But what excited the greatest curiosity and the most frequent comment was the strange fancy which possessed8 her of seeking out young girls who were sweethearting, and voluntarily rendering9 them just that kind of service which they were likely most to value--ministering to their innocent vanities in a manner which they regarded as noble and generous. Mrs. Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in the cutting out of a dress had no equal in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, the art rare among Englishwomen, of knowing precisely10 the style, colours, and material which would best become the girl she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer her services as dressmaker, stipulating11 beforehand that she should be allowed to work for love, and not for money. The exercise of this singular fancy made her almost a public character; and many a girl who was indebted to her, and whose wooing was brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured gratefully to requite12 her services by pressing an intimacy13 upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily14 repelled15 every advance made in this direction. She gave them most willingly the work of her hands, but she would not admit them to her heart, nor would she confide16 her sorrows to them. She received their confidences, and sympathised with and advised them; but she gave no confidence in return.
Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude17 of her poorly-furnished attic18, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable19 of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos20 of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar21 phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered23, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs25 that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow--all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.
She lived entirely26 out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs27 of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.
A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable28 possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches29 of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched30. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which--as was the case with all of them--though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning31 eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob24, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.
Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.
"Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"Let me in."
"I will come to you."
Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.
"Well, Lizzie?"
"But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. I want to tell you something, and I can't speak in the dark."
"Lizzie, you must bear with my strange moods. You know I never receive visitors."
"To call me a visitor! And I've run to tell you the very first! Mrs. Lenoir, I have no mother."
Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided33 by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face was bright, her manner joyous34. "Guess what has happened, Mrs. Lenoir!"
Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's happy face.
"You will soon be married, Lizzie."
"Yes," said Lizzie, with sparkling eyes, "it was all settled this evening. And do you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've been thinking of it and thinking of it ever since me and Charlie have known each other, it seems as if something wonderful has happened which I never could have hoped would come true. But it is true, Mrs. Lenoir. In three weeks from this very day. It's like a dream."
Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily pursued it as the girl continued to prattle35 of her hopes and dreams.
"You will make my dress, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"And you'll let Charlie pay for the making?"
"You must find another dressmaker, then. What I do for you I do for----"
"Love!"
"If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At all events I will not take money for it."
"You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. I can't help myself; you must make my dress, because no one else could do it a hundredth part as well, and because, for Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as possible. And that's what I mean to do all my life. I'll make myself always look as nice as I can, so that Charlie shall never get tired of me. But one thing you must promise me, Mrs. Lenoir."
"What is that, Lizzie?"
"You'll come to the wedding."
Mrs. Lenoir shook her head.
"I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. You must not expect me."
"But I have set my heart upon it, and Charlie has too! I am always talking to him of you, and he sent me up now especially to bring you, or to ask if he may come and see you. 'Perhaps she'll take a bit of a walk with us,' said Charlie. It has left off snowing----"
Mrs. Lenoir shuddered.
"Has it been snowing?"
"Oh, for a couple of hours! The ground looks beautiful; but everything is beautiful now." Lizzie looked towards the window. "Ah, you didn't see the snow because the blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir."
"No, Lizzie, you must not try to persuade me; it is useless."
"But you are so much alone--you never go anywhere! And this is the first time you have allowed me to come into your room. You are unhappy, I know, and you don't deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Lizzie, I must live as I have always lived. It is my fate."
"Has it been so all your life? When you were my age, were you the same as you are now? Ah, no; I can read faces, and yours has answered me. I wish I could comfort you."
"It is not in your power. Life for me contains only one possible comfort, only one possible joy; but so remote, so unlikely ever to come, that I fear I shall die without meeting it. Leave me now; I have a great deal of work to get through to-night."
Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion36 would be useless, turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the picture of the girl-woman hanging over the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight she stepped close to it.
"How beautiful! Is it your portrait, Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl? Ah, yes, it is like you."
"It is not my portrait, Lizzie."
"Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?"
The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture was pitiful to see.
"It is a portrait painted from a heart's memory, Lizzie."
"Painted by you?"
"Yes."
"How beautifully it is done! I always knew you were a lady. And I've been told you can speak languages. I was a little girl when I heard the story of a poor foreigner dying in this street, who gave you, in a foreign language, his dying message to his friends abroad. That is true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"It is quite true. It would have been better for me had I been poor and ignorant, and had I not been what you suppose me to have been--a lady. Lizzie, if you love me, leave me!"
"Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happiness for you?"
"Have I not already told you? I have a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, springing from the bitterest sorrow that ever fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my only desire is to live and die in peace. And now, Lizzie, goodnight."
Constrained37 to leave, Lizzie took her departure, saddened by the sadness of this woman of sorrow; but the impress of another's grief soon fades from the heart in which happiness reigns38, and, within a few minutes, the girl, in the company of her lover, was again rapt in the contemplation of her own bright dreams.
The moment Lizzie quitted the room, Mrs. Lenoir turned the key in the door, so that no other person should enter. The interview had affected39 her powerfully, and the endeavour she made to resume her work was futile40; her fingers refused to fulfil their office. Rising from her seat, she paced the room with uneven41 steps, with her hands tightly clasped before her. To and fro, to and fro she walked, casting her eyes fearsomely towards the window every time she turned to face it. The curtains were thick, and the night was hidden from her, but she seemed to see it through the dark folds; it possessed a terrible fascination42 for her, against which she vainly struggled. It had been snowing, Lizzie had said. She had not known it; was it snowing still? She would not, she dared not look; she clasped her fingers so tightly that the blood deserted43 them; she was fearful that if she relaxed her grasp, they would tear the curtains aside, and reveal what she dreaded44 to see. For on this night, when she had been gazing on the face which was present to her through her dreaming and waking hours, when her heart had been cruelly stirred by the words which had passed between Lizzie and herself, the thought of the white and pitiless snow was more than ever terrifying to her. It brought back to her with terrible force memories the creation of which had been productive of fatal results to the peace and happiness of her life. They never recurred45 to her without bringing with them visions of snow falling, or of lying still as death on hill and plain. The familiar faces in these scenes were few--a man she had loved; a man who loved her; a child--and at this point, all actual knowledge stopped. What followed was blurred46 and indistinct. She had ridden or had walked through the snow for months, as it seemed; there was no day--it was always night; the white plains were alive with light; the moon shone in the heavens; the white sprays flew from the horse's hoofs47; through narrow lanes and trackless fields she rode and rode until a break occurred in the oppressive monotony. They are in a cottage, she and the man who loved her, and a sudden faintness comes upon her. Is it a creation of her fancy that she hears a woman's soft voice singing to her child, or is the sound really in the cottage? Another thing. Is she looking upon a baby lying in a cradle, and does she press her lips upon the sleeping infant's face? Fact and fancy are so strangely commingled--the glare of the white snow has so dazed her--the air is so thick with shadowy forms and faces--that she cannot separate the real from the ideal. But it is true that she is on the road again, and that the horse is plodding49 along, throwing the white sprays from his hoofs as before, until another change comes upon the scene. She and the man are toiling50 wearily through the snow, which she now looks upon as her enemy, toiling wearily, wearily onward51, until they reach the gate of a church, when she feels her senses deserting her. Earth and sky are merging52 into one another, and all things are fading from her sight--all things but the quaint53 old church with its hooded54 porch, which bends compassionately55 towards her, and offers her a peaceful sanctuary56. This church and the tombstones around it, the very form and shape of which she sees clearly in the midst of her agony, she has ever clearly remembered. Even in the death-like trance that falls upon her, she sees the outline of the church and its approaches. Friendly hands assist her into the sanctuary of rest. How long does she lie in peace? How many hours, or days, or weeks pass by, before she sees strange faces bending over her, before she hears strange voices about her? What has occurred between the agony of the time that has gone, and the ineffable57 rapture58 that fills her veins59 as she presses a baby to her breast? What follows after this? She cannot tell. During the sad and lonely years that have brought silver streaks60 into her hair, she has striven hundreds of times to recall the sequence of events that culminated61 with the loss of her treasure. But she strives in vain. Time and her own weakness have destroyed the record. Long intervals62 of illness, during which the snow is always falling and the moonlight always gleaming; glimpses of heaven in the bright-blue laughing eyes of a lovely babe--her own child, who lies upon her breast, pure and beautiful as an angel; then, a terrible darkness; and loneliness for evermore.
For evermore? Is this truly to be her fate? Can Heaven be so cruel as to allow her to die without gazing again upon the face of her child? For a blind faith possesses her that her darling still lives. Against all reason--in the face of all circumstance. Can she not believe that, during an illness which almost proved fatal, her child was taken from her, and died before she recovered? When this was told her, in a careless way, as though it were a matter so ordinary as to be scarcely worthy63 of comment, and when to this were added sharp and bitter words to the effect that she ought to fall upon her knees, and thank God that her child was not living to share her shame and disgrace, she looked with a pitiful smile into the face of her informant, and, rising without a word, went her way into the world. Into the lonely world, which henceforth contained no hand that she could clasp in love or friendship.
Her shame! Yes, truly hers. It held an abiding64 place in her heart. It caused her to shrink from the gaze of man, and from the words, more surely bitter, which she saw trembling on the lips of those who would address her. Eyes flashed contempt upon her; tongues reviled65 her; fingers were pointed66 at her in scorn and abhorrence67. What was there before her but to fly from these stings and nettles68, and hide herself from the sight of all who chanced to know her? She accepted her lot. Heart-broken she wandered into the great depths of the city, and lived her life of silence.
As now she paced the attic, the walls of which had witnessed her long agony, her thoughts, as at such periods they always did, travelled to the fatal time which had wrecked69 her peace and almost destroyed her reason. She had hitherto suffered without repining, but her spirit began to rebel against the injustice70 of the fate which had stripped her life of joy. Until now there had been nothing of sullenness71 in her resignation; she had accepted her hard lot with passive unreasoning submission72; and had flung back no stones, even in thought, in return for those that were cast at her. But she seemed on this night to have reached the supreme73 point of resignation, and some sense of the heartless wrong which had been inflicted74 upon her stole into her soul. But this new feeling did not debar her from the contemplation of the night outside her room. It was snowing, Lizzie had said. She could not resist the fascination of the words; they drew her to the window; they compelled her to pluck the curtain aside. The snow was falling.
With feverish75 haste, scarce knowing what she was doing, she fastened her bonnet76, flung her shawl over her shoulders, and walked into the streets. There were but few persons stirring in her neighbourhood; the public-houses, of course, were full, and the street-vendors were stamping their feet upon the pavement, more from habit, being in the presence of snow, than from necessity, for the weather was a long way from freezing-point; but Mrs. Lenoir paid no heed77 to the signs about her. Her thoughts were her companions, to divert her attention from which would need something more powerful than ordinary sights and sounds. She did not appear to be conscious of the road she was taking, nor to care whither she directed her steps. Now and then, a passer-by paused to gaze after the excited woman, who speeded onwards as though an enemy were on her track. So fast did she walk that she was soon out of the narrow labyrinths78, and treading the wider thoroughfares, past the Royal Exchange and Mansion79 House, through Cheapside and St. Paul's Churchyard, into the busier life of Fleet Street--to avoid which, or from some unseen motive80, she turned mechanically to the left, and came on to the Embankment, by the side of the river. Then, for the first time, she paused, but not for long. The moon was shining, and a long rippling81 line of light stretched to the edge of the water, at some distance from the spot on which she stood, where it lapped with a dismal82 sound the stone steps of a landing-place. The waves washed the rippling light on to the dark slimy stones, and, to her fevered fancy, the light crept up the stones to the level surface of the pavement, along which it slowly unwound itself, like a coil, until it touched her feet. With a shudder22, she stepped into this imaginary line of light, not hurriedly now, but softly on and on, down the steps, until her shoes were in the water. A man rose like a black shadow from a tomb, and, with an oath, clutched her arm. She wrenched83 it from him with an affrighted cry and fled--so swiftly, that though he who had saved her hurried after her, he could not reach her side. She ran along the Embankment till she came to Westminster Bridge, when she turned her back upon the river, and mingled48 with the people that were going towards the Strand84.
She had walked at least five miles, but she felt no fatigue85. There are occasions when the weakest bodies are capable of strains that would break down the strongest organisations, and this frail86 woman was upheld by mental forces which supplied her with power to bear. In the Strand she found her progress impeded87. It was eleven o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out their animated88 crowds. In one of these crowds she became ingulfed, and formed a passive unit in the excited throng89, being hustled90 this way and that, and pushed mercilessly about by those who were struggling to disentangle themselves. This rough treatment produced no effect upon her; she submitted in patience, and in time reached the edge of the crowd. When she arrived at a certain point, where the people had room to move more freely, two persons, a man and a woman, passed her, and the voice of the woman fell upon her ears.
An exclamation91 of bewildered amazement92 hung upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her own voice she had heard, and she had not spoken. Not the sad voice which those who knew her were accustomed to hear, but the glad blithe94 voice which was hers in her youth, and which she had been told was sweet as music.
She paused and listened; but only the accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. She had distinguished95 but one word--"Love," and she knew she had not uttered it. Although her nerves were quivering under the influence of the mystery, she had no choice but to pursue her way, and she continued walking in the direction of Temple Bar.
Gradually the human throng lessened96 in numbers. It was spreading itself towards the home lights through all the windings97 of the city; and when Mrs. Lenoir had passed the arch of the time-honoured obstruction98 she had room enough and to spare. Now and then she was overlapped99 by persons whose gait was more hurried than her own; more frequently she passed others who were walking at a more reasonable pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in-arm, were stepping onwards as though it were noon instead of near midnight, she heard again the voice that had startled her.
Her first impulse was to run forward and look upon the face of the speaker; but she restrained herself, or rather was restrained by the conflicting passions which agitated100 her breast; and without removing her eyes from the forms of the two persons before her, she followed them with feeble uncertain steps. For the woman's strength was going from her; she was wearied and exhausted101, and she had to struggle now with nature. It was fortunate for her that the man and the woman she was following were walking slowly, or she must inevitably102 have lost them. And even as it was, she dragged her weary feet after them, as one in a dream might have done.
The woman was young; joyous health and spirits proclaimed themselves in the light springy step; and the musical laugh that rang frequently in the air was like the sound of silver bells. That she was beautiful could not be doubted: it was the theme of their conversation at the present moment.
"And you think me very beautiful?"
"You are more than beautiful. You are the most lovely girl in the world. But if I continue to tell you the same story, I shall make you the vainest as well as the loveliest."
"Oh, no; I like to hear you. Go on."
"Then there's another danger. Though you know I love you----"
"Yes."
"And though you have told me you love me----"
"Yes."
"You do, you little witch?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, there's the danger of losing you."
"In what way? How?"
"Some one else might see you, and fall in love with you."
"Suppose some one else couldn't help it? This with a delicious silvery laugh.
"By heavens, you're enough to drive a saint out of his senses!"
"Me?"
"Well, your cool way of saying things."
"But go on about the danger of losing me."
"And you might fall in love with some one else."
"I don't think so," said the girl, with the air of one who was considering a problem which did not affect her. "I couldn't fall in love with any man that wasn't a gentleman. And you are one?"
"I hope so."
"That is why I like you. You are a gentleman, you are good-looking and rich; while I----"
"You!" It was scarcely an interruption, for the girl paused, as in curious contemplation of what might follow.
"You! You are fit to be a queen."
"I am a duchess, remember," said the girl, with an arch smile, which became graver with the words--"I wonder why they called me so?"
"Because they saw you were above them, and better than they."
"Why should they have seen that? What made them see it? I could hardly speak at the time, and I don't even remember it."
"Nor anything about yourself before you were brought to Rosemary Lane?" inquired the man anxiously.
"No; nothing that does not seem like a dream."
"One can remember dreams."
"I can't remember mine. But sometimes I have a curious impression upon me."
"May I hear it?"
"Why not? It is upon me now. It is this: that when I dreamt--before I remember anything, you know----"
"Yes."
"That it was always snowing, as it is now."
What subtle vapour affected the fair and beautiful girl--surely subject to no distempered fancies, glowing as she was with health, and with pulses beating joyously--that she should suddenly pause and gaze upon the snow with a troubled air? What subtle vapour affected the wan32 and exhausted woman behind her that at the same moment she also should pause and hold her thin, transparent103 hand to her eyes, to shut out the white glare of the snow that troubled her soul? There was a curious resemblance in their attitudes as they thus stood in silence--the girl in the light, the woman in the shade.
A gust104 of wind, if it did not dispel105 the vapour, stirred the actors in this scene into motion, and the girl and her lover--for there could be no doubt of the relation they bore to each other--resumed their walk, Mrs. Lenoir still following them with steps that grew more feeble every moment.
Of the conversation between the lovers not a word had reached her. Now and again she heard the sound of the girl's voice when it was raised higher than usual, but the words that accompanied it were lost upon her. She had formed a distinct purpose during the journey, if in her weak condition of mind and body any purpose she wished to carry out can be called distinct. She would keep them in sight until the man had taken his departure, and the girl was alone. Then she would accost106 the girl, and look into her face. That was the end of her thought; the hopes and fears which enthralled107 and supported her were too wild and whirring for clear interpretation108. And yet it appeared as though she herself feared to be seen; for once or twice when the man or the girl looked back, Mrs. Lenoir shrank tremblingly and in pitiable haste into the obscurity of the deeper shadows of the night.
They were now in the east of London, near Rosemary Lane, and the girl paused and stopped her companion, with the remark:
"You must not come any further."
This was so far fortunate for Mrs. Lenoir, inasmuch as otherwise she would have lost sight of those she had followed. Nature had conquered, and a faintness like the faintness of death was stealing upon her.
The man and the girl were long in bidding each other goodnight. It was said half-a-dozen times, and still he lingered, loth to leave her.
"Remember," he said, as he stood with his arm around her, "you have promised not to mention my name to your people."
"Yes, I have promised. But why won't you come and see them? I should like you to."
"It can't be done, my little bird. You are sensible enough to understand why a gentleman in my position can't run the danger of forming intimacies109 with common persons."
"But I am a common person," said the girl, archly challenging a contradiction.
"You are a lady, and if you are not, I'll make you one. When you are away from them, I want you to be well away. You wouldn't like to be dragged down again."
"No--you are right, I dare say. Poor Sally!"
"Not a word to her, mind. I'll have to bribe110 you, I see. What do you say to this?"
He took from his pocket a gold bracelet111, shining with bright stones, and held it up to the light. The girl uttered a cry of pleasure, but as she clasped the trinket she looked round in affright. Her glad exclamation was followed by a moan from Mrs. Lenoir, who staggered forward a few steps and sank, insensible to the ground.
"It's only a drunken woman," said the man. "Good night, my bird."
The girl eluded112 his embrace and ran to the fainting woman, and knelt beside her.
"She is not drunk," said the girl; "she looks worn out and tired. See how white she is. Poor creature! Perhaps she is starving."
Mrs. Lenoir, opening her eyes, saw as in a vision, the face of the beautiful girl bending over her, and a smile of ineffable sweetness played about her lips. But the words she strove to utter were breathed, unspoken, into the air, and she relapsed into insensibility.
"Leave her to me," said the man; "I will take care of her. You musn't get into trouble: it's past the time you were expected home."
He raised the woman in his arms as he spoke93.
"You don't know her?" he said.
"No; I never saw her before," replied the girl "You must promise me now: you'll not leave her in the streets; you'll see her safely home."
"I'll do more; if she's in want, I'll assist her. Now, go; I don't want to be seen by your--what do you call him?--Mr. Dumbrick, or by your friend Sally. Good night. She is recovering already. Run away--and don't forget; to-morrow night, at the same place."
He threw his disengaged arm round the girl and kissed her. The next moment he and Mrs. Lenoir were alone.
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rendering
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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24
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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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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throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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29
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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30
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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31
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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32
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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33
glided
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| 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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34
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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35
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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36
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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37
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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38
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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40
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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41
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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42
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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45
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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47
hoofs
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| 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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48
mingled
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| 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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49
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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50
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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51
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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52
merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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53
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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56
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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58
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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59
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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61
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
intervals
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| 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 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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64
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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68
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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69
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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70
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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71
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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72
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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73
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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74
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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76
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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77
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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78
labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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79
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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80
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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81
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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82
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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83
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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84
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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85
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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86
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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87
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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89
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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90
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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92
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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93
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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94
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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95
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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96
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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97
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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98
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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99
overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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100
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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101
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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102
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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103
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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104
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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105
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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106
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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107
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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108
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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109
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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110
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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111
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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112
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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