Mr. Gilbert Gresham was a man of some thirty-six years of age, of tall and well-proportioned figure, and blessed with features, to adopt the easily-comprehended phrase, of an aristocratic cast. There was something in his tone and manner a trifle too supercilious2 to be altogether agreeable to one who did not know him intimately, but from time to time, as he grew warm in conversation, he would cast aside this manner and allow the indications of a warm heart and acute brain to make themselves pleasantly conspicuous3. In his talk he mostly affected4 extremely aristocratic sentiments, the cause of this doubtless lying in an exquisitely5 refined taste which could not tolerate anything savouring of coarseness. And yet the listener could not help suspecting that these sentiments were only affected, an impression aided by the somewhat theatrical6 air and gesture with which he was fond of delivering them. It was this that led Mr. Norman to smile as he listened to the above utterances7 with regard to Arthur’s father.
“I don’t know that it matters much where such a man meets his end,” he replied, with a slight sadness in his voice. “He has been equally a sinner against the great law of the fitness of things, and has equally broken loose from the bonds of that duty which should bind8 us all, and which, I fear, in reality binds9 so few.”
“Why, my dear fellow,” interposed Mr. Gresham, “what is duty, after all? If it be not the impulse to reconcile gratification of our most ardent10 longings11, whatsoever12 they may be, with at all events a tolerable measure of respect for our fellow-creatures, I confess I scarcely know what to understand by it.”
“I can tell you what duty is not, Gresham,” returned Mr. Norman, earnestly. “It is not to continue year after year the paid servant of masters whom you despise or detest13, masking with a hypocritical countenance14 your disgust for the offices which you only half perform.”
Mr. Gresham looked sharply at the speaker, and there was silence for a moment.
“You take this matter too much to heart, Norman,” he said, at length. “Do you think you are the only clergyman in the Established Church who goes through the prescribed routine with only half a heart? What paragraph of the rubric have you violated? I maintain that you fulfil your duties to the letter.”
“To the letter, perhaps; but by no means in the spirit. Do you know what I ought to do, Gilbert Gresham, if I would earn the privilege of considering myself an honest man? I should walk down to the church next Sunday morning, mount the pulpit as I am, devoid15 of ecclesiastical mummery, and proclaim aloud to the congregation: ‘Behold! Here am I, Edward Norman, who have been your pastor16 for so-and-so many years, preaching the Gospel to you day after day without in reality believing a word of what I preached! Now I come to show myself in my true colours. Find some one else who will preach to you with more conscientious17 earnestness — if you can. For my part, I have done with preaching for ever!’ That is what I should say, and what prevents me from doing it?”
“A most prudent18 distaste for the interior of lunatic asylums19, my dear Norman,” replied the other, smiling.
“Say rather,” returned Mr. Norman, bitterly, “a most clinging taste for the income of my benefice.”
“I tell you, Norman, you altogether deceive yourself. Do you imagine that you would deserve any credit for adopting the insane line of conduct you have just depicted20 so graphically22? Why, you would merit the laughter of the universe! You forget that you live in the England of the nineteenth century, when ‘only not all men lie.’ I tell you, the world is not worthy23 of such self-sacrifice. Morality, remember, is but comparative; and the most moral man in an age like ours is, I repeat it, he who best reconciles enjoyment24 of life with external decency25.”
“I wish I could persuade you to think seriously of this question, Gresham; but you are always full of satire26, even though it be at a friend’s expense. Why, even, according to your dictum, I am a most immoral27 man, for my life affords me anything but the maximum of enjoyment. I grow more miserable28 every week. Now look at Whiffle, the curate. What would I give to have that man’s energy and interest in his work!”
“Whiffle!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham, with a burst of laughter; “that sophisticated ass29 with an ecclesiastical bray30! Why, do you for a moment imagine that he is any more convinced of the dogmas of his Church than you are yourself?”
“I don’t know,” replied the other, with a sigh. “At all events, he has the appearance of being whole-hearted in his work.”
“Now I tell you what the matter is, Norman,” said Mr. Gresham, more seriously. “You are very far from well in bodily health. You want a thorough change. What do the doctors say?”
“They allow me some four or five years of life yet,” returned Mr. Norman, with a melancholy31 smile.
“Under the present circumstances, yes. But you are fretting32 yourself away, my good fellow. I tell you, you must have a change.
“It is too late, Gresham, to hope for any considerable prolongation of my life. I am perfectly33 well aware that the old ladies are already beginning to finger the shears34 with an eye to my especial thread, and only one thing in the prospect35 troubles me. What will poor Helen do?”
“Do you think, Norman,” replied Gilbert Gresham, with a touch of nature in his tone, “that my theories extend to my conduct when a friend’s wishes or a friend’s interests are concerned? You know I make no great account of the majority of the tasks I imposed upon myself when I became godfather to your child, and I believe a somewhat modest computation would suffice to calculate the quantity of Catechism I have exerted myself to teach her; but as long as I remain in the land of the living, don’t distress36 yourself with regard to Helen’s future.”
Mr. Norman pressed his friend’s hand with a satisfied smile, and the sound of the dinner-bell very shortly terminated their conversation.
On the following day the visitors were to depart, and the consciousness of this made the dinner somewhat less lively than usual. But the dessert was destined37 to be relieved from the unusual silence, for as Mr. Whiffle happened to call whilst it was being placed upon the table, he was immediately invited to join the company, which he did without hesitation38.
It soon appeared that the cause of the curate’s arrival was a weighty one. He stated it thus, directing his conversation to Mr. Gresham, as to one who would be more likely to be impressed with its novelty than his usual auditor39, the Rector.
“You see, sir, my mind is at present perplexed40 on what I may venture to call, perhaps, a not unimportant question of ecclesiastical discipline. To state the matter in a few words, the proposition has been made by the congregation’s churchwarden that we should, in future, employ for the purpose of the offertory small bags — if I may so express myself — in preference to the open plates which have hitherto received that portion of treasure which the congregation desire to lay up out of the reach of moth41, rust42, and — ahem! — thieves. You will at once observe, Mr. Gresham, that the proposition involves momentous43 issues. As you are, doubtless, well aware, the passage in the rubric having reference to the points at issue runs thus: ‘Whilst these sentences are in reading, the deacons, churchwardens, or other fit person appointed for that purpose shall receive the alms for the poor, and other devotions of the people in a decent basin, to be provided by the parish for that purpose,’ and so on. We have here, you observe, explicit44 mention of a basin, which, if I may trust my technical knowledge, always conveys the idea of a vessel45 hollow on the inside to the depth of not less than, let us say, one inch and a half. Should the depth be less than this, the vessel, in my humble46 opinion, Mr. Gresham, falls more properly in the class of those domestic utensils47 which we are wont48 to designate as plates. Now, as it happens, it is a plate which has hitherto been used in the Church for the offertorial purposes, and, if I mistake not, the church of St. Peter, Bloomford, is not by any means singular in this country in the use of such a vessel. Hence, Mr. Gresham, we arrive at the logical conclusion that, although the Rubric expressly stipulates49 the use of a basin, it has become customary in the Church of England to substitute a plate therefore — doubtless owing to considerations of conveniency into which it is at present scarcely necessary to enter.”
Mr. Whiffle delivered the last remark in a half apologetic, half interrogatory tone, shuffling50 on his seat as he arrived at the period, thrusting his fingers repeatedly through his thick masses of red hair, and looking first at Mr. Gresham, then at his rector, then at the children, with an air of undisguised satisfaction. Never was the curate so thoroughly51 at home as when suffered to enter at length upon the discussion of a question such as the present.
“Certainly unnecessary, Mr. Whiffle,” said the rector, suppressing a smile. “Mr. Gresham follows you with attention.”
“And with pleasure, allow me to add,” put in the artist. “Your exposition, sir, is lucid52 in the extreme, as becomes the importance of the matter.”
Mr. Whiffle bowed, and continued with a gratified smile —
“Having arrived at this conclusion — viz., that the strict prescription53 of the rubric has already submitted to modification54 in obedience55 to the dictates56 of conveniency, we have, as you will recognise, Mr. Gresham, established a precedent57 — a precedent, sir.” The curate dwelt on the word with satisfaction. “So far then, sir, there is nothing whatever objectionable in the proposition that Mr. Vokins, the churchwarden, has felt called upon to make; that I must in fairness admit. But when we examine the motives58 which Vokins urges as in favour of the substitution of — so to speak — a bag or wallet, in the place of the present plate, it appears to me that we trench59 upon very debatable ground. Mr. Vokins — ahem! — makes the statement, Mr. Gresham, that many members of the congregation who would be glad to contribute their mite60 on the occasion of collections are restrained from doing so by the fear of public opinion; in other words, they prefer not to give at all to depositing on an open plate, in the full view of their neighbours, for the time being, a coin which, by its diminutive61 value, would seem to lay an imputation62 either upon their liberality, or, what is still worse, upon the condition of their finances. Now, gentlemen, this is a frame of mind singularly human, it must be confessed, and one which, though raised above those ordinary frailties63 of the flesh by our position as servants in that glorious Temple which we denominate the Church of England as by law established, it behoves us to take into consideration. I, individually, still hold my judgment64 in suspense65, though I confess to having spent considerable thought on the subject. On the one hand we must weigh whether it is consistent with the dignity of The Church to make concessions67 to human weaknesses, such as those so acutely observed by Mr. Vokins; on the other, I opine that we ought to consider whether such concession66 may not appear justified68 by the, doubtless, not inconsiderable accession of voluntary offering which would accrue69 to St. Peter’s in the event of bags — so to speak — being substituted for plates. Might I venture to ask your opinion, Mr. Gresham, as that of a disinterested70 observer?”
“You do me too much honour, Mr. Whiffle,” responded the artist, in a tone of fine sarcasm71, wholly unrecognisable as such by the vanity of the curate. “There is, doubtless, much to be said on both sides; but, if I may express an opinion, I think it just possible that history, if well searched, might afford a precedent — a precedent, sir — for the dignity of the Church giving way before such very important considerations as those which we, in worldly phrase, denominate pecuniary72.”
“I think you are right, sir!” exclaimed the curate. “Allow me to compliment you on your delicate penetration73 in so nice a matter. And, possibly, since you have so expressed yourself, I may venture to declare that I rather incline to Mr. Vokins’s opinion in this matter. We are well aware, Mr. Gresham, that twelve of those humble coins called halfpence amount to the value of a silver sixpenny-piece; as also that twelve of the but slightly more dignified74 pennies represent the value of a silver shilling; and I have yet to learn, gentlemen, that the current value of a fixed75 sum of money diminishes with the denomination76 of the fact in which it is expressed. Mr. Gresham will forgive the figure in the lips of one who once boasted himself something of a mathematician77.”
The conversation continued in the same strain for some half hour longer, Mr. Whiffle taking upon himself the main burden of it. At the end of that time Mr. Norman rose from the table and dismissed the subject with the remark that he would give it his consideration, upon which assurance Mr. Whiffle retired78, excellently well pleased at having had such a remarkable79 opportunity of displaying his ingenuity80 and eloquence81.
The church of St. Peter’s, Bloomford, was conducted on Low Church Evangelical principles. The interior was very plain, and the service was totally without those adulterated reminiscences of Romanism with which most of the churches in that part of the country were then seeking to enliven the zeal82 of not too ardent congregations. This had been the state of affairs throughout the period of Mr. Norman’s incumbency83, in the early years owing to his convictions, later on account of habit and carelessness rather than anything else. But it was a state of affairs by no means agreeable to Mr. Whiffle, who had for a long time been doing his very best to breathe something of the spirit of Ritualism into the rector’s Gallio-like disposition84. His efforts had, naturally, been unsuccessful, greatly to the curate’s chagrin85. Had Mr. Whiffle had his will, St. Peter’s would have been immediately converted into a model of advanced High Churchism. Thus it was that every subject of discourse86 connected with the service of the church was seized upon by him with eagerness, if only for the sake of averting87 stagnation88.
In the meantime he consoled himself with the imagination of what he would do when the presentation, to which he never ceased to look forward, should ultimately realise itself.
And, indeed, it was just now nearer than Mr. Whiffle’s most ardent hopes could have conceived. Mr. Norman, whose consumption, though working but slowly upon his frame, was none the less surely wasting him away, would long ago have resigned his living and gone to live in a more suitable climate, had it not been that the income of his rectory was quite indispensable to enable him to live in accordance with his usual habits. During the last half a dozen years he had twice spent several months of the winter at Mentone, each time to the manifest improvement of his health, and a not inconsiderable lengthening89 of his life might reasonably be hoped for were he able to establish himself permanently90 in that grateful climate. He would also have desired to live for some time on the Continent on Helen’s account, for he was, of course, unable himself to give her the thorough instruction in the modern languages which he had set his heart upon her having. Reflection on these matters had often made him unusually melancholy of late, and a decided91 advance of his malady92 also made itself apparent.
He had almost resolved once more to obtain leave of absence for a few months, and this time in company with Helen, to revisit Mentone, when he received one morning, early in November, a letter bearing the seal of a firm of London solicitors93. Upon reading it he became so nervously94 agitated95 as to bring on a severe fit of coughing, followed by spitting of blood. For the rest of the day he was quite incapable96 of maintaining any calmness, but paced his garden for several hours with the letter in his hand, constantly referring to it; and, on entering the house, walked in uncertainty97 between his study and the parlour, totally neglecting all food, and even Helen’s lessons. Early on the following morning he came down, after a sleepless98 night, dressed for a journey, partook of a very slight breakfast, and walked to the railway station, where he took one of the first trains to London, having merely left a message behind for Helen, saying where he was gone. On arriving in town he went straight to the abode99 of his friend Gresham, in the neighbourhood of Regent’s Park, but was so unfortunate as to find Mr. Gresham and his daughter from home. Thereupon he drove to his usual hotel in Oxford100 Street, and was very much engaged during three days, principally within the precincts of Gray’s Inn. At the end of that time he returned to Bloomford. The excitement of his business had been so very unusual that it operated most unfavourably on his delicate state of health, and for several days he was confined to his room. On the last of those days he wrote the following letter —
“Bloomford Rectory, “November 13th, 1863.
“My dear Gilbert, “I dare say you will have learnt by this time that I made a very unexpected descent upon your dwelling101 some ten days ago, and found it vacant. Since my return to Bloomford, I have suffered from some confounded nervous complaint or other, which has rendered me incapable of penning you a line. But I must no longer delay letting you hear a piece of news which I doubt not will rejoice you.
“The occasion of my going to town was no other than this. I received a letter from Messrs. Connor and Tweed, of Gray’s Inn Square, acquainting me with the fact that my brother William had recently died in San Francisco, intestate, that he had left behind him possessions to the amount of some ￡50,000, and that in default of a nearer heir, the whole of this fell to me! I think I have often told you of William’s peculiarities102. Nothing at all like a disagreement ever took place between him and myself, but as he went out to California some ten years ago, and has ever since been a desperately103 bad correspondent, we may be said to have become almost total strangers. I had no notion that he had become so wealthy, but as I fully104 believe that, had he made a will, he would have left, at all events, the bulk of his wealth to me, I have no hesitation whatever in availing myself of my legal rights in the matter.
“I need scarcely say how welcome such a windfall as this is. During the last few days I have reflected much on my future course, and, subject to any little modifications105 my friends and advisers106 may suggest, I think it will be pretty much as follows. As I am about as unfitted as it is possible for a man to be for my position in the Church, I shall as soon as possible resign my living, and bid adieu for ever to creeds107 and catechisms! Congratulate me on this, my dear Gilbert. Then, as I feel that my days are numbered, and, for the sake of Helen, I should like to remain still as long as possible in the land of the living — which I have found on the whole remarkably108 agreeable — I shall forthwith transplant myself to some more congenial climate, say to Mentone, or some such place, and there seek to enjoy the remainder of my life in that quiet manner of which, I flatter myself, I have so well learnt the secret. In doing this I contemplate109 no waste of time. Helen will of course go with me; I should like her to have a Continental110 education.
“And now, my dear Gilbert, let me see you as soon as possible. Come down on Monday, if you can, and bring Maud with you. It may be some time before she and Helen have another opportunity of seeing each other. I must not write any more, as I feel my head-ache approaching. Farewell for the present.
“Yours, ever affectionately, “Edward Norman.”
Mr. Gresham obeyed the call, and the following Monday saw him and his daughter once more at Bloomford. They only remained two days, during which long conversations took place between them, and many matters of importance were decided. First of all it was determined111 that Mr. Norman should, as soon as it was practicable, resign his living and quit Bloomford; that thereupon he should take up his abode with Mr. Gresham in London till all necessary arrangements for his leaving England could be completed; and that as early in the following year as possible he should remove with Helen to Mentone.
Never, it seemed to Mr. Norman, had he known what real happiness was till now, never had he yearned112 more eagerly for any day than for that which would fairly set him loose from the bonds of his clerical position, for years intolerably galling113. The condition which had been the dream of his life, he had at length lived to realise; he found himself henceforth at liberty to enjoy the remainder of his days in that absolute freedom from official restraint which was naturally the ideal of his epicurean nature. Henceforth he had but one serious care, the education of his daughter Helen, and that indeed was so completely a task dictated114 by ardent affection and the loftiest emotions of which he was capable, that it was anything but a drawback upon his freedom. This duty, however, excepted, his days were his own. No longer need he rise with a sigh from his beloved poets, to turn in disgust to the compilation115 of an insipid116 sermon; no longer would the calm peace of his Sundays be broken by the necessity of presiding at ceremonies which he loathed117 in every detail. Above all he would no longer be oppressed by that hideous118 nightmare of hypocrisy119, so inimical to his instincts, but which he had been compelled by weakness and the force of circumstances so long to hug to his bosom120. What mornings would now be his in the glowing atmosphere of southern lands, what ambrosial121 nights would it be his happy lot to enjoy, watching the full moon scatter122 silvery beams on the smooth surface of a tideless sea! Oh, ye gods, was not the cup of bliss123 too full? What if he were slowly but surely sinking to the grave beneath a remorseless disease; at least he would derive124 the maximum of enjoyment from those suns which would rise upon him, and what more could he wish? Man is mortal, and sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
By Christmas, Mr. Norman had already resigned his living, and had left Bloomford. For several weeks speculation125 was rife126 in the village with regard to his successor, and many were the prayers breathed up that he might be a young unmarried man. Whether agreeable or not, mattered little; for Bloomford was a rich living. Mr. Whiffle was elated with all manner of hopes, it being principally in votis that the new incumbent127 might be a man of strong High Church sympathies. And so indeed he ultimately proved to be. For Mr. Norman, who cherished some degree of good feeling towards his old curate, and was perhaps infected with that fever of generosity128 which often possesses sudden heirs to a fortune, exerted his influence with the patron of the living, and without much difficulty secured the presentation of it to Mr. Whiffle himself.
I shall not attempt in this place to describe the state of mind into which the quondam curate was thrown by the communication of this piece of intelligence. For the present it may safely be left for the reader’s imagination to depict21. It is not unlikely we may have other opportunities of observing Mr. Whiffle with his honours fresh upon him.
In the meantime Mr. Norman and Helen were residing at Mr. Gresham’s, in Portland Place. The little girl had never before been in London, and now went the round of the sights, accompanied sometimes by her father, sometimes by Maud and Miss Wilson, Maud’s governess. She enjoyed it all in a quiet, self-contained manner, very rarely breaking into childish delight; a circumstance which somewhat surprised her father, who knew so well her ardent temperament129. The fact was she was rather oppressed by the multitude of novel scenes, and by the strange sensation of living amidst so much life. It was only in the calm intimacy130 of the home circle that Helen could open her heart and speak freely all her impressions; a natural shyness kept her reserved in the presence of strangers. Only once did the stately little maiden131 allow herself to be betrayed into strong delight, and that was on the occasion of a visit to Westminster Abbey together with her father and Maud. At the sight of the tombs bearing names which she knew so well, and which, young as she was, she had already learned to love, she almost cried aloud with rapture132, and when she issued from the solemn gloom of the Abbey into the open air, Mr. Norman noticed, not without pride, that. her eyes were dim with moisture.
Mr. Gresham’s house was for ever full of gay company, but of this neither Helen nor her father saw much. The daily lessons were continued as usual, and Miss Wilson’s skill was called into requisition to continue the musical instruction which had hitherto been superintended by the organist of St. Peter’s church, a young man of only moderate abilities. And so the time passed till the commencement of February, when at length all Mr. Norman’s preparations were complete, and the day was appointed on which he would leave England. Mr. Gresham and Maud accompanied the two as far as the boat which was to take them across the Channel, and here bade them farewell.
A week after, Maud Gresham received the following letter —
“Mentone, “Feb. 8th, 1864.
“My dear Maud, “I promised to write to you as soon as possible, and let you know that we got here safely. The passage was a little rough, and I was a little ill, but it soon passed away when we reached land. I like Mentone very much, dear Maud; but I should like it better if you were with me. Papa says he is much better already. I am so glad, for you know how much I love dear papa. I enjoyed myself very much at your house, and I shall never forget the beautiful sights of London, and above all that dear Westminster Abbey. Try to remember me and write when you have time. I will write again soon and let you know everything that I do. Papa has got me a teacher for French and German. I like her very much, but she has a queer name which I cannot pronounce. I am very happy, and I hope you are. Good-bye.
“From your loving Friend, “Helen Norman.”
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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whatsoever
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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pastor
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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graphically
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worthy
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enjoyment
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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satire
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immoral
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miserable
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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melancholy
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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34
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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35
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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36
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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37
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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38
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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39
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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40
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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41
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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42
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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43
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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44
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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45
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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46
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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47
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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48
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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49
stipulates
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| n.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的名词复数 )；规定，明确要求v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的第三人称单数 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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50
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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51
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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52
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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53
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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54
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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55
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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56
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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57
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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58
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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59
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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60
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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61
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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62
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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63
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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64
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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65
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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66
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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67
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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68
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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69
accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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70
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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71
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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72
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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73
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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74
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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75
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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76
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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77
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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78
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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79
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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80
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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81
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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82
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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83
incumbency
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| n.职责，义务 | |
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84
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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85
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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86
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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87
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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88
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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89
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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90
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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91
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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92
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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93
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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94
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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95
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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96
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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97
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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98
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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99
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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100
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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101
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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102
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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103
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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104
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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105
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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106
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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107
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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108
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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109
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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110
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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111
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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112
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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114
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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115
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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116
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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117
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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118
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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119
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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120
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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121
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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122
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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123
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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124
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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125
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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126
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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127
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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128
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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129
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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130
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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131
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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132
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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