Could he really be dying? She bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more than the mere3 lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of caring. This mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps without; she knew whose footsteps they were.
Grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding Giles’s hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself and him. He stood transfixed at first, noticing Grace only. Slowly he dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate5 man was. Strangely enough, though Grace’s distaste for her husband’s company had amounted almost to dread6, and culminated7 in actual flight, at this moment her last and least feeling was personal. Sensitive femininity was eclipsed by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was forgotten. The first look that possessed8 her face was relief; satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated9 thought of the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that did not interfere10 with her words.
“Is he dying — is there any hope?” she cried.
“Grace!” said Fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper — more than invocating, if not quite deprecatory.
He was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character — though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer’s friend and nurse — but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been Felice Charmond.
“Is he in great danger — can you save him?” she cried again.
Fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined Winterborne as he stood. His inspection11 was concluded in a mere glance. Before he spoke12 he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of his coming words.
“He is dying,” he said, with dry precision.
“What?” said she.
“Nothing can be done, by me or any other man. It will soon be all over. The extremities13 are dead already.” His eyes still remained fixed4 on her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, professional and otherwise, in Winterborne forever.
“But it cannot be! He was well three days ago.”
“Not well, I suspect. This seems like a secondary attack, which has followed some previous illness — possibly typhoid — it may have been months ago, or recently.”
“Ah — he was not well — you are right. He was ill — he was ill when I came.”
There was nothing more to do or say. She crouched14 down at the side of the bed, and Fitzpiers took a seat. Thus they remained in silence, and long as it lasted she never turned her eyes, or apparently15 her thoughts, at all to her husband. He occasionally murmured, with automatic authority, some slight directions for alleviating16 the pain of the dying man, which she mechanically obeyed, bending over him during the intervals17 in silent tears.
Winterborne never recovered consciousness of what was passing; and that he was going became soon perceptible also to her. In less than an hour the delirium19 ceased; then there was an interval18 of somnolent20 painlessness and soft breathing, at the end of which Winterborne passed quietly away.
Then Fitzpiers broke the silence. “Have you lived here long?” said he.
Grace was wild with sorrow — with all that had befallen her — with the cruelties that had attacked her — with life — with Heaven. She answered at random21. “Yes. By what right do you ask?”
“Don’t think I claim any right,” said Fitzpiers, sadly. “It is for you to do and say what you choose. I admit, quite as much as you feel, that I am a vagabond — a brute22 — not worthy23 to possess the smallest fragment of you. But here I am, and I have happened to take sufficient interest in you to make that inquiry24.”
“He is everything to me!” said Grace, hardly heeding25 her husband, and laying her hand reverently26 on the dead man’s eyelids27, where she kept it a long time, pressing down their lashes28 with gentle touches, as if she were stroking a little bird.
He watched her a while, and then glanced round the chamber29 where his eyes fell upon a few dressing30 necessaries that she had brought.
“Grace — if I may call you so,” he said, “I have been already humiliated31 almost to the depths. I have come back since you refused to join me elsewhere — I have entered your father’s house, and borne all that that cost me without flinching32, because I have felt that I deserved humiliation33. But is there a yet greater humiliation in store for me? You say you have been living here — that he is everything to you. Am I to draw from that the obvious, the extremest inference?”
Triumph at any price is sweet to men and women — especially the latter. It was her first and last opportunity of repaying him for the cruel contumely which she had borne at his hands so docilely34.
“Yes,” she answered; and there was that in her subtly compounded nature which made her feel a thrill of pride as she did so.
Yet the moment after she had so mightily35 belied36 her character she half repented37. Her husband had turned as white as the wall behind him. It seemed as if all that remained to him of life and spirit had been abstracted at a stroke. Yet he did not move, and in his efforts at self-control closed his mouth together as a vice39. His determination was fairly successful, though she saw how very much greater than she had expected her triumph had been. Presently he looked across at Winterborne.
“Would it startle you to hear,” he said, as if he hardly had breath to utter the words, “that she who was to me what he was to you is dead also?”
“Dead — SHE dead?” exclaimed Grace.
“Yes. Felice Charmond is where this young man is.”
“Never!” said Grace, vehemently40.
He went on without heeding the insinuation: “And I came back to try to make it up with you — but —”
Fitzpiers rose, and moved across the room to go away, looking downward with the droop41 of a man whose hope was turned to apathy42, if not despair. In going round the door his eye fell upon her once more. She was still bending over the body of Winterborne, her face close to the young man’s.
“Have you been kissing him during his illness?” asked her husband.
“Yes.”
“Since his fevered state set in?”
“Yes.”
“On his lips?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will do well to take a few drops of this in water as soon as possible.” He drew a small phial from his pocket and returned to offer it to her.
Grace shook her head.
“If you don’t do as I tell you you may soon be like him.”
“I don’t care. I wish to die.”
“I’ll put it here,” said Fitzpiers, placing the bottle on a ledge43 beside him. “The sin of not having warned you will not be upon my head at any rate, among my other sins. I am now going, and I will send somebody to you. Your father does not know that you are here, so I suppose I shall be bound to tell him?”
“Certainly.”
Fitzpiers left the cot, and the stroke of his feet was soon immersed in the silence that prevaded the spot. Grace remained kneeling and weeping, she hardly knew how long, and then she sat up, covered poor Giles’s features, and went towards the door where her husband had stood. No sign of any other comer greeted her ear, the only perceptible sounds being the tiny cracklings of the dead leaves, which, like a feather-bed, had not yet done rising to their normal level where indented44 by the pressure of her husband’s receding45 footsteps. It reminded her that she had been struck with the change in his aspect; the extremely intellectual look that had always been in his face was wrought46 to a finer phase by thinness, and a care-worn dignity had been superadded. She returned to Winterborne’s side, and during her meditations47 another tread drew near the door, entered the outer room, and halted at the entrance of the chamber where Grace was.
“What — Marty!” said Grace.
“Yes. I have heard,” said Marty, whose demeanor48 had lost all its girlishness under the stroke that seemed almost literally49 to have bruised50 her.
“He died for me!” murmured Grace, heavily.
Marty did not fully51 comprehend; and she answered, “He belongs to neither of us now, and your beauty is no more powerful with him than my plainness. I have come to help you, ma’am. He never cared for me, and he cared much for you; but he cares for us both alike now.”
“Oh don’t, don’t, Marty!”
Marty said no more, but knelt over Winterborne from the other side.
“Did you meet my hus — Mr. Fitzpiers?”
“Then what brought you here?”
“I come this way sometimes. I have got to go to the farther side of the wood this time of the year, and am obliged to get there before four o’clock in the morning, to begin heating the oven for the early baking. I have passed by here often at this time.”
Grace looked at her quickly. “Then did you know I was here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“No. I knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and lodged52 out himself.”
“Did you know where he lodged?”
“No. That I couldn’t find out. Was it at Delborough?”
“No. It was not there, Marty. Would it had been! It would have saved — saved —” To check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the window-bench, took it up. “Look, Marty, this is a Psalter. He was not an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. Shall we read a psalm53 over him?”
“Oh yes — we will — with all my heart!”
Grace opened the thin brown book, which poor Giles had kept at hand mainly for the convenience of whetting54 his pen-knife upon its leather covers. She began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar55 to women only on such occasions. When it was over, Marty said, “I should like to pray for his soul.”
“So should I,” said her companion. “But we must not.”
“Why? Nobody would know.”
Grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the sense of making amends56 for having neglected him in the body; and their tender voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory57 murmurs58 that a Calvinist might have envied. They had hardly ended when now and more numerous foot-falls were audible, also persons in conversation, one of whom Grace recognized as her father.
She rose, and went to the outer apartment, in which there was only such light as beamed from the inner one. Melbury and Mrs. Melbury were standing59 there.
“I don’t reproach you, Grace,” said her father, with an estranged60 manner, and in a voice not at all like his old voice. “What has come upon you and us is beyond reproach, beyond weeping, and beyond wailing61. Perhaps I drove you to it. But I am hurt; I am scourged62; I am astonished. In the face of this there is nothing to be said.”
Without replying, Grace turned and glided63 back to the inner chamber. “Marty,” she said, quickly, “I cannot look my father in the face until he knows the true circumstances of my life here. Go and tell him — what you have told me — what you saw — that he gave up his house to me.”
She sat down, her face buried in her hands, and Marty went, and after a short absence returned. Then Grace rose, and going out asked her father if he had met her husband.
“Yes,” said Melbury.
“And you know all that has happened?”
“I do. Forgive me, Grace, for suspecting ye of worse than rashness — I ought to know ye better. Are you coming with me to what was once your home?”
“No. I stay here with HIM. Take no account of me any more.”
The unwonted, perplexing, agitating64 relations in which she had stood to Winterborne quite lately — brought about by Melbury’s own contrivance — could not fail to soften65 the natural anger of a parent at her more recent doings. “My daughter, things are bad,” he rejoined. “But why do you persevere66 to make ’em worse? What good can you do to Giles by staying here with him? Mind, I ask no questions. I don’t inquire why you decided67 to come here, or anything as to what your course would have been if he had not died, though I know there’s no deliberate harm in ye. As for me, I have lost all claim upon you, and I make no complaint. But I do say that by coming back with me now you will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame.
“But I don’t wish to escape it.”
“If you don’t on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? Nobody except our household knows that you have left home. Then why should you, by a piece of perverseness68, bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?”
“If it were not for my husband —” she began, moved by his words. “But how can I meet him there? How can any woman who is not a mere man’s creature join him after what has taken place?”
“He would go away again rather than keep you out of my house.”
“How do you know that, father?”
“We met him on our way here, and he told us so,” said Mrs. Melbury. “He had said something like it before. He seems very much upset altogether.”
“He declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness,” said her husband. “That was it, wasn’t it, Lucy?”
“Yes. That he would not intrude69 upon you, Grace, till you gave him absolute permission,” Mrs. Melbury added.
This antecedent considerateness in Fitzpiers was as welcome to Grace as it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was sorry that by her retaliatory70 fiction she had given him a different reason for avoiding her. She made no further objections to accompanying her parents, taking them into the inner room to give Winterborne a last look, and gathering71 up the two or three things that belonged to her. While she was doing this the two women came who had been called by Melbury, and at their heels poor Creedle.
“Forgive me, but I can’t rule my mourning nohow as a man should, Mr. Melbury,” he said. “I ha’n’t seen him since Thursday se’night, and have wondered for days and days where he’s been keeping. There was I expecting him to come and tell me to wash out the cider-barrels against the making, and here was he — Well, I’ve knowed him from table-high; I knowed his father — used to bide72 about upon two sticks in the sun afore he died! — and now I’ve seen the end of the family, which we can ill afford to lose, wi’ such a scanty73 lot of good folk in Hintock as we’ve got. And now Robert Creedle will be nailed up in parish boards ‘a b’lieve; and noboby will glutch down a sigh for he!”
They started for home, Marty and Creedle remaining behind. For a time Grace and her father walked side by side without speaking. It was just in the blue of the dawn, and the chilling tone of the sky was reflected in her cold, wet face. The whole wood seemed to be a house of death, pervaded74 by loss to its uttermost length and breadth. Winterborne was gone, and the copses seemed to show the want of him; those young trees, so many of which he had planted, and of which he had spoken so truly when he said that he should fall before they fell, were at that very moment sending out their roots in the direction that he had given them with his subtle hand.
“One thing made it tolerable to us that your husband should come back to the house,” said Melbury at last —“the death of Mrs. Charmond.”
“Ah, yes,” said Grace, arousing slightly to the recollection, “he told me so.”
“Did he tell you how she died? It was no such death as Giles’s. She was shot — by a disappointed lover. It occurred in Germany. The unfortunate man shot himself afterwards. He was that South Carolina gentleman of very passionate76 nature who used to haunt this place to force her to an interview, and followed her about everywhere. So ends the brilliant Felice Charmond — once a good friend to me — but no friend to you.”
“I can forgive her,” said Grace, absently. “Did Edgar tell you of this?”
“No; but he put a London newspaper, giving an account of it, on the hall table, folded in such a way that we should see it. It will be in the Sherton paper this week, no doubt. To make the event more solemn still to him, he had just before had sharp words with her, and left her. He told Lucy this, as nothing about him appears in the newspaper. And the cause of the quarrel was, of all people, she we’ve left behind us.”
“Do you mean Marty?” Grace spoke the words but perfunctorily. For, pertinent77 and pointed75 as Melbury’s story was, she had no heart for it now.
“Yes. Marty South.” Melbury persisted in his narrative78, to divert her from her present grief, if possible. “Before he went away she wrote him a letter, which he kept in his, pocket a long while before reading. He chanced to pull it out in Mrs. Charmond’s, presence, and read it out loud. It contained something which teased her very much, and that led to the rupture79. She was following him to make it up when she met with her terrible death.”
Melbury did not know enough to give the gist80 of the incident, which was that Marty South’s letter had been concerning a certain personal adornment81 common to herself and Mrs. Charmond. Her bullet reached its billet at last. The scene between Fitzpiers and Felice had been sharp, as only a scene can be which arises out of the mortification82 of one woman by another in the presence of a lover. True, Marty had not effected it by word of mouth; the charge about the locks of hair was made simply by Fitzpiers reading her letter to him aloud to Felice in the playfully ironical83 tones of one who had become a little weary of his situation, and was finding his friend, in the phrase of George Herbert, a “flat delight.” He had stroked those false tresses with his hand many a time without knowing them to be transplanted, and it was impossible when the discovery was so abruptly85 made to avoid being finely satirical, despite her generous disposition86.
That was how it had begun, and tragedy had been its end. On his abrupt84 departure she had followed him to the station but the train was gone; and in travelling to Baden in search of him she had met his rival, whose reproaches led to an altercation87, and the death of both. Of that precipitate88 scene of passion and crime Fitzpiers had known nothing till he saw an account of it in the papers, where, fortunately for himself, no mention was made of his prior acquaintance with the unhappy lady; nor was there any allusion89 to him in the subsequent inquiry, the double death being attributed to some gambling90 losses, though, in point of fact, neither one of them had visited the tables.
Melbury and his daughter drew near their house, having seen but one living thing on their way, a squirrel, which did not run up its tree, but, dropping the sweet chestnut91 which it carried, cried chut-chut-chut, and stamped with its hind38 legs on the ground. When the roofs and chimneys of the homestead began to emerge from the screen of boughs92, Grace started, and checked herself in her abstracted advance.
“You clearly understand,” she said to her step-mother some of her old misgiving93 returning, “that I am coming back only on condition of his leaving as he promised? Will you let him know this, that there may be no mistake?”
Mrs. Melbury, who had some long private talks with Fitzpiers, assured Grace that she need have no doubts on that point, and that he would probably be gone by the evening. Grace then entered with them into Melbury’s wing of the house, and sat down listlessly in the parlor94, while her step-mother went to Fitzpiers.
The prompt obedience95 to her wishes which the surgeon showed did honor to him, if anything could. Before Mrs. Melbury had returned to the room Grace, who was sitting on the parlor window-bench, saw her husband go from the door under the increasing light of morning, with a bag in his hand. While passing through the gate he turned his head. The firelight of the room she sat in threw her figure into dark relief against the window as she looked through the panes96, and he must have seen her distinctly. In a moment he went on, the gate fell to, and he disappeared. At the hut she had declared that another had displaced him; and now she had banished97 him.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
stimulus
|
|
| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
prostrate
|
|
| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
culminated
|
|
| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
obliterated
|
|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
inspection
|
|
| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
extremities
|
|
| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
crouched
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
alleviating
|
|
| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
delirium
|
|
| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
somnolent
|
|
| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
random
|
|
| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
heeding
|
|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
reverently
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
lashes
|
|
| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
humiliated
|
|
| 感到羞愧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
flinching
|
|
| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
docilely
|
|
| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
mightily
|
|
| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
belied
|
|
| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
hind
|
|
| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
vehemently
|
|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
droop
|
|
| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
apathy
|
|
| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
ledge
|
|
| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
indented
|
|
| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
receding
|
|
| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
meditations
|
|
| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
demeanor
|
|
| n.行为；风度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
bruised
|
|
| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
psalm
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
whetting
|
|
| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的现在分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
amends
|
|
| n. 赔偿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
supplicatory
|
|
| adj.恳求的，祈愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
58
murmurs
|
|
| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
estranged
|
|
| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
wailing
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
scourged
|
|
| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
glided
|
|
| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
agitating
|
|
| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
soften
|
|
| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
persevere
|
|
| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
perverseness
|
|
| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
intrude
|
|
| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
retaliatory
|
|
| adj.报复的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
bide
|
|
| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
scanty
|
|
| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
pervaded
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
pertinent
|
|
| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
rupture
|
|
| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
gist
|
|
| n.要旨；梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
adornment
|
|
| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
mortification
|
|
| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
ironical
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
altercation
|
|
| n.争吵，争论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
precipitate
|
|
| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
chestnut
|
|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
boughs
|
|
| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
obedience
|
|
| n.服从，顺从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
panes
|
|
| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |