Maud had risen, in accordance with her usual habits, at the reasonable hour of eleven, and towards noon was lying on an extremely comfortable couch, close to a cheerful fire, with a tempting1 breakfast arranged upon a low table within easy reach of her hand. Now and then she ate a mouthful of toast or sipped2 her coffee, then she would seem to forget everything in a fit of deep reverie; another moment she would take up the book which lay open upon the chair beside her and read a page or so with apparent interest. The book was “Madame Bovary,” and to all appearances, Maud was reading it for the first time; at all events she was only about the middle of it. Time was of little consequence to Mrs. Waghorn, and the announcement of the hour of twelve by a little silver-voiced clock upon the mantel-piece did not even cause her to raise her head.
Another sound, however, making itself heard upon the stairs a few minutes after, seemed to have more effect upon her. It was a quick, heavy step, which she knew perfectly3 well and which appeared somewhat to surprise her. The step was unmistakably approaching her door. She had scarcely time to resume her attitude of careless ease before her door was thrown violently open, and Mr. John Waghorn made his appearance. She did not raise her head as he entered, and only a slight fluttering of the pages of her book indicated that his entrance made any impression upon her.
“What the devil does that mean?” he cried, advancing close to her and holding a piece of paper so as almost to touch her face.
“Thank you,” she replied, calmly; “but I am not at all shortsighted. If you will have the kindness to let me hold it at a proper distance I may be able to answer your question.”
He threw it upon her lap, and stood regarding her with a fierce, malevolent4 scowl5. Mr. John Waghorn’s personal appearance had not improved with time. Though still eminently6 respectable, when not seen at the domestic hearth8, it was assuming something of haggardness, which the kindly9 disposed would impute10 to business cares, the more knowing and the less friendly to troubles of a somewhat different nature. At all events, the woman who could with impunity11 be made the subject of a regard such as the present one was scarcely to be envied.
Maud placed the piece of paper on the open pages of “Madame Bovary” and contemplated12 it for a moment. Then she replied, with much calmness, and without raising her eyes —
“It strongly resembles a milliner’s bill. It is a somewhat strange time though for bills to be sent.”
“It was sent because I wrote for it,” replied Mr. Waghorn. “But what the devil does it mean, I ask you? ￡110 odd, since Christmas. How do you explain it?”
“By the simple fact that it is customary for ladies to wear dresses,” she replied, sarcastically13, “and that I do not pretend to sufficient moral courage to make an appearance in public without one.”
“Damn your fine airs!” cried the gentleman, seizing the bill rudely from her hands. “Answer plainly. Is this a correct account, or isn’t it?”
“I see no reason to doubt its correctness!” replied Maud. “I really cannot be expected to remember every article which is sent to me, together with its price.”
“Very well!” he exclaimed, folding up the bill and thrusting it into his waist-coat pocket. “Then I shan’t pay it, that’s all!”
“Indeed?” she asked.
“No, I shan’t!” he repeated. “They may take an action, if they like; most likely they will. But they can’t get money out of empty pockets, that’s one satisfaction. What’s more, I shall send a notice to all your tradespeople that they’re not to supply you in future, and, if that’s not enough, I’m hanged if I don’t advertise you in the papers. See if I don’t!”
“You are of course at liberty to behave with just as much rudeness and brutality14 as accords with your nature,” remarked Maud, taking up her book as if to resume her reading.
Mr. Waghorn stood with his hands thrust into his trouser-pockets, biting his lower lip. Perhaps it was his position which suggested Maud’s next remark.
“You made some allusion15 to empty pockets,” she said. “Did you mean anything by it, or was it one of those pieces of gentle irony16 in which you are wont17 to find pleasure?”
Mr. Waghorn turned slightly away, but almost immediately faced round again.
“You will know sooner or later,” he said, kicking over a handsome little buffet18 which stood before the couch, “so I may as well tell you plainly at once. If I said empty pockets, I meant it. You needn’t be surprised any morning if you have to leave this house. I shall have to sell it, and the sooner the better.”
“Or, in plain words,” suggested Maud, laying down her book, and, for the first time, looking her husband in the face, “you are about to become a bankrupt?”
“It isn’t unlikely. It’s well I have your money to fall back upon, or things might go devilish hard with us.”
As he ceased speaking he began to whistle to himself, and walked to the window. Maud’s eyes followed him with an expression half of surprise, half of gratified hatred19.
“I didn’t quite understand your last remark,” she said, after a moment’s silence.
“I said,” he replied, turning only half towards her, and still pretending to look at something down in the street, “that if I hadn’t your money to fall back upon, things might go devilish hard.”
“My money?”
“Yes, your money,” he repeated, with irritation20. “I suppose it isn’t all spent, is it?”
“If you mean what was settled upon me at my marriage, I am happy to be able to inform you that neither principal nor interest has been touched. As to your having it to fall back upon, I am at a loss to understand the expression.”
She rose as she spoke21, and stood in front of the fire, drawing a light shawl about her shoulders. Over the mantel-piece was a large mirror, in which she regarded herself. The mirror reflected a peculiar22 smile.
“It isn’t hard to understand plain English,” exclaimed her husband, suddenly facing her. “If my money’s all done I suppose we must make yours go as far as it will, mustn’t we?”
“Mr. Waghorn,” was the calm reply, “we had better understand each other at once. The money which is mine, I mean to keep to myself. If necessary I must live on it; but I should wish immediately to relieve your mind from any expectation of sharing it with me. Perhaps you will understand me better if I say that I would not draw a cheque for one guinea to save your life tomorrow.”
She gave expression to this amiable23 sentiment with a quiet clearness of tone and a firmness of countenance24 which showed very plainly she meant what she said. For a moment Mr. Waghorn regarded her with lowering eyebrows25, evidently at a loss how to reply to this declaration of opinion.
“In other words,” he remarked at length, in a lower voice than ordinary, “if you find the ship sinking you’ll just do your best to get clear of it.”
“Precisely,” replied Maud.
At this reply, extinguishing the last ray of hope which had served to sustain the impudent26 courage of his base nature, Waghorn suddenly gave reins27 to the passion which was boiling within him. His eyes flashed and his face became red with anger.
“I dare you to say so!” he cried. “By God! I dare you to say so! Who is it that has done most to ruin me, if not yourself, with bills like this? And now you think to get out of all the consequences and run away to live on your own money. But you shan’t do so, don’t think so. Do you know who it is you are trying to bully28? Damn you, you she-devil! Who’s master here, you or I?”
“It appears by your own confession,” replied Maud, stepping back a little before his violence, but speaking with undiminished firmness and calmness of tone, “that you won’t be master here long. If you flatter yourself that you have ever been master of me, I assure you, you are strangely mistaken. I, indeed, am to have the charge of ruining you made against me, am I? I suppose your own temperance and frugality29 are so eminent7 that you are at a loss to account for expenditure30 otherwise. If you ever gambled, if you ever drank, if you had ever kept mistresses, it would have been a different thing. But then your abstinence from all those vices31 has been so wonderful. If you had been in the habit of betting on horse-races or losing money at cards, your friends would certainly have talked of it, and I should have heard their amiable comments, which, as it is, I have never done. If you had been in the habit of drinking too much I should certainly have noticed it, I might even have seen you intoxicated32 at times; it is even possible you might have been so unlucky as to figure in the police-court for drunken assaults; but as I never knew you anything but strictly33 sober and gentlemanly in your demeanour that suggestion is of course impossible. Then, if you had had a weakness for the society of second-rate actresses and ballet-girls, one might have explained a great deal of expenditure, but such a hypothesis is of course out of the question. Otherwise I should certainly have seen ill-spelt letters to you occasionally, lying about your bedroom; I might have noticed you driving about in hansoms at night with young ladies of dubious34 appearance; or even such a thing might have happened to me as to go down into my own drawing-room after midnight and to find you revelling35 there with some half-dozen common prostitutes. But how shocking such things would have been; how happy I should esteem36 myself that I have a husband so absolutely faithful to his wife! Yes, certainly I must be the cause of your ruin. I can see no other explanation of it!”
She had scarcely pronounced the last word of this speech, burning throughout with the fiercest sarcasm37, when passion overmastered the hearer’s last remnant of self-restraint. Uttering a frenzied38 oath, he sprang forward, and, with his open hand, struck her a fierce blow upon the head. With a shriek39, half of alarm, half of pain, she fell back upon the couch; but in a moment started up from it again. Whilst Waghorn stood, quivering with passion, and blind to her movements, she had sprung to a drawer, wrenched40 it open, and grasped something which glistened41 in her hand. There was an instant flash, a loud report, and the mirror over the fire-place shattered into a thousand pieces. Whilst the sound of the pistol-shot was still echoing loudly through the room, Waghorn once more leaped like a tiger upon the maddened woman, wrenched the pistol from her hand, threw it aside; then, grasping each of her arms, dashed her violently upon the floor. Twice he raised her by her arms, twice dashed her down again, she shrieking42 loudly. At the last blow she became insensible. Then he took up the pistol, and, thrusting it into his pocket, left the room in time to meet the servants who were rushing up-stairs, and give them a satisfactory explanation of the alarm.
After Arthur’s departure, Helen Norman passed the rest of the day in strict seclusion43; not even Lucy Venning was summoned to keep her company. The fits of violent grief, almost of despair, which alternated with her hours of silent suffering, were such as no one might be witness of. She knew well that this agony would be but transitory, that the morrow would find her once more calm and resolved to struggle with her fate; but in the meantime the storm of passion must have its way, must wreak44 its full fury upon her frame, must make her weak in body in order that she might become strong in soul.
In the course of the afternoon she was disturbed by a knock at her door. She did not open, but asked what was wanted. A servant informed her that Mrs. Waghorn had called and wished very much to see her. Helen shuddered45 at the thought of an interview with Maud, in her present state of mind; she knew that it would be impossible for her to endure the stream of small talk, flavoured with cynical46 comments upon the speaker’s self and the world in general, which Maud had of late only appeared capable of. She sent her compliments to Mrs. Waghorn, begging she might be excused on consideration of somewhat severe indisposition. Apparently48 this message sufficed, for the servant did not return.
During the night she woke up in a fit of coughing, such as had once before broken a sleep of anguish49, and with the same results. There was blood in her mouth. Again the hours of nameless terror had to be endured, again she seemed to see ghostly figures sitting beside her bed. Again she felt acutely her painful loneliness, more now, after the brief taste of such delightful50 companionship than ever before. Lucy was sleeping in the next room, but what was to be gained by waking her? Lucy was a dear, affectionate child, a sweet associate of calm hours, but for midnight scenes such as this all unfitted.
Peace came with the following day, partly as a consequence of almost complete physical prostration51. Helen was so entirely52 worn out that her mind gladly took refuge in any trifle to escape the painful and ever-renewed struggle with grief. Through the morning Lucy was a welcome companion at her side, as she lay upon the sofa. Lucy, with a woman’s tact53, readily divined what had passed, and understood, moreover, Helen’s reason for keeping silence thereon. She saw that her friend could not as yet bear to speak of her sorrows. The time would come when to speak of them would be a relief, and Lucy knew well that Helen would then choose no other than herself for a confidante. When in the afternoon Mrs. Cumberbatch made her appearance Helen did not view her approach with as much annoyance54 as usual. Friendly faces of whatever kind were welcome to her at present. Mrs. Cumberbatch made a few inquiries55 in a low tone with regard to Helen’s health, then took a seat, and, in her ordinary manner, became absorbed in needle-work. We have mentioned that it was her habit to smile much to herself when thus occupied; but today she smiled to a quite extraordinary extent; so much so that Helen, who, perhaps for the first time, found some amusement in watching her, and speculating upon the character of her thoughts, felt sure that there was something more than ordinary upon her mind.
“Have you any news today, Mrs. Cumberbatch?” she asked, at length, almost surprised at the curious frame of mind which urged her to provoke the dialogue she generally so much dreaded56.
“I presume you have yourself heard none, my dear — h’m?” asked Mrs. Cumberbatch, in her quiet tone, looking at Helen out of the corners of her eyes, without raising her head from her work.
“None whatever,” replied Helen, smiling slightly. “I see but little of what is known as ‘the world.’”
“Then you know nothing of the strange occurrences at the Waghorns’ — h’m?”
“Nothing,” replied Helen. “What occurrences do you allude57 to?”
She smiled as she asked, knowing well the kind of incident to which Mrs. Cumberbatch was wont to attach importance.
“Very strange occurrences indeed,” said Mrs. Cumberbatch, slightly raising her eyebrows. “As yet they are only whispered among the intimate friends of the family. I should scarcely be justified58 in repeating them to anyone but yourself.”
Helen continued to wear upon her face a look of interrogation.
“You will scarcely credit what I say, my dear,” pursued Mrs. Cumberbatch, who evidently had the utmost delight in detailing her intelligence. “It is whispered — only whispered — that a dreadful scene took place in the house yesterday; in short, a terrible quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Waghorn; the end of which was that Mr. Waghorn suddenly took a pistol out of his pocket and fired it at Mrs. Waghorn. Fortunately he missed his aim.
Helen looked at the speaker for some moments in the utmost astonishment59.
“Surely, Mrs. Cumberbatch,” she said, “this is some strange exaggeration.”
“I should myself have thought so,” replied the other, “had not I learned it from one who was all but a spectator of the incident, Mrs. Waghorn’s own maid.”
This she said with an air of great confidence, and with many motions of the eyebrows. Helen remained mute for a while, then suddenly asked —
“Do you know the hour at which this extraordinary event took place?”
“I think very shortly after noon.”
Helen remembered that it had been nearly four o’clock when Maud’s visit was announced to her. She sank into troubled reflections.
“But that is only part of the news,” pursued Mrs. Cumberbatch. “Shortly after this occurrence, Mrs. Waghorn appears to have left the house on foot, and at noon today she had neither returned nor been heard of.”
For Helen this was distressing60 news, not merely because she still retained a friendly interest in Maud and could not have heard of any misfortune happening to her without pain, but also for reasons which were extremely characteristic of her exquisitely61 sensitive mind, reasons which to ordinary persons would appear visionary, but which were sufficiently62 serious with Helen to cause her acute suffering at a moment when she had believed that her capacities for suffering were exhausted63. She deceived herself in thinking that pain of her own could ever be so engrossing64 as to deprive her of sympathy with the pains of others, and the sympathy now excited in her on Maud’s account found its own reward in the diversion of her thoughts from their previous rugged65 channel. At once she imagined to herself, with a vividness entirely new, all the wretchedness of a marriage which could result in events such as these; she realised for the first time the supreme66 unhappiness which must have formed the under-current of Maud’s life for so long a time. And, as she did so, she reproached herself bitterly for that cold indifference67 on her own part which had led her to turn away from the playmate of her childhood as from one with whom she had nothing in common. More than ever did her conscience smite68 her when she reflected that only yesterday afternoon Maud had called to see her, and had been refused admission, when in all likelihood she came to make a last appeal for Helen’s support, to beg {or advice in the midst of all manner of troubles and temptation. Certainly there had been no sufficient ground for refusing to see her. Helen blushed as she reflected that this had been one of the most flagrant cases of selfishness which memory could bring to her charge. Her conscience, moreover, took a wider range. One of the principal reasons for her constant neglect of Maud had been her own absorption in her daily work among the poor and the suffering. But, after all, did not charity begin at home? Was it right of her to neglect the opportunity of saving from wreck69 a life which had long been in such close connection with her own, because, forsooth, she was preoccupied70 with plans for the feeding and clothing of those who were complete strangers to her? Helen felt that there was something wrong in this. Perhaps her own sufferings of the last few days had taught her to appreciate more keenly than hitherto the fact that there are other pains in the world besides those involved in want of clothes or food, and that people who never knew what it was to lack these necessaries may yet be subject to perhaps acute torments71. Helen feared that her method of thought had somewhat lacked breadth, that she would have been none the worse for nourishing a more universal charity.
These thoughts crowded upon her in the interval72 of the present conversation, but it was not till after she had revolved73 them for some days that they began to assume distinct shapes in her mind. In the meantime she made many attempts to discover the place of Maud’s retreat, but altogether without success. In these attempts she made Mrs. Cumberbatch her ally, forcing herself at the same time to study that lady’s character more closely than she had hitherto done and to discover what good elements it contained. She found that with the exception of a monstrous74 curiosity in all things, and a perverted75 bigotry76 in matters of religion, there was nothing especially objectionable in Mrs. Cumberbatch. Among her, at any rate more useful, qualities was a degree of worldly wisdom which surprised Helen, and which appeared likely to be of considerable use in the present undertaking77. She appeared to have no doubt of the circumstances under which Maud had disappeared, stating plainly, though with that entourage of nods and frowns and interrogatory particles which always marked her communications, that Maud had gone off somewhere or other with Augustus Whiffle. In the course of confidential78 talk she incidentally owned to Helen that she had for some time been in the habit of receiving special intelligence from Mrs. Waghorn’s fille de chambre, probably under the instigation of no other motive79 than unadulterated curiosity, and from this young woman she had learned secrets of a somewhat peculiar nature. One of these was that Maud had of late frequently lent considerable sums to young Whiffle to aid him in his enterprise on the turf, and had received back most of them with interest to boot. To Helen’s horror, Mrs. Cumberbatch saw nothing at all unlikely in the supposition that Maud was at present living somewhere with Whiffle, who was doing his best for them both in those special kind of speculations80 to which his genius was adapted.
Mrs. Cumberbatch’s sagacity and knowledge of circumstances had led her to a fairly just opinion of the state of affairs. A month or so after Maud’s disappearance81 from London, a lady and gentleman of genteel appearance established themselves for a brief period in one of the finest hotels at Scarborough and made a great figure among the visitors whom the early spring found amusing or doctoring themselves at that fashionable sea-port. The pair were written down in the visitor’s book as Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin. What title they had to this name will appear from a brief conversation between them as they strolled together one evening along the esplanade.
“I tell you,” said the gentleman, who appeared slightly out of temper, “that it was nothing but a piece of devilish bad luck. The horse stumbled over a stone, or some other cursed thing that stood in the way, and so the race was lost and your five hundred at the same time. It couldn’t be helped. We must just submit to it.”
“If we have to submit to many more such little accidents,” replied the lady, with an ill-pleased shrug82, “I fancy we shall be obliged to dissolve partnership83 in consequence.”
“Pooh, pooh, Maud,” replied the young man, in whom the reader of course recognises Mr. Augustus Whiffle. “I thought you were too cool a hand to fret84 yourself on a matter such as this. Now look, I’ll tell you something to revive your spirits. I’ve got the very best tip for the second spring Newmarket that ever fellow had. Sure to clear a gold mine. So cheer up, old girl.”
The evening air soon becoming unpleasantly keen, Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin shortly returned to their hotel. On their way they passed the post-office. Augustus took the opportunity to enter and inquire for letters. He came out with two in his hands, one directed to himself, and one to Maud.
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed Augustus, as soon as he skimmed through his letter. “Here’s a little news for you, Maud. Thompson writes me that Waghorn has gone past redemption, and that the house is for sale. He doesn’t seem to know exactly what brought on the big smash. At all events everything is to be sold up — advertised in yesterday’s papers. Don’t you feel disposed to go and bid for one or two of your own things?”
In the meantime Maud had glanced over her own communication, which was from a female acquaintance in London.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself you have the monopoly of news,” she exclaimed, as she folded the letter up and replaced it in the envelope. “It may interest you to hear that Mr. John Waghorn has just filed a petition for divorce from his wife on the ground of her — &c., &c. You can imagine the rest.”
“The devil!” cried Augustus, suddenly standing85 still. “Are you serious?”
“Perfectly, and I have no doubt whatever the news is true. I am delighted to hear it. I’m off to town by the first train tomorrow morning!”
“But, I say, Maud — damnation! Think of the infernal scandal. Why, I shall appear in the newspapers as corespondent.”
“Of course you will,” returned Maud, with the utmost nonchalance86, “and in consequence I shall get my freedom. Thank your stars you have the power to confer a benefit on someone. I assure you, I’m perfectly delighted!”
In consequence of this intelligence the two returned to town the following day. Maud took a couple of modest rooms for the present in Gower Street, and Mr. Whiffle returned to his ordinary abode87 and his customary avocations88, very much disgusted at the prospect89 of having his name ere long associated with proceedings90 in. the Divorce Court. His apprehensions91 were completely fulfilled. One morning early in May, Mrs. Cumberbatch had the pleasure of pointing out to Helen the following passage in a daily paper: —
“WAGHORN v. WAGHORN AND WHIFFLE.
“Mr. —— appeared for the petitioner92.
“The petitioner married the respondent in August, 1871, and they lived together at the former’s residence in London until early in March of the present year, when the respondent left her husband, subsequently accompanying the corespondent to several parts of England as his wife. The petitioner now prayed for a divorce on the ground of his wife’s adultery. There was no defence, and the Court granted a decree nisi.”
As we shall not again have the pleasure of meeting personally with Mr. Augustus Whiffle, I may as well state that, despite the above little incident, his father’s influence in time obtained for him a “cure of souls,” to which was attached emoluments93 of a highly satisfactory nature. There is every reason to suppose that to the present day the reverend gentleman fulfils his ecclesiastical functions with, to say the least, all that ardour of disposition47 by which we have seen him so distinguished94.
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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impute
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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wont
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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hatred
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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peculiar
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amiable
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countenance
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eyebrows
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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bully
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frugality
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expenditure
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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46
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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82
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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83
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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84
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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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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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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87
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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93
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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