But no one hesitated, for the Bat had put fear into them.
He had told them in the fewest possible words that in ninety minutes M. de Vlaye would be knocking at the gate they left! And how long the pursuit would tarry after that he left to their imaginations. The result justified8 his course; the ford, that in daylight was a terror to the timid, was passed without demur9. One by one their horses stepped from its dark smooth-sliding water, turned right-handed, and falling into line set their heads up-stream towards the broken hills and obscure winding10 valleys whence the river flowed.
Hampered12 by the wounded man's litter and the night, they could not hope to make more than a league in the hour, and with the first morning light might expect to be overtaken. But des Ageaux considered that the Captain of Vlaye, ignorant of his force, would not dare to follow at speed. And in the beginning all went well.
Over smooth turf, they made for half a league good progress, the long bulk of the chalk hill accompanying them on the left, while on the right the vague gloom of the wooded valley, teeming13 with mysterious rustlings and shrill14 night cries, drew many a woman's eyes over her shoulder. But, as the bearers of the litter could only proceed at a walking pace, the long line of shadowy riders had not progressed far before a gap appeared in its ranks and insensibly grew wider. Presently the two bodies were moving a hundred yards apart, and henceforward the rugged15 surface of the road, which was such as to hamper11 the litter without delaying the riders, quickly augmented16 the interval17.
The Vicomte was mounted on his own grizzled pony18, and with his two daughters and Roger rode at the head of the first party. They had not proceeded far before Bonne remarked that her sister was missing. She was sure that the Abbess had been at her side when she crossed the ford, and for a short time afterwards. Why had she left them? And where was she?
Not in front, for only the Bat and Charles, who had attached himself to the veteran, and was drinking in gruff tales of leaguer at his lips, were in front. Behind, then?
Bonne turned her head and strove to learn. But the light of the stars and the night--June nights are at no hour quite dark--allowed her to see only the persons who rode immediately behind her. They were Roger and the Countess. On their heels came two more--men for certain. The rest were shadows, bobbing vaguely19 along, dim one moment, lost the next.
Presently Charles, also, missed the Abbess, and asked where she was.
Roger could only answer: "To the rear somewhere."
"Learn where she is," Charles returned. "Pass the word back, lad. Ask who is with her."
Presently, "She is not with us," Roger passed back word. "She is with the litter, they say. And it has fallen behind. But the Lieutenant20 is with it, so that she is safe there."
"She were better here," Charles answered shortly. "She is not wanted there, I'll be sworn!"
Wanted or not, the Abbess had not put herself where she was without design. Her passage of arms with des Ageaux had not tended to soften22 her feelings. She was now bent23 on his punishment. The end she knew; the means were to seek. But with the confidence of a woman who knew herself beautiful, she doubted not that she would find or create them. Bitterly, bitterly should he rue24 the day when he had forced her to take part against the man she loved. And if she could involve in his fall this child, this puling girl on whom the Captain of Vlaye had stooped an eye, not in love or adoration25, but solely26 to escape the toils27 in which they were seeking to destroy him--so much the better! The two were linked inseparably in her mind. The guilt28 was theirs, the cunning was theirs, the bait was theirs; and M. de Vlaye's the misfortune only. So women reason when they love.
If she could effect the ruin of these two, and at the same time save the man she adored, her triumph would be complete. If--but, alas29, in that word lay the difficulty; nor as she rode with a dark face of offence had she a notion how to set about her task. But women's wits are better than their logic30. Men spoke31 in her hearing of the litter and of the delay it caused, and in a flash the Abbess saw the means she lacked, and the man she must win. In the litter lay the one and the other.
For the motives32 that led des Ageaux to bear it with him at the cost of trouble, of delay, of danger, were no secret to a quick mind. The man who lay in it was the key to the situation. She came near to divining the very phrase--a master-card--which des Ageaux had used to the Bat in the security of the locked room. A master-card he was; a card that at all costs must be kept in the Lieutenant's hands, and out of Vlaye's power.
Therefore, even in this midnight flight they must burden themselves with his litter. A Duke, a Marshal of France, in favour at Court, and lord of a fourth of Languedoc, he had but to say the word, and Vlaye was saved--for this time at any rate. The Duke need but give some orders, speak to some in power, call on some of those to whom his will was law, and his protégé would not fall for lack of means. Up to this point indeed, after a fashion which the Abbess did not understand--for the man had fallen from the clouds--he was ranged against her friend. But if he could be put into Vlaye's hands, or fairly or foully34 led to take Vlaye's side, then the Captain of Vlaye would be saved. And if she could effect this, would be saved by her. By her!
The sweetness of such a revenge only a woman can understand. Her lover had fancied the Rochechouart's influence necessary to his safety, and to gain that influence he had been ready to repudiate35 his love. What a sweet savour of triumph if she--she whom he was ready to abandon--could save him by this greater influence, and in the act show him that a mightier36 than he was at her feet!
She had heard stories of the Duke's character, which promised well for her schemes. At the time of her short sojourn37 at Court, he had but lately left his cloister38, drawn39 forth40 by the tragical41 death of his brother. He was then entering upon that career of extravagance, eccentricity43, and vice44 which, along with his reputation for eloquence45 and for strange fits of repentance46, astonished even the dissolute circles of the Court. His name and his fame were in all mouths; a man quick to love, quick to hate, report had it; a man in whom remorse47 followed sharp on sin, and sin on remorse. A man easy to win, she supposed, if a woman were beautiful and knew how to go about it.
Ay, if she knew; but there was the difficulty. For he was no common man, no man of narrow experience, and the ordinary bait of beauty might not by itself avail. The Abbess, high as her opinion of her charm stood, perceived this. She recognised that in the circle; in which he had moved of late beauty was plentiful48, and she bent her wits to the point. After that she might have been riding in daylight, for all she saw of her surroundings. She passed through the ford and in her deep thinking saw it not. The long, dark hill on her left, and the low woods on her right with their strange night noises, and their teeming evidences of that tragedy of death which fills the world, did not exist for her. The gleam of the star-lit river caught her eye, but failed to reach her brain. And if she fell back slowly and gradually until she found herself but a few paces before the litter and its convoy49, it was not by design only, but in obedience50 to a subtle attraction at work within her.
When her women presently roused her by their complaints that she was being left behind with the litter, she took it for an omen6, and smiled in the darkness. They, on the contrary, were frightened, nor without reason. The road they pursued followed the bank of the river; but the wide vale had been left behind. They had passed into a valley more strait and gloomy; a winding trough, close pressed by long, hog-shaped hills, between which the travellers became every moment more deeply engaged. The stars were fading from the sky, the darkness which comes before the dawn was on them, and with the darkness a chill.
This change alarmed the women. But it did not terrify them one half as much as the marked anxiety of the litter-party. More than once des Ageaux' voice could be heard adjuring51 the bearers to move faster. More than once a rider passed between them and the main body, and on each of these occasions men fell back and took the places of the old carriers. But still the cry was "Faster! Faster!"
In truth the day was on the point of breaking, and the fugitives52 were still little more than two leagues from Villeneuve. At any moment they might be overtaken, when the danger of an attack would be great, since the light must reveal the paucity53 of their numbers. In this pinch even the Lieutenant's stoicism failed him, and moment by moment he trembled lest the sound of galloping54 horses reach his ear. Less than an hour's riding at speed would place his charges in safety; yet for the sake of a wounded man he must risk all. No wonder that he cried again, "Faster, men, faster!" and pressed the porters to their utmost speed.
Soon out of the darkness ahead loomed55 the Bat. "This will never do, my lord," he said, reining56 in his horse beside his leader. He spoke in a low voice, but the Abbess, a dozen paces ahead, could hear his words, and even the heavy breathing of the carriers. "To go on at this pace is to hazard all."
"You must go forward with the main body!" des Ageaux replied shortly. "Let the women who are with us ride on and join the others, and do you--but, no, that will not do."
"For certain it will not do!" the Bat answered. "It is I must stay, for the fault is mine. But for me you would have left him, my lord."
"Do you think we could support him on a horse?"
"It would kill him!" the Bat rejoined. "But it is not two hundred paces to the chapel57 by the ford that you remarked this morning. If we leave him there, and M. de Vlaye finds him, he will be as anxious to keep life in him as we are. If, on the other hand, M. de Vlaye overlooks him, we can bring him in to-morrow."
"If it must be," des Ageaux answered reluctantly, "we must leave him. But we cannot leave him without some assistance. Who will stay with him?"
"Diable!" the Bat muttered.
"I will not leave him without some one," des Ageaux repeated firmly. "Some one must stay."
Out of the darkness came the answer. "I," the Abbess said, "will stay with him!"
"You, mademoiselle?" in a tone of astonishment58.
"I," she repeated, "and my women. I," she continued haughtily59, "have nothing to fear from the Captain of Vlaye or his men."
"And mademoiselle's robe," the Bat muttered with the faintest suspicion of irony60 in his tone, "protects her."
Charles, who had joined them with the Bat, thoughtlessly assented61. "To be sure!" he cried. "Let my sister stay! She can stay without danger."
Alone of the three des Ageaux remained silent--pondering. He had seen enough of the Abbess to suspect that it was not humanity alone which dictated62 her offer. Probably she desired to rejoin her admirer. In that case, did she know enough of the fugitives' plans and strength to render her defection formidable?
He thought not. At any rate it seemed well to take the chance. He was taking, he was beginning to see that he was taking a good many chances. "It seems a good plan, if mademoiselle be indeed willing," he said. He wished that he could see her face.
"I have said," she replied coldly, "that I am willing."
But her women showed forthwith that they were not. What? Remain in this wilderness63 in the dark with a dying man? They would be eaten by wolves, they would be strangled by witches, they would be ravished by thieves! Never! And in a trice one was in hysterics, deaf to her mistress's threats and to the Bat's grim hints. The other, after a conflict, allowed herself to be browbeaten64, and sullenly65, and with tears, yielded. But not until the water of the ford rippled66 about their horses' hoofs67, and the tiny spark of light that through the open door beaconed the shallows shone in their eyes.
Had it been day they would have had before them a scene at once wild and peaceful. On their right, below the ford--which was formed by the passage of the stream from one side of the narrow valley to the other--a lofty bluff68 overhung a black pool. Above the ford, on the level meadow, and a stone's-throw from the track--if track that could be called which was not used by a hundred persons in a year--stood a tiny chapel and cell, which some hermit69 in past ages had built with his own hands. The approach of the Crocans had driven his latest successor from his post; but des Ageaux, passing that way in the day, had noted70 the chapel, and with the forethought of the soldier who expected to return in the dark he had seen the earthen lamp relit. Its light, he knew, would, in case of need, direct him to the ford.
At present that lamp, a tiny spark in the blackness, was all they saw. They made for it through the shallows and over a bed of shingle71 across which the horses clattered72 noisily. In haste they reached the door of the chapel, and there in a trice--for if the thing was to be done it must be done quickly--they aided the Abbess and the lay sister to alight, bore in the litter with the wounded man, and closed the door on all; this last, that the light might no longer be visible from the ford. Then they, the men, got themselves to horse again, and away at a round trot73.
Not without repugnance74 on the part of several; not without regret and misgiving75. Des Ageaux's heart smote76 him as his horse's feet carried him farther and farther away; it seemed so cowardly a thing to leave women to bear in that wild and lonely place the brunt of whatever might befall. And Charles, ready as he had been to acclaim77 the notion, wondered if he had erred78 in leaving his sister thus lightly. But in truth they were embarked79 in an enterprise whose full perils80 it lay with time to disclose. And other and more pressing anxieties soon had possession of their minds.
They had been less troubled had they been able to witness the Abbess's demeanour in her solitude81. While her companion, overcome by her fears, sank down in a fit of hysterical82 weeping, Odette de Villeneuve remained standing83 within the low doorway84, and with head erect85 listened frowning until the last sound of the horses' hoofs died to the ear. Then she drew a deep breath, and, turning slowly, she allowed her eyes to take stock of the place in which she so strangely found herself.
It was a tiny building of rough-hewn stones, with an altar and crucifix, also of stone, erected86 at the end remote from the door. Along either wall ran a stone bench, on one or other of which the good fathers must have spent many a summer day watching the ford; for at a certain point the stone was polished and worn by friction87. The litter and the wounded man filled half the open space, leaving visible only a floor of trodden earth foul33 with the droppings of birds and sheep, and betraying in other respects the results of neglect. Here and there on some stone larger than its fellows, and particularly on the lintel, a prentice hand had carved symbols; but, this notwithstanding, the whole wore by the light of the smoky lamp an aspect far from sacred.
Yet the prospect88 of spending several hours in so poor a place did not appear to depress the Abbess. Her inspection89 finished, she nodded an answer to her thoughts, and sitting down on the bench beside the litter, rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand, and fixing her large dark eyes on the wounded man, gave herself up, as completely as if she had been in her own chamber90, to her thoughts.
Her woman, whose complaining, half fractious, half fearful, had sunk to an occasional sob91, presently looked at her, and fascinated by that gloomy absorption--which might have dealt with the mysteries of the faith, but turned in fact on the faithlessness of man--she could not look away. And moments passed; the first pale glimmer92 of dawn appeared, and still the two women faced one another across the insensible man whose heavy breathing, broken from time to time by some obstruction93, was the one sound that vied with the low murmur94 of the stream.
Suddenly the Abbess lifted her head. Mingled95 with the water's chatter96 was a harsher sound--a sound of rattling97 stones, of jingling98 steel and, a second later, of men's voices. She rose slowly to her feet, and as the other woman, alarmed by the expression of her features, would have screamed, she silenced her by a fierce gesture. Then she stood, her hand resting against the wall beside her, and listened.
She had no doubt that it was he. Her parted lips her eyes, half fierce, half tender, told as much. It was he, and she had but to open the door, she had but to show herself in the lighted doorway, and he would come to her! As the voices of the riders grew, and the rattle99 of hoofs among the pebbles100 ceased, she pictured him abreast101 of the hermitage; she fancied, but it must have been fancy, that she could distinguish his voice. Or no, he would not be speaking. He would be riding, silent, alone, his hand on his hip102, the grey light of morning falling on his stern face. And at that, at that picture of him, his deeds and his career, his greatness who had made himself, his firmness whom no obstacle stayed, rose before her embodied103 in the solitary104 figure riding foremost through the dawn. Her breast rose and fell tumultuously. The hand that rested on the wall shook. She had only to open the door, she had only to cry his name aloud, only to show herself, and he would be at her side! And she would be no longer against him but with him, no longer would be ranked with his foes--who were so many--but for him against the world!
The temptation was so strong that her form seemed to droop105 and sway as if a physical charm drew her in the direction of the man she loved, the man to whom, in spite of his faults, or by reason of them, she clung in the face of defection. But powerful as was the spell laid upon her, pride--pride and her will proved stronger. She stiffened106 herself; for an instant she did not seem to breathe. Nor was it until the last faint clink of iron died away that she turned feverish107 eyes in search of some crevice108, some loophole, some fissure109, through which she might yet see him; yet see, if it were but the waving of his plume110.
She found none. The only windows, two tiny arrow-slits111 that had never known glass, were in the wall remote from the track. On that she set her teeth to control the moan of disappointment that rose from her heart; and slowly she sank into her old seat.
But not into her old reverie. The eyes which she bent on the sick man were no longer dreamy. On the contrary, they were fixed112 in a gaze of eager scrutiny113 that sought to drag from the Duke's pallid114 features the secret of his weakness and waywardness, of his strange nature and bizarre fame. And unconsciously as she gazed, she bent nearer and nearer to him; her look grew sharper and more imperious. All hung on him now--all! Her mind was made up. Fortune had not cast him so timely in her path, fate had not afforded her the opportunity of which she had dreamed, without intending her to profit by it, without proposing to crown the scheme with success. The spell of her lover's presence, the spell that had obsessed115 her so short a time before that the interval could be reckoned by seconds, was broken! Never should it be hers to play that creeping part, to regain116 him that way, to return to him tamely, empty-handed, a suppliant117 for his love! No, not while it might be hers to return a conqueror118, an equal, with a greater than the Captain of Vlaye in her toils!
She rose to her feet, and tasting triumph in advance, she smiled. With a firm hand, disregarding her woman's remonstrance119, she extinguished the lamp. The pale light of early morning stole in through the narrow slits, and then for a brief instant the Abbess held her breath; for the light falling on the Duke's face so sharpened his thin temples and nervous features, showed him so livid and wan21 and death-like, that she thought him gone. He was not gone, but she acted upon the hint. If he died, where were her schemes and the clever combinations she had been forming? Quickly she drew from the litter a flagon of broth42 that had been mixed with a cunning cordial; and first moistening his lips with the liquor, by-and-by she contrived120 to make him swallow some. In the act he opened his eyes, and they were clear and sensible; but it was only to close them again with a sigh, half of satisfaction, half of weakness. Nevertheless, from this time his state was rather one of sleep, the sleep craved121 by exhausted122 nature, than of insensibility or fever, and with every hour the forces of his youth and constitution wrought123 at the task of restoration.
Odette, brooding over him, watched with satisfaction the return of a more healthy colour to his cheeks. Time passed, and presently, while the light was still cold and young, there came an interruption. A murmur of voices, and the jingle124 of spur and bit, warned her that M. de Vlaye, baffled in his attempt to cut off the fugitives before they found refuge, was returning through the valley. This time, how different were her sensations. She started to her feet and listened, and her face grew hard, but under pressure of suspense125, not of desire. Suspense--for if they turned aside, if they entered the deserted126 chapel and discovered her, her plan--and her very soul was now set on its success--perished still-born.
It was a trying moment, but it passed. Probably Vlaye knew the chapel of old, and knew that the good father had fled from it. At any rate he passed by it, and rode on his way. She heard the trampling127 of the horses break the singing of the ford; and then she heard only the murmur of the water and the morning hymn128 of a lark129 that, startled by the passage of the riders, soared above the glen, and with the sunshine on its throbbing130 breast, hailed the warm rising of another day.
Whether the lark's song appealed to the softer strain in her, or she began to hate the sordid131 interior with its grey half-light, the moment she was sure that the riders had gone on their way she opened the door and went out. The sun was peeping into the valley and all nature was astir. The laughing waters of the ford, the steep bluff, darksome by night, now clad in waving tree-tops, the floor of meadow emerald-green, all reflected the brightness of a sky in which not one but half a dozen songsters trilled forth the joy of life. After the gloom, the vigil, the danger of the night, the scene appealed to her strongly; and for a brief time, while she stood gazing on the vale unmarred by human works or human presence, she felt a compunction; such a feeling as in a similar scene invades the breast of the veteran hunter, and whispers to him that to carry death into the haunts of nature is but a sorry task.
A feeling as quickly suppressed in the one case as in the other. A few minutes later the Abbess appeared in the doorway, and beckoned132 to the woman to join her outside.
"Give me your hood133 and veil," she said in a tone that forestalled134 demur. "And I need your outer robe! Don't stare, woman!" she continued fiercely. "Is there any one to see you? Can the hills hurt you? Obey. It is my pleasure to wear the dress of the order, and I have it not with me!"
"But, madam----"
"Obey, woman, and take my cloak!" the Abbess retorted. "Wrap yourself in that!" And when the change was made, and she had assumed over her dress the loose black and white robe of the order, "Now wait for me here," she said. "And if he call, as is possible, do not go to him, but fetch me!"
She departed towards the pool below the ford, and, disappearing behind a clump135 of low willows136, made, using the still water for a mirror, some further changes in her toilet.
Not fruitlessly, for when she returned to the door of the chapel, the woman who awaited her stared, thinking that she had never seen her mistress show fairer in her silks than in this black and white, which she so seldom favoured. And soon there was another who thought--if not that thought, a similar one. The Duke, opening on the glory of sunshine and summer warmth, the eyes that had so nearly closed for good, saw at the foot of his litter a wondrous137 figure kneeling before the altar.
The face of the figure was turned from him, and for a time, between sleeping and waking, he considered her idly, supposing her now an angel interceding138 for him in the other life on which he had entered, now a nun139 praying beside his bier; for he took it for certain he was dead. By-and-by he passed over to the theory of the angel, for the figure moved, and the sunlight passing in through a tiny window-slit formed a nimbus about her head. And then again, moving afresh, as in an ecstacy of devotion, she lifted her eyes to the crucifix, and the hood falling back with the movement revealed a profile of a beauty and purity almost unearthly.
The Duke sighed. He had sighed before, but apparently140, for the sigh had not changed her rapt expression, she had not heard. Now she did hear. She rose, and with a deep genuflection141 turned from the altar, and glided142 with downcast eyes to his side. Eyes softened143 to the meekness144 of a dove's looked into his, and found that he was awake. Then, angel or saint, or whatever she was, she made a sign to him not to speak; and producing, by magic as it seemed, ambrosial145 food, she fed him, and with a finger on his lip bade him in gentle accents, "Sleep!"
Sleep? To think he could sleep when an angel--and while he laughed in ridicule146 of the notion he slept, that heavenly face framed in its nun's hood, that drooping147 form with the hands crossed upon the breast moving before him into the land of visions. He was back again in those earliest days of his cloistered148 existence, when to live in an atmosphere, pure and apart, innocent of the passions and desires of the world, had been his dream. He had learned--only too soon--that that atmosphere and that innocence149 were not to be maintained, though the walls of a monastery150 be ten feet through. For the nature which the thought of such a life had charmed was of all natures the one most open to worldly fascinations151. He had fallen; and he had presently replaced the vision of being good by the enthusiasm of doing good. He had lifted his voice, and the preaching of Père Ange had moved half Paris to a twenty-four hours' repentance. His own had lasted a little longer.
Now, weak and unnerved, he reverted152 at sight of this beautiful nun's face to his old visions of a saintly life; and in innocent adoration he dreamt of naught153 but her countenance154. When he awoke again and found her still at her devotions, though the sun was high, still at his service when she found him waking, still moving dovelike and silent about her ministrations--he watched her everywhere. Several times he wished to speak, but she laid a finger on her lips, and covering her hands with her sleeves, sat on the bench beside him, reading her book of hours. And so during the hazy155 period of his return to consciousness he saw her. Awake or drowsing, stung to life by the smart of his hurt or lulled156 to sleep by the music of the stream, he had her face always before him.
At length there came a time, a little before high noon, when he awoke with a clearer eye and a mind capable of feeling surprise at his position. He saw her sitting beside him, but he saw also the rough grey walls, the altar, the crucifix; and to wonder succeeded curiosity. What had happened, and how came he there? His eyes sought her face and remained riveted157 to it.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
She marked that his eyes were clear and his strength greater, and, "You are in the chapel in the upper valley of the Dronne," she answered.
"But I----" He stopped and closed his eyes, brought up by some confusion in his thoughts. At last, "I fancied I fought with some one," he whispered. "It was in a courtyard--at night? And there were lights? It was one of Vlaye's men, and the place was----" He broke off in the painful effort to remember. His lips moved without sound.
"Villeneuve," she said.
"Villeneuve," he whispered gratefully. "But this is not Villeneuve?"
"We are two leagues from Villeneuve."
"How come I here?"
She told him, preserving the gentle placidity158 which, not without thought, she had adopted for her r?le. The repulse159 of Vlaye's men and the Lieutenant's decision to quit the chateau160, that and the night retreat up to the arrival of the party at the ford--all were told. Then she broke off.
"But des Ageaux?" he murmured. "Where is he?" And again, that he might look round him, he tried to rise. "Where are they all?" he continued in wonder. "They have not left me?" with a querulous note in his voice.
"They are not here," she answered. And gently she induced him to lie back again. "Be still, I pray," she said. "Be still. You do yourself no good by moving."
He sighed. "Where are they?" he persisted.
"We were hard pressed at the ford," she answered with feigned161 reluctance162. "And your litter delayed them. It was necessary to leave you or all had been lost."
He lay in silence awhile with closed eyes, considering what she had told him. At last, "And you stayed?" he murmured in so low a voice that the words were barely audible. "You stayed!"
"It was necessary," she answered.
"And you have been beside me all night?"
She bowed her head.
His eyes filled with tears, and his lips trembled, for he was very weak. He groped for her hand, and would have carried it to his lips, but as men kiss relics163 or the hands of saints--if she had not withheld164 it from him. Settling the thin coverings more comfortably round him, she gave him to drink again, softly chiding165 him and bidding him be silent--be silent and sleep.
But, "You have been beside me all night!" he repeated. "All night, alone here, and a woman! A woman!"
She did not tell him that she was not alone; that her woman was even then sitting outside, under strict orders not to show herself. For now she was assured that she was in the right path. She had had opportunities of studying his countenance while he slept, and she had traced in it those qualities of enthusiasm and weakness, of the libertine166 and the ascetic167, which his career so remarkably168 displayed. The beauty which in ordinary circumstances his jaded169 eye, versed170 in woman's wiles171, might neglect, would appeal with irresistible172 force in a garb173 of saintliness. Nay174, more; as he recovered his strength and returned to his common feelings, it would prove, she felt sure, more provocative175 than the most worldly lures176. Her resolve to carry the matter through was now fixed and immutable177: and with her eye on the goal, she neglected no precaution that occurred to her mind.
点击收听单词发音
1 Ford | |
n.浅滩,水浅可涉处;v.涉水,涉过 | |
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2 rekindled | |
v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3 owl | |
n.猫头鹰,枭 | |
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4 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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5 hooting | |
(使)作汽笛声响,作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 ); 倒好儿; 倒彩 | |
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6 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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7 shrieked | |
v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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9 demur | |
v.表示异议,反对 | |
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10 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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11 hamper | |
vt.妨碍,束缚,限制;n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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12 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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14 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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15 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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16 Augmented | |
adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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17 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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18 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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19 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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20 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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21 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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22 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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23 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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24 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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25 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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26 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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27 toils | |
网 | |
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28 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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29 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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30 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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31 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 | |
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32 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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33 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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34 foully | |
ad.卑鄙地 | |
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35 repudiate | |
v.拒绝,拒付,拒绝履行 | |
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36 mightier | |
adj. 强有力的,强大的,巨大的 adv. 很,极其 | |
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37 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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38 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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39 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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40 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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41 tragical | |
adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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42 broth | |
n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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43 eccentricity | |
n.古怪,反常,怪癖 | |
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44 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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45 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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46 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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47 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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48 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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49 convoy | |
vt.护送,护卫,护航;n.护送;护送队 | |
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50 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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51 adjuring | |
v.(以起誓或诅咒等形式)命令要求( adjure的现在分词 );祈求;恳求 | |
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52 fugitives | |
n.亡命者,逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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53 paucity | |
n.小量,缺乏 | |
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54 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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55 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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56 reining | |
勒缰绳使(马)停步( rein的现在分词 ); 驾驭; 严格控制; 加强管理 | |
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57 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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58 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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59 haughtily | |
adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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60 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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61 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 dictated | |
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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63 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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64 browbeaten | |
v.(以言辞或表情)威逼,恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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65 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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66 rippled | |
使泛起涟漪(ripple的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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67 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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69 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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70 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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71 shingle | |
n.木瓦板;小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌);v.用木瓦板盖(屋顶);把(女子头发)剪短 | |
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72 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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73 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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74 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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75 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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76 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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77 acclaim | |
v.向…欢呼,公认;n.欢呼,喝彩,称赞 | |
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78 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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80 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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81 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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82 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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83 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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84 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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85 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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86 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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87 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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88 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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89 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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90 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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91 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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92 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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93 obstruction | |
n.阻塞,堵塞;障碍物 | |
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94 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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95 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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96 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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97 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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98 jingling | |
叮当声 | |
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99 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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100 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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101 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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102 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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103 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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104 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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105 droop | |
v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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106 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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107 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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108 crevice | |
n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝;缺口 | |
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109 fissure | |
n.裂缝;裂伤 | |
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110 plume | |
n.羽毛;v.整理羽毛,骚首弄姿,用羽毛装饰 | |
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111 slits | |
n.狭长的口子,裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开,撕开( slit的第三人称单数 );在…上开狭长口子 | |
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112 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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113 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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114 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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115 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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116 regain | |
vt.重新获得,收复,恢复 | |
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117 suppliant | |
adj.哀恳的;n.恳求者,哀求者 | |
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118 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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119 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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120 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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121 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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122 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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123 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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124 jingle | |
n.叮当声,韵律简单的诗句;v.使叮当作响,叮当响,押韵 | |
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125 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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126 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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127 trampling | |
踩( trample的现在分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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128 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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129 lark | |
n.云雀,百灵鸟;n.嬉戏,玩笑;vi.嬉戏 | |
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130 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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131 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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132 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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134 forestalled | |
v.先发制人,预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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136 willows | |
n.柳树( willow的名词复数 );柳木 | |
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137 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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138 interceding | |
v.斡旋,调解( intercede的现在分词 );说情 | |
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139 nun | |
n.修女,尼姑 | |
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140 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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141 genuflection | |
n. 曲膝, 屈服 | |
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142 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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143 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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144 meekness | |
n.温顺,柔和 | |
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145 ambrosial | |
adj.美味的 | |
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146 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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147 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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148 cloistered | |
adj.隐居的,躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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150 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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151 fascinations | |
n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 );有魅力的东西;迷恋;陶醉 | |
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152 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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153 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
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154 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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155 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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156 lulled | |
vt.使镇静,使安静(lull的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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157 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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158 placidity | |
n.平静,安静,温和 | |
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159 repulse | |
n.击退,拒绝;vt.逐退,击退,拒绝 | |
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160 chateau | |
n.城堡,别墅 | |
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161 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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162 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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163 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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164 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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165 chiding | |
v.责骂,责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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166 libertine | |
n.淫荡者;adj.放荡的,自由思想的 | |
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167 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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168 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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169 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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170 versed | |
adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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171 wiles | |
n.(旨在欺骗或吸引人的)诡计,花招;欺骗,欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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172 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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173 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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174 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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175 provocative | |
adj.挑衅的,煽动的,刺激的,挑逗的 | |
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176 lures | |
吸引力,魅力(lure的复数形式) | |
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177 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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