage, and offered it as a highly acceptable present; but Helen had cried at the sight of the poor bird’s struggles for freedom, and, instead of accepting it, had begged that it might be set loose again, which Master Augustus, immensely surprised, accordingly did. Ever since that Helen had declined to keep a caged bird. The parrot could not be regarded in that light, for if it had ever been free, it must have forgotten it, and ceased to regret freedom centuries ago; and, moreover, the joyous79 loquacity80 which it perpetually indulged in appeared to denote anything rather than painful restraint. Helen used to call this bird the Genius of the house, and it was indeed always the centre of domestic activity. There was no end of its good-natured merriment. Tom was the name of the Angora cat, and Polly learned to call its name in tones so exactly like those of its mistress that it was no unfrequent thing for puss to come running into the room in response to the call, only to be greeted by a loud “Ha, ha, ha!” from within the cage. Tom, however, bore no malice81. If he appeared sulky for a moment, he would, immediately after, approach the parrot’s cage and put his head close against the bars, whereupon Poll would gently scratch it with her beak82. After that Poll would in turn bow down her greyish-blue head close against the bars, and Tom would return the compliment by scratching it with his paw. This comedy was so frequently repeated that Helen came to observe it, and would often hide behind a curtain in the room to watch its occurrence. Sometimes she was unable to restrain her laughter to the end, and then her silvery voice would be echoed by a gruff “Ha, ha, ha!” from Polly, whilst Tom ran up to his mistress as usual, and crouched83 at her feet to be stroked.
To any child less wisely guided than Helen, and less blessed with natural gifts, this life at the Rectory would have been intolerable in its loneliness and monotony. Very rarely indeed did visitors cross the lawn, the most frequent stranger being Mr. Whiffle, with whom, as may be imagined, Helen could feel but little sympathy. Once a year, however, as a rule, the dull uniformity of the rector’s existence was broken very agreeably by a visit from his best, and, indeed, only friend. This was Gilbert Gresham, an artist by profession, and a gentleman of considerable talent, yet more pride, and very comfortable income. The two had become acquainted first at the University, and a congenial laziness of disposition, a certain feeling which they possessed84 in common, that, belonging to the aristocracy of intellect, it was beneath them to trouble greatly concerning the inferior ones of the earth, had bound them together in a firm friendship. Each of them could appreciate the excellent qualities which lay at the root of the other’s character, and perhaps none the less because they felt their mutual similarity. Like Mr. Norman, Gilbert Gresham had married early, and had now been for several years a widower85; also like his friend he had a daughter for his only child, a girl some two years older than Helen, named Maud. These children looked forward to the yearly meeting with mutual delight, which increased as they grew older. Young as they were, there were developed in both, to a rather remarkable degree, features of character which already bade fair to be the true index to their respective lives. In many respects widely different, there was yet sufficient similarity between their mental dispositions86 to ensure much sympathy for each other. Helen Norman was already an enthusiast87, her heart on fire with noble thoughts which it had been her father’s constant care to nourish in her; her mind filled with all manner of lofty images, each one magnified and made glorious by the ardent88 imagination of generous childhood. Living so remote from the every-day life of the world she had never learned to talk of things which, as a rule, engross89 the thoughts of other children; the contents of her books, the simple pleasure of her home life, the rare delights of woodland, meadow and hill, these were her main subjects for conversation, and, since she conversed90 almost exclusively with her father, her turn of thought naturally acquired a reflective and mature character much beyond her years. Of the world, in the ordinary sense of the word, she knew absolutely nothing. Mr. Norman himself received a daily newspaper, but he purposely kept it from his daughter’s sight, being unwilling91 that she should so soon darken the cheerful brightness of her fancy with an infusion92 of that saddening gloom which broods over the life of cities. Thus she was growing up almost entirely93 ignorant of the pains and the passions which convert earth’s sanctuaries94 into dreary95 realms of chaos96 and black night. True, as we have seen, she was aware of the existence of poverty and ignorance, and, pursuing the bent97 of her nature, often looked forward with an eager delight to the possibility of one day combating both. As was to be expected from her wonted surroundings, the young ideas on such subjects were patriarchal; she knew of no suffering so severe that it could not be allayed98 by earnest individual effort. Compared with the views of life held by poor Arthur, her late companion, for Helen the world had reverted99 to the golden age.
Maud Gresham being two years older than her friend, it was natural that she should entertain somewhat shrewder views of life; but her natural disposition was by no means endued100 with so large a share of enthusiasm as Helen possessed. She had been born and bred in London, moreover, and being a spoilt child in a well-to-do house had seen already a good deal of the life of the world. By nature she was quiet and observant, rapid and shrewd in her judgments101, with a tendency to epigram which might in time develop into causticity102, displaying, moreover, at all times, and under all circumstances, certain good-humoured egotism, which was, indeed, the basis of her character. Her education was being cared for at a London ladies’ school of irreproachable103 standing104, with results, however, far from as thorough as those which marked Mr. Norman’s instruction. Possibly Maud was not so quick to learn, but at the age of thirteen she fell considerably short of Helen at eleven in the foundations of culture. But what she lacked in depth she made up for in externals. About the same height as Helen — who was tall for her age — she possessed all that grace of manner which is the result of a dancing-master’s care, and which was so different from the purely105 natural grace of the younger child. Whilst Helen’s conversation was delicate and thoughtful, and refused to flow save on such subjects as held possession of her heart, Maud had the easy and spontaneous manner of a town-bred young lady, chattering106 gaily107 on all subjects whatsoever108, and, though never affected109, seldom very deep. Her face was pretty, rather than beautiful, but the assistance of her maid enabled her to make an appearance which was decidedly prepossessing, and gave promise of considerable charms in future years — charms of a nature, however, which it would have been quite impossible ever to imagine Helen Norman in possession of. The two made a delicious picture, as, with arms twined around each other’s waists, they wandered on the lawn or through the orchard in the bright summer weather, Helen wearing a dress of pure white muslin, only ornamented110 with a pale pink sash, Maud displaying a rather more elaborate toilet, her face shadowed with a large straw-hat which set off her charms admirably. Little wonder that Mr. Norman and Gilbert Gresham often sat long in silence behind the white curtains of the breakfast-room, gazing in delight at the unconscious children.
The difference between the character of the two children was very well illustrated111 on a certain occasion during the present visit, an incident which deserves narration112 on account of the unmistakable influence it was to exercise on the future growth of Helen’s mind. The two had strolled together one remarkably113 fine morning rather beyond their usual limits, and quite alone. To the north of Bloomford, on the crest114 of the gentle hill whereon the Rectory stood, a large wood commenced, and spread for several miles, abounding115 in game and strictly116 closed against all trespassers. The owner of the land, an easy-tempered country gentleman who attended Bloomford parish church as regularly as his gout would permit him, made exceptions to this rigorous rule in the case of several of his friends, Mr. Norman among the number; and consequently, as often as her walks took her in that direction, Helen had no scruple117 in entering the wood and seeking her favourite flowers amidst the tangled118 copse-wood and short stretches of open lawn which alternated for miles around. Hither she had led Maud Gresham on the morning in question, and for nearly an hour they had wandered in the cool shadow of the trees, till a fallen trunk, overgrown with lichens119 and moss120, and half-buried in years’ deposit of dead leaves, offered them a tempting121 seat. Helen never went for a walk without taking some book as a companion, which she could either open or not as the humour took her, and now when they were seated side by side she opened on her knees a volume of Leigh Hunt’s “Stories from the Italian Poets,” a book which possessed a wonderful charm for the child’s romantic fancy, and, opening at the chapter on Boiardo, she began to read of the loves of Orlando, whilst the melodies of a thousand birds and the continuous rustling122 of the branches overhead made a fitting accompaniment to the sweet fancies of the story.
“I shall ask papa to buy me that book,” said Maud, when Helen paused and asked for her opinion on what she had been reading.
“I’m so glad you like it!” replied the other, with enthusiasm. “I have read it again and again, and should never get tired of it.”
“When I grow up,” said Maud, “and when I’ve got rid of all the stupid lessons and stupid teachers, I mean to do nothing but read nice books. I shall have a room of my own, and I shan’t allow any one to disturb me from morning to night. Won’t it be delicious?”
“I hope to read a great many books when I grow up,” replied Helen, after a moment’s thought, “but I shouldn’t like to do nothing but read. Wouldn’t that be a rather selfish life, Maud?”
“What is the good of having money,” retorted the elder maiden123, with true womanly inconsequence, “if you’re not to make yourself comfortable with it, and do as you like?”
“But that wouldn’t be what I should like,” urged Helen, with native directness.
“Then what would you like?” asked the other, a little pettishly124.
“Father always says,” replied Helen, “that we must think of duties before pleasures. A woman has a great many duties. I am going to keep a school when I grow up, and then I shall have to attend to my pupils all day.”
“Keep a school!” echoed Maud, with comical horror. “Do you mean you’ll marry a schoolmaster! Oh, the horrid125 things!”
“No, I don’t mean that,” said Helen, decisively. “I mean never to be married. I shall have a school of my own, and the pupils shall be all poor children, who can’t afford to pay much, you see. And if they’re good, I shall often give them money to take home to buy everything they want. Oh, how I hope I shall be rich some day, to have a lot of money to give away!”
Maud broke into a long laugh.
“I shall be rich,” she replied, with something of pride in her tone, “but I’m sure I shan’t give my money away. Those nasty poor people! I can’t bear to see them in the streets, they look so horrid. I’m sure I think one ought to look after oneself before anybody else. There’s the Workhouse for poor people to. go to.”
They had risen and were walking away. Suddenly Maud, who was a little in advance, on forcing her way through some bushes uttered a little scream and started back. Helen ran forward, and perceived the cause of her companion’s fright. In a hollow on the other side of the hazel they were passing lay a man, fast asleep. He was dressed in the most miserable126 rags, which were clotted127 all over with the dirt of the roads, seeming to indicate that he had been tramping the country for a long time. His face was hideous128 in its hairy and cadaverous squalor, and one arm, which appeared bare through the torn sleeve of his coat, was wasted almost to the bone. As Helen’s eyes fell upon this object her breath stopped short, and for a moment she was deadly pale.
“Oh, look, look, Maud,” she whispered, clinging to the other’s arm. I’m sure this man is suffering and in want. Oh, how I wish I had some money with me!”
“Come away!” replied Maud. “I don’t like his look at all. He might hurt us if he woke.”
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t, Maud, dear! I wish it wasn’t so far home; I would run and fetch something to give him.”
“Come away!” repeated Maud, in a frightened whisper. “I have often heard tales of these men doing people harm. He looks like a gipsy!”
The children exchanged a frightened look, but little Helen seemed to gain courage whilst her companion grew more timid.
“Have you a penny in your pocket, Maud, dear?” she asked. “Please let me have it. I will give it you back when we get home.”
“No, no! How silly you are, Helen! I shall go, whether you do or not!”
But Helen persisted, and at last succeeded in inducing Maud to take out an elegant little purse, and open it to see if it contained the desired coin. Just at this moment the man opened his eyes and started to his feet. Maud darted129 away in terror, dropping her purse at Helen’s feet. Helen’s face was very pale, but she showed no signs of running away. She and the tramp stood looking at each other in silence.
“Could yer tell me the time, miss?” asked the tramp at length, passing his hand over his mouth and grinning, whilst he eyed the purse which Helen had picked up. “I doubt I’ve overslep’ myself.”
“I don’t know the exact time,” replied the child, “but I think it is nearly one o’clock. I — I am so sorry I disturbed you.”
“Don’t matter, miss, as I knows on. I’ve got maybe a twenty mile to walk afore night.”
“That’s a long way,” said Helen. “Will — will you take this to buy something to eat with?”
And she handed him a sixpenny-piece out of the purse, the smallest coin it contained.
“Thankee, miss,” replied the fellow, looking cautiously round. “You won’t be alone ’ere i’ this wood, I should think; eh, miss?”
“No; there is another little girl with me; but — but she has walked on.”
“I wonder at yer comin’ into the wood alone; it’s lonely like. An’ couldn’t yer spare me a little more, miss, out 0’ that there purse? I ain’t eaten nothin’ for four days, s’elp me God!”
“I — I really would if it was my own,” replied Helen, looking about to see where Maud was; “but it isn’t.”
Whilst she spoke130 the tramp had also carefully reviewed the ground, had bent quickly forward, and, before Helen knew what had happened, had snatched the purse from her and escaped into the thicket131. For a moment she stood looking after him in mute astonishment; then, as Maud came running to her from a short distance, where she had watched the whole episode, burst into tears.
“There now!” exclaimed Maud. “I told you so, didn’t I? I was sure he was a bad man. I could tell from his face.”
“And I have lost your purse, Maud, dear!” sobbed132 little Helen. “You will never forgive me!”
“Of course I will, you silly child!” exclaimed the other, who was not averse133 from an occasional show of magnanimity. “I have only to ask papa, and he will buy me another as soon as we get back to London. Don’t cry so, Helen. That won’t bring the purse back.”
“But how cruel of him!” sobbed the injured little girl. “How ungrateful! When I offered him as much as I could afford! I couldn’t have believed any one would have been so ungrateful!”
All the rest of the walk home she was very sad, and indeed all the rest of the day. When the story was told to Mr. Norman and his friend they laughed, and told the children to be more careful where they wandered to, and so dismissed the affair. But little Helen was far from forgetting it so easily. Long years after the occurrence was still fresh in her memory, and who can gauge134 the exact weight of its influence on her future life?
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counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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testimony
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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forth
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abode
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ignoble
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disconsolate
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instil
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doctrines
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withdrawn
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mutual
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eloquent
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upwards
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theatrical
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imp
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eloquence
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chagrin
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countenance
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precepts
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rudiments
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eldest
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bestowed
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astonishment
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inmates
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heartily
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entrusted
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distinguished
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chastisement
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lanky
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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32
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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33
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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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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35
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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36
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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37
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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38
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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39
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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40
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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41
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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42
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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43
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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44
slate
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| 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 | |
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45
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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46
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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47
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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48
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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49
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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50
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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51
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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52
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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53
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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54
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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55
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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56
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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57
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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58
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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59
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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60
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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61
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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62
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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63
esteemed
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| 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 | |
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64
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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65
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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66
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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67
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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68
endue
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| v.赋予 | |
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69
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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70
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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71
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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72
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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73
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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75
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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76
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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77
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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78
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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79
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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80
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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81
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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82
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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83
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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85
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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86
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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87
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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88
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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89
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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90
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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91
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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92
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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95
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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96
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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97
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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98
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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100
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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102
causticity
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| n.尖刻，苛性度，刻薄 | |
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103
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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104
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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105
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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106
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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107
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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108
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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109
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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110
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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112
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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113
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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114
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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115
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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116
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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117
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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118
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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120
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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121
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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122
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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123
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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124
pettishly
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125
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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126
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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127
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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129
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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130
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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131
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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132
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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133
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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134
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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