Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, towhom he expresses his Sentiments with muchCandour. His Resolution.
Little Miss La Creevy trotted1 briskly through divers2 streetsat the west end of the town, early on Monday morning—the day after the dinner—charged with the importantcommission of acquainting Madame Mantalini that Miss Nicklebywas too unwell to attend that day, but hoped to be enabled toresume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La Creevy walkedalong, revolving3 in her mind various genteel forms and elegantturns of expression, with a view to the selection of the very best inwhich to couch her communication, she cogitated4 a good dealupon the probable causes of her young friend’s indisposition.
‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘Her eyeswere decidedly red last night. She said she had a headache;headaches don’t occasion red eyes. She must have been crying.’
Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had establishedto her perfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevywent on to consider—as she had done nearly all night—what newcause of unhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ said the little portrait painter.
‘Nothing at all, unless it was the behaviour of that old bear. Crossto her, I suppose? Unpleasant brute5!’
Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit6 it was ventedupon empty air, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini’s; and being informed that the governing power was not yet out ofbed, requested an interview with the second in command;whereupon Miss Knag appeared.
‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Miss Knag, when the messagehad been delivered, with many ornaments8 of speech; ‘I couldspare Miss Nickleby for evermore.’
‘Oh, indeed, ma’am!’ rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended.
‘But, you see, you are not mistress of the business, and thereforeit’s of no great consequence.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Miss Knag. ‘Have you any furthercommands for me?’
‘No, I have not, ma’am,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.
‘Then good-morning, ma’am,’ said Miss Knag.
‘Good-morning to you, ma’am; and many obligations for yourextreme politeness and good breeding,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.
Thus terminating the interview, during which both ladies hadtrembled very much, and been marvellously polite—certainindications that they were within an inch of a very desperatequarrel—Miss La Creevy bounced out of the room, and into thestreet.
‘I wonder who that is,’ said the queer little soul. ‘A nice personto know, I should think! I wish I had the painting of her: I’D do herjustice.’ So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said a very cuttingthing at Miss Knag’s expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty9 laugh,and went home to breakfast in great good humour.
Here was one of the advantages of having lived alone so long!
The little bustling10, active, cheerful creature existed entirely11 withinherself, talked to herself, made a confidante of herself, was assarcastic as she could be, on people who offended her, by herself; pleased herself, and did no harm. If she indulged in scandal,nobody’s reputation suffered; and if she enjoyed a little bit ofrevenge, no living soul was one atom the worse. One of the manyto whom, from straitened circumstances, a consequent inability toform the associations they would wish, and a disinclination to mixwith the society they could obtain, London is as complete asolitude as the plains of Syria, the humble12 artist had pursued herlonely, but contented13 way for many years; and, until the peculiarmisfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted her attention, hadmade no friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to allmankind. There are many warm hearts in the same solitary14 guiseas poor little Miss La Creevy’s.
However, that’s neither here nor there, just now. She wenthome to breakfast, and had scarcely caught the full flavour of herfirst sip15 of tea, when the servant announced a gentleman, whereatMiss La Creevy, at once imagining a new sitter transfixed byadmiration at the street-door case, was in unspeakableconsternation at the presence of the tea-things.
‘Here, take ’em away; run with ’em into the bedroom;anywhere,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘Dear, dear; to think that I shouldbe late on this particular morning, of all others, after being readyfor three weeks by half-past eight o’clock, and not a soul comingnear the place!’
‘Don’t let me put you out of the way,’ said a voice Miss LaCreevy knew. ‘I told the servant not to mention my name, becauseI wished to surprise you.’
‘Mr Nicholas!’ cried Miss La Creevy, starting in greatastonishment. ‘You have not forgotten me, I see,’ replied Nicholas,extending his hand.
‘Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you inthe street,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. ‘Hannah, anothercup and saucer. Now, I’ll tell you what, young man; I’ll trouble younot to repeat the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morningyou went away.’
‘You would not be very angry, would you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Wouldn’t I!’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘You had better try; that’sall!’
Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss LaCreevy at her word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped hisface; but it was not a very hard slap, and that’s the truth.
‘I never saw such a rude creature!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy.
‘You told me to try,’ said Nicholas.
‘Well; but I was speaking ironically,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.
‘Oh! that’s another thing,’ said Nicholas; ‘you should have toldme that, too.’
‘I dare say you didn’t know, indeed!’ retorted Miss La Creevy.
‘But, now I look at you again, you seem thinner than when I sawyou last, and your face is haggard and pale. And how come you tohave left Yorkshire?’
She stopped here; for there was so much heart in her alteredtone and manner, that Nicholas was quite moved.
‘I need look somewhat changed,’ he said, after a short silence;‘for I have undergone some suffering, both of mind and body,since I left London. I have been very poor, too, and have evensuffered from want.’
‘Good Heaven, Mr Nicholas!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy, ‘whatare you telling me?’
‘Nothing which need distress18 you quite so much,’ answered Nicholas, with a more sprightly19 air; ‘neither did I come here tobewail my lot, but on matter more to the purpose. I wish to meetmy uncle face to face. I should tell you that first.’
‘Then all I have to say about that is,’ interposed Miss La Creevy,‘that I don’t envy you your taste; and that sitting in the same roomwith his very boots, would put me out of humour for a fortnight.’
‘In the main,’ said Nicholas, ‘there may be no great difference ofopinion between you and me, so far; but you will understand, thatI desire to confront him, to justify20 myself, and to cast his duplicityand malice21 in his throat.’
‘That’s quite another matter,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy. ‘Heavenforgive me; but I shouldn’t cry my eyes quite out of my head, ifthey choked him. Well?’
‘To this end, I called upon him this morning,’ said Nicholas. ‘Heonly returned to town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of hisarrival until late last night.’
‘And did you see him?’ asked Miss La Creevy.
‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He had gone out.’
‘Hah!’ said Miss La Creevy; ‘on some kind, charitable business,I dare say.’
‘I have reason to believe,’ pursued Nicholas, ‘from what hasbeen told me, by a friend of mine who is acquainted with hismovements, that he intends seeing my mother and sister today,and giving them his version of the occurrences that have befallenme. I will meet him there.’
‘That’s right,’ said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands. ‘And yet,I don’t know,’ she added, ‘there is much to be thought of—othersto be considered.’
‘I have considered others,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘but as honesty and honour are both at issue, nothing shall deter22 me.’
‘You should know best,’ said Miss La Creevy.
‘In this case I hope so,’ answered Nicholas. ‘And all I want youto do for me, is, to prepare them for my coming. They think me along way off, and if I went wholly unexpected, I should frightenthem. If you can spare time to tell them that you have seen me,and that I shall be with them in a quarter of an hour afterwards,you will do me a great service.’
‘I wish I could do you, or any of you, a greater,’ said Miss LaCreevy; ‘but the power to serve, is as seldom joined with the will,as the will is with the power, I think.’
Talking on very fast and very much, Miss La Creevy finishedher breakfast with great expedition, put away the tea-caddy andhid the key under the fender, resumed her bonnet23, and, takingNicholas’s arm, sallied forth24 at once to the city. Nicholas left hernear the door of his mother’s house, and promised to return withina quarter of an hour.
It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for hisown purposes, to communicate the atrocities25 of which Nicholashad been guilty, had (instead of first proceeding26 to anotherquarter of the town on business, as Newman Noggs supposed hewould) gone straight to his sister-in-law. Hence, when Miss LaCreevy, admitted by a girl who was cleaning the house, made herway to the sitting-room27, she found Mrs Nickleby and Kate in tears,and Ralph just concluding his statement of his nephew’smisdemeanours. Kate beckoned28 her not to retire, and Miss LaCreevy took a seat in silence.
‘You are here already, are you, my gentleman?’ thought thelittle woman. ‘Then he shall announce himself, and see what effect that has on you.’
‘This is pretty,’ said Ralph, folding up Miss Squeers’s note;‘very pretty. I recommend him—against all my previousconviction, for I knew he would never do any good—to a man withwhom, behaving himself properly, he might have remained, incomfort, for years. What is the result? Conduct for which he mighthold up his hand at the Old Bailey.’
‘I never will believe it,’ said Kate, indignantly; ‘never. It is somebase conspiracy29, which carries its own falsehood with it.’
‘My dear,’ said Ralph, ‘you wrong the worthy30 man. These arenot inventions. The man is assaulted, your brother is not to befound; this boy, of whom they speak, goes with him—remember,remember.’
‘It is impossible,’ said Kate. ‘Nicholas!—and a thief too! Mama,how can you sit and hear such statements?’
Poor Mrs Nickleby, who had, at no time, been remarkable31 forthe possession of a very clear understanding, and who had beenreduced by the late changes in her affairs to a most complicatedstate of perplexity, made no other reply to this earnestremonstrance than exclaiming from behind a mass of pocket-handkerchief, that she never could have believed it—thereby mostingeniously leaving her hearers to suppose that she did believe it.
‘It would be my duty, if he came in my way, to deliver him up tojustice,’ said Ralph, ‘my bounden duty; I should have no othercourse, as a man of the world and a man of business, to pursue.
And yet,’ said Ralph, speaking in a very marked manner, andlooking furtively33, but fixedly34, at Kate, ‘and yet I would not. I wouldspare the feelings of his—of his sister. And his mother of course,’
added Ralph, as though by an afterthought, and with far less emphasis.
Kate very well understood that this was held out as anadditional inducement to her to preserve the strictest silenceregarding the events of the preceding night. She lookedinvoluntarily towards Ralph as he ceased to speak, but he hadturned his eyes another way, and seemed for the moment quiteunconscious of her presence.
‘Everything,’ said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only byMrs Nickleby’s sobs35, ’everything combines to prove the truth ofthis letter, if indeed there were any possibility of disputing it. Doinnocent men steal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulkin hiding-places, like outlaws36? Do innocent men inveigle37 namelessvagabonds, and prowl with them about the country as idle robbersdo? Assault, riot, theft, what do you call these?’
‘A lie!’ cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholascame into the room.
In the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralphrose from his seat, and fell back a few paces, quite taken off hisguard by this unexpected apparition38. In another moment, hestood, fixed16 and immovable with folded arms, regarding hisnephew with a scowl39; while Kate and Miss La Creevy threwthemselves between the two, to prevent the personal violencewhich the fierce excitement of Nicholas appeared to threaten.
‘Dear Nicholas,’ cried his sister, clinging to him. ‘Be calm,consider—’
‘Consider, Kate!’ cried Nicholas, clasping her hand so tight inthe tumult40 of his anger, that she could scarcely bear the pain.
‘When I consider all, and think of what has passed, I need be madeof iron to stand before him.’
‘Or bronze,’ said Ralph, quietly; ‘there is not hardihood enoughin flesh and blood to face it out.’
‘Oh dear, dear!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, ‘that things should havecome to such a pass as this!’
‘Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and broughtdisgrace on them?’ said Nicholas, looking round.
‘Your mother, sir,’ replied Ralph, motioning towards her.
‘Whose ears have been poisoned by you,’ said Nicholas; ‘byyou—who, under pretence41 of deserving the thanks she pouredupon you, heaped every insult, wrong, and indignity42 upon myhead. You, who sent me to a den32 where sordid43 cruelty, worthy ofyourself, runs wanton, and youthful misery44 stalks precocious;where the lightness of childhood shrinks into the heaviness of age,and its every promise blights45, and withers46 as it grows. I callHeaven to witness,’ said Nicholas, looking eagerly round, ‘that Ihave seen all this, and that he knows it.’
‘Refute these calumnies,’ said Kate, ‘and be more patient, sothat you may give them no advantage. Tell us what you really did,and show that they are untrue.’
‘Of what do they—or of what does he—accuse me?’ saidNicholas.
‘First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace17 ofqualifying yourself to be tried for murder,’ interposed Ralph. ‘Ispeak plainly, young man, bluster47 as you will.’
‘I interfered,’ said Nicholas, ‘to save a miserable48 creature fromthe vilest49 cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted50 such punishment upon awretch as he will not readily forget, though far less than hedeserved from me. If the same scene were renewed before menow, I would take the same part; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such marks as he should carry to hisgrave, go to it when he would.’
‘You hear?’ said Ralph, turning to Mrs Nickleby. ‘Penitence,this!’
‘Oh dear me!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, ‘I don’t know what to think, Ireally don’t.’
‘Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat51 you,’ said Kate. ‘DearNicholas, I only tell you, that you may know what wickedness canprompt, but they accuse you of—a ring is missing, and they dare tosay that—’
‘The woman,’ said Nicholas, haughtily52, ‘the wife of the fellowfrom whom these charges come, dropped—as I suppose—aworthless ring among some clothes of mine, early in the morningon which I left the house. At least, I know that she was in thebedroom where they lay, struggling with an unhappy child, andthat I found it when I opened my bundle on the road. I returned it,at once, by coach, and they have it now.’
‘I knew, I knew,’ said Kate, looking towards her uncle. ‘Aboutthis boy, love, in whose company they say you left?’
‘The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality53 and hardusage, is with me now,’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘You hear?’ said Ralph, appealing to the mother again,’everything proved, even upon his own confession54. Do you chooseto restore that boy, sir?’
‘No, I do not,’ replied Nicholas.
‘You do not?’ sneered55 Ralph.
‘No,’ repeated Nicholas, ‘not to the man with whom I foundhim. I would that I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: Imight wring56 something from his sense of shame, if he were dead to every tie of nature.’
‘Indeed!’ said Ralph. ‘Now, sir, will you hear a word or two fromme?’
‘You can speak when and what you please,’ replied Nicholas,embracing his sister. ‘I take little heed57 of what you say orthreaten.’
‘Mighty well, sir,’ retorted Ralph; ‘but perhaps it may concernothers, who may think it worth their while to listen, and considerwhat I tell them. I will address your mother, sir, who knows theworld.’
‘Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn’t,’ sobbed58 Mrs Nickleby.
There really was no necessity for the good lady to be muchdistressed upon this particular head; the extent of her worldlyknowledge being, to say the least, very questionable59; and so Ralphseemed to think, for he smiled as she spoke60. He then glancedsteadily at her and Nicholas by turns, as he delivered himself inthese words:
‘Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma’am,and my niece, I say not one syllable61. I held out no promise, andleave you to judge for yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I saythat this boy, headstrong, wilful62 and disorderly as he is, should nothave one penny of my money, or one crust of my bread, or onegrasp of my hand, to save him from the loftiest gallows63 in allEurope. I will not meet him, come where he comes, or hear hisname. I will not help him, or those who help him. With a fullknowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has comeback in his selfish sloth64, to be an aggravation65 of your wants, and aburden upon his sister’s scanty66 wages. I regret to leave you, andmore to leave her, now, but I will not encourage this compound of meanness and cruelty, and, as I will not ask you to renounce67 him, Isee you no more.’
If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding thosehe hated, his glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in allits force, as he proceeded in the above address. Innocent as theyoung man was of all wrong, every artful insinuation stung, everywell-considered sarcasm68 cut him to the quick; and when Ralphnoted his pale face and quivering lip, he hugged himself to markhow well he had chosen the taunts69 best calculated to strike deepinto a young and ardent70 spirit.
‘I can’t help it,’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘I know you have been verygood to us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. Iam quite sure of that; I know you did, and it was very kind of you,having her at your house and all—and of course it would havebeen a great thing for her and for me too. But I can’t, you know,brother-in-law, I can’t renounce my own son, even if he has doneall you say he has—it’s not possible; I couldn’t do it; so we must goto rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can bear it, I dare say.’ Pouringforth these and a perfectly71 wonderful train of other disjointedexpressions of regret, which no mortal power but Mrs Nickleby’scould ever have strung together, that lady wrung72 her hands, andher tears fell faster.
‘Why do you say “IF Nicholas has done what they say he has,”
mama?’ asked Kate, with honest anger. ‘You know he has not.’
‘I don’t know what to think, one way or other, my dear,’ saidMrs Nickleby; ‘Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so muchcomposure, that I can only hear what he says, and not whatNicholas does. Never mind, don’t let us talk any more about it. Wecan go to the Workhouse, or the Refuge for the Destitute73, or the 370Magdalen Hospital, I dare say; and the sooner we go the better.’
With this extraordinary jumble74 of charitable institutions, MrsNickleby again gave way to her tears.
‘Stay,’ said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. ‘You need not leavethis place, sir, for it will be relieved of my presence in one minute,and it will be long, very long, before I darken these doors again.’
‘Nicholas,’ cried Kate, throwing herself on her brother’sshoulder, ‘do not say so. My dear brother, you will break my heart.
Mama, speak to him. Do not mind her, Nicholas; she does notmean it, you should know her better. Uncle, somebody, forHeaven’s sake speak to him.’
‘I never meant, Kate,’ said Nicholas, tenderly, ‘I never meant tostay among you; think better of me than to suppose it possible. Imay turn my back on this town a few hours sooner than Iintended, but what of that? We shall not forget each other apart,and better days will come when we shall part no more. Be awoman, Kate,’ he whispered, proudly, ‘and do not make me one,while he looks on.’
‘No, no, I will not,’ said Kate, eagerly, ‘but you will not leave us.
Oh! think of all the happy days we have had together, before theseterrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the comfort andhappiness of home, and the trials we have to bear now; of ourhaving no protector under all the slights and wrongs that povertyso much favours, and you cannot leave us to bear them alone,without one hand to help us.’
‘You will be helped when I am away,’ replied Nicholashurriedly. ‘I am no help to you, no protector; I should bring younothing but sorrow, and want, and suffering. My own mother seesit, and her fondness and fears for you, point to the course that I should take. And so all good angels bless you, Kate, till I can carryyou to some home of mine, where we may revive the happinessdenied to us now, and talk of these trials as of things gone by. Donot keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear girl—deargirl.’
The grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swoonedin his arms. Nicholas stooped over her for a few seconds, andplacing her gently in a chair, confided75 her to their honest friend.
‘I need not entreat your sympathy,’ he said, wringing76 her hand,‘for I know your nature. You will never forget them.’
He stepped up to Ralph, who remained in the same attitudewhich he had preserved throughout the interview, and moved nota finger.
‘Whatever step you take, sir,’ he said, in a voice inaudiblebeyond themselves, ‘I shall keep a strict account of. I leave them toyou, at your desire. There will be a day of reckoning sooner orlater, and it will be a heavy one for you if they are wronged.’
Ralph did not allow a muscle of his face to indicate that heheard one word of this parting address. He hardly knew that it wasconcluded, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely made up her mind todetain her son by force if necessary, when Nicholas was gone.
As he hurried through the streets to his obscure lodging,seeking to keep pace, as it were, with the rapidity of the thoughtswhich crowded upon him, many doubts and hesitations77 arose inhis mind, and almost tempted78 him to return. But what would theygain by this? Supposing he were to put Ralph Nickleby atdefiance, and were even fortunate enough to obtain some smallemployment, his being with them could only render their presentcondition worse, and might greatly impair79 their future prospects80; for his mother had spoken of some new kindnesses towards Katewhich she had not denied. ‘No,’ thought Nicholas, ‘I have acted forthe best.’
But, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other anddifferent feeling would come upon him, and then he would lagagain, and pulling his hat over his eyes, give way to themelancholy reflections which pressed thickly upon him. To havecommitted no fault, and yet to be so entirely alone in the world; tobe separated from the only persons he loved, and to be proscribedlike a criminal, when six months ago he had been surrounded byevery comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of his family—this was hard to bear. He had not deserved it either. Well, therewas comfort in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up again,to be again depressed81, as his quickly shifting thoughts presentedevery variety of light and shade before him.
Undergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving82, which noone, placed in a situation of ordinary trial, can fail to haveexperienced, Nicholas at length reached his poor room, where, nolonger borne up by the excitement which had hitherto sustainedhim, but depressed by the revulsion of feeling it left behind, hethrew himself on the bed, and turning his face to the wall, gavefree vent7 to the emotions he had so long stifled83.
He had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of thepresence of Smike, until, happening to raise his head, he saw him,standing at the upper end of the room, looking wistfully towardshim. He withdrew his eyes when he saw that he was observed, andaffected to be busied with some scanty preparations for dinner.
‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, ‘letme hear what new acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new wonder you have found out, in the compass of this streetand the next one.’
‘No,’ said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; ‘I must talk ofsomething else today.’
‘Of what you like,’ replied Nicholas, good-humouredly.
‘Of this,’ said Smike. ‘I know you are unhappy, and have gotinto great trouble by bringing me away. I ought to have knownthat, and stopped behind—I would, indeed, if I had thought itthen. You—you—are not rich; you have not enough for yourself,and I should not be here. You grow,’ said the lad, laying his handtimidly on that of Nicholas, ‘you grow thinner every day; yourcheek is paler, and your eye more sunk. Indeed I cannot bear tosee you so, and think how I am burdening you. I tried to go awaytoday, but the thought of your kind face drew me back. I could notleave you without a word.’ The poor fellow could say no more, forhis eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
‘The word which separates us,’ said Nicholas, grasping himheartily by the shoulder, ‘shall never be said by me, for you are myonly comfort and stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all theworld could give. The thought of you has upheld me through all Ihave endured today, and shall, through fifty times such trouble.
Give me your hand. My heart is linked to yours. We will journeyfrom this place together, before the week is out. What, if I amsteeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we will be poor together.’
收听单词发音 |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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bustling
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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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humble
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contented
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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ace
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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sprightly
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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beckoned
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| 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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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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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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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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blights
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| 使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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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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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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72
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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76
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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77
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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81
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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82
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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83
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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