The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told.
Instead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first streetcabriolet he could find, and, directing the driver towards thepolice-office of the district in which Mr Squeers’s misfortuneshad occurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, dischargingthe man, went the rest of his way thither1 on foot. Inquiring for theobject of his solicitude2, he learnt that he had timed his visit well;for Mr Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for a hackneycoach he had ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding3 to hisweek’s retirement4, like a gentleman.
Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered5 into akind of waiting-room in which, by reason of his scholasticprofession and superior respectability, Mr Squeers had beenpermitted to pass the day. Here, by the light of a guttering6 andblackened candle, he could barely discern the schoolmaster, fastasleep on a bench in a remote corner. An empty glass stood on atable before him, which, with his somnolent7 condition and a verystrong smell of brandy and water, forewarned the visitor that MrSqueers had been seeking, in creature comforts, a temporaryforgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.
It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic8 andheavy were his slumbers9. Regaining10 his faculties11 by slow and faintglimmerings, he at length sat upright; and, displaying a veryyellow face, a very red nose, and a very bristly beard: the jointeffect of which was considerably12 heightened by a dirty white 1093handkerchief, spotted13 with blood, drawn14 over the crown of hishead and tied under his chin: stared ruefully at Ralph in silence,until his feelings found a vent16 in this pithy17 sentence:
‘I say, young fellow, you’ve been and done it now; you have!’
‘What’s the matter with your head?’ asked Ralph.
‘Why, your man, your informing kidnapping man, has been andbroke it,’ rejoined Squeers sulkily; ‘that’s what’s the matter with it.
You’ve come at last, have you?’
‘Why have you not sent to me?’ said Ralph. ‘How could I cometill I knew what had befallen you?’
‘My family!’ hiccuped18 Mr Squeers, raising his eye to the ceiling:
‘my daughter, as is at that age when all the sensibilities is a-coming out strong in blow—my son as is the young Norval ofprivate life, and the pride and ornament19 of a doting20 willage—here’s a shock for my family! The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses istore, and their sun is gone down into the ocean wave!’
‘You have been drinking,’ said Ralph, ‘and have not yet sleptyourself sober.’
‘I haven’t been drinking your health, my codger,’ replied MrSqueers; ‘so you have nothing to do with that.’
Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster’saltered and insolent21 manner awakened22, and asked again why hehad not sent to him.
‘What should I get by sending to you?’ returned Squeers. ‘To beknown to be in with you wouldn’t do me a deal of good, and theywon’t take bail23 till they know something more of the case, so heream I hard and fast: and there are you, loose and comfortable.’
‘And so must you be in a few days,’ retorted Ralph, withaffected good-humour. ‘They can’t hurt you, man.’
1094‘Why, I suppose they can’t do much to me, if I explain how itwas that I got into the good company of that there cadaverous oldSlider,’ replied Squeers viciously, ‘who I wish was dead andburied, and resurrected and dissected24, and hung upon wires in aanatomical museum, before ever I’d had anything to do with her.
This is what him with the powdered head says this morning, in somany words: “Prisoner! As you have been found in company withthis woman; as you were detected in possession of this document;as you were engaged with her in fraudulently destroying others,and can give no satisfactory account of yourself; I shall remandyou for a week, in order that inquiries25 may be made, and evidencegot. And meanwhile I can’t take any bail for your appearance.”
Well then, what I say now is, that I can give a satisfactory accountof myself; I can hand in the card of my establishment and say, “Iam the Wackford Squeers as is therein named, sir. I am the manas is guaranteed, by unimpeachable26 references, to be a out-andouter in morals and uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong inthis business is no fault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I wasnot aware that anything was wrong. I was merely employed by afriend, my friend Mr Ralph Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send forhim, sir, and ask him what he has to say; he’s the man; not me!”’
‘What document was it that you had?’ asked Ralph, evading28, forthe moment, the point just raised.
‘What document? Why, the document,’ replied Squeers. ‘TheMadeline What’s-her-name one. It was a will; that’s what it was.’
‘Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, towhat extent?’ asked Ralph hurriedly.
‘A will in her favour; that’s all I know,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘andthat’s more than you’d have known, if you’d had them bellows30 on 1095your head. It’s all owing to your precious caution that they gothold of it. If you had let me burn it, and taken my word that it wasgone, it would have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, instead ofbeing whole and sound, inside of my great-coat.’
‘Beaten at every point!’ muttered Ralph.
‘Ah!’ sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water andhis broken head, wandered strangely, ‘at the delightful31 village ofDotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded,clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, providedwith all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead,mathematics, orthography32, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry—this is a altered state of trigonomics, this is! A double 1—all,everything—a cobbler’s weapon. U-p-up, adjective, not down. S-qu-double e-r-s-Squeers, noun substantive33, a educator of youth.
Total, all up with Squeers!’
His running on, in this way, had afforded Ralph an opportunityof recovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested tohim the necessity of removing, as far as possible, theschoolmaster’s misgivings34, and leading him to believe that hissafety and best policy lay in the preservation35 of a rigid36 silence.
‘I tell you, once again,’ he said, ‘they can’t hurt you. You shallhave an action for false imprisonment37, and make a profit of this,yet. We will devise a story for you that should carry you throughtwenty times such a trivial scrape as this; and if they want securityin a thousand pounds for your reappearance in case you should becalled upon, you shall have it. All you have to do is, to keep backthe truth. You’re a little fuddled tonight, and may not be able tosee this as clearly as you would at another time; but this is whatyou must do, and you’ll need all your senses about you; for a slip 1096might be awkward.’
‘Oh!’ said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with hishead stuck on one side, like an old raven38. ‘That’s what I’m to do, isit? Now then, just you hear a word or two from me. I an’t a-goingto have any stories made for me, and I an’t a-going to stick to any.
If I find matters going again me, I shall expect you to take yourshare, and I’ll take care you do. You never said anything aboutdanger. I never bargained for being brought into such a plight39 asthis, and I don’t mean to take it as quiet as you think. I let you leadme on, from one thing to another, because we had been mixed uptogether in a certain sort of a way, and if you had liked to be ill-natured you might perhaps have hurt the business, and if youliked to be good-natured you might throw a good deal in my way.
Well; if all goes right now, that’s quite correct, and I don’t mind it;but if anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I shall justsay and do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advicefrom nobody. My moral influence with them lads,’ added MrSqueers, with deeper gravity, ‘is a tottering40 to its basis. Theimages of Mrs Squeers, my daughter, and my son Wackford, allshort of vittles, is perpetually before me; every other considerationmelts away and vanishes, in front of these; the only number in allarithmetic that I know of, as a husband and a father, is numberone, under this here most fatal go!’
How long Mr Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy adiscussion his declamation41 might have led to, nobody knows.
Being interrupted, at this point, by the arrival of the coach and anattendant who was to bear him company, he perched his hat withgreat dignity on the top of the handkerchief that bound his head;and, thrusting one hand in his pocket, and taking the attendant’s 1097arm with the other, suffered himself to be led forth29.
‘As I supposed from his not sending!’ thought Ralph. ‘Thisfellow, I plainly see through all his tipsy fooling, has made up hismind to turn upon me. I am so beset42 and hemmed43 in, that they arenot only all struck with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable44, havetheir fling at me now, though time was, and no longer ago thanyesterday too, when they were all civility and compliance45. But theyshall not move me. I’ll not give way. I will not budge46 one inch!’
He went home, and was glad to find his housekeepercomplaining of illness, that he might have an excuse for beingalone and sending her away to where she lived: which was hardby. Then, he sat down by the light of a single candle, and began tothink, for the first time, on all that had taken place that day.
He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, inaddition to the anxiety of mind he had undergone, had beentravelling about, from place to place almost incessantly47, for manyhours. He felt sick and exhausted48, but could taste nothing save aglass of water, and continued to sit with his head upon his hand;not resting nor thinking, but laboriously49 trying to do both, andfeeling that every sense but one of weariness and desolation, wasfor the time benumbed.
It was nearly ten o’clock when he heard a knocking at the door,and still sat quiet as before, as if he could not even bring histhoughts to bear upon that. It had been often repeated, and hehad, several times, heard a voice outside, saying there was a lightin the window (meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before hecould rouse himself and go downstairs.
‘Mr Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent tobeg you will come with me directly,’ said a voice he seemed to 1098recognise. He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, sawTim Linkinwater on the steps.
‘Come where?’ demanded Ralph.
‘To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coachhere.’
‘Why should I go there?’ said Ralph.
‘Don’t ask me why, but pray come with me.’
‘Another edition of today!’ returned Ralph, making as thoughhe would shut the door.
‘No, no!’ cried Tim, catching50 him by the arm and speaking mostearnestly; ‘it is only that you may hear something that hasoccurred: something very dreadful, Mr Nickleby, which concernsyou nearly. Do you think I would tell you so or come to you likethis, if it were not the case?’
Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeedgreatly excited, he faltered51, and could not tell what to say or think.
‘You had better hear this now, than at any other time,’ saidTim; ‘it may have some influence with you. For Heaven’s sakecome!’
Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph’s obstinacy52 and dislike wouldhave been proof against any appeal from such a quarter, howeveremphatically urged; but now, after a moment’s hesitation53, he wentinto the hall for his hat, and returning, got into the coach withoutspeaking a word.
Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as RalphNickleby went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by thelight of the candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel andstagger like a drunken man. He well remembered, too, that whenhe had placed his foot upon the coach-steps, he turned round and 1099looked upon him with a face so ashy pale and so very wild andvacant that it made him shudder54, and for the moment almostafraid to follow. People were fond of saying that he had some darkpresentiment upon him then, but his emotion might, perhaps, withgreater show of reason, be referred to what he had undergone thatday.
A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived attheir place of destination, Ralph followed his conductor into thehouse, and into a room where the two brothers were. He was soastounded, not to say awed55, by something of a mute compassionfor himself which was visible in their manner and in that of the oldclerk, that he could scarcely speak.
Having taken a seat, however, he contrived57 to say, though inbroken words, ‘What—what have you to say to me—more than hasbeen said already?’
The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, andterminated in a bay window, about which hung some heavydrapery. Casting his eyes in this direction as he spoke58, he thoughthe made out the dusky figure of a man. He was confirmed in thisimpression by seeing that the object moved, as if uneasy under hisscrutiny.
‘Who’s that yonder?’ he said.
‘One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, theintelligence which caused our sending to you,’ replied brotherCharles. ‘Let him be, sir, let him be for the present.’
‘More riddles59!’ said Ralph, faintly. ‘Well, sir?’
In turning his face towards the brothers he was obliged to avertit from the window; but, before either of them could speak, he hadlooked round again. It was evident that he was rendered restless 1100and uncomfortable by the presence of the unseen person; for herepeated this action several times, and at length, as if in a nervousstate which rendered him positively60 unable to turn away from theplace, sat so as to have it opposite him, muttering as an excusethat he could not bear the light.
The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their mannershowing that they were agitated61. Ralph glanced at them twice orthrice, and ultimately said, with a great effort to recover his self-possession, ‘Now, what is this? If I am brought from home at thistime of night, let it be for something. What have you got to tellme?’ After a short pause, he added, ‘Is my niece dead?’
He had struck upon a key which rendered the task ofcommencement an easier one. Brother Charles turned, and saidthat it was a death of which they had to tell him, but that his niecewas well.
‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ said Ralph, as his eyes brightened,‘that her brother’s dead? No, that’s too good. I’d not believe it, ifyou told me so. It would be too welcome news to be true.’
‘Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural62 man,’ cried theother brother, warmly. ‘Prepare yourself for intelligence which, ifyou have any human feeling in your breast, will make even youshrink and tremble. What if we tell you that a poor unfortunateboy: a child in everything but never having known one of thosetender endearments63, or one of those lightsome hours which makeour childhood a time to be remembered like a happy dreamthrough all our after life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionatecreature, who never offended you, or did you wrong, but on whomyou have vented64 the malice65 and hatred66 you have conceived foryour nephew, and whom you have made an instrument for 1101wreaking your bad passions upon him: what if we tell you that,sinking under your persecution67, sir, and the misery68 and ill-usageof a life short in years but long in suffering, this poor creature hasgone to tell his sad tale where, for your part in it, you must surelyanswer?’
‘If you tell me,’ said Ralph; ‘if you tell me that he is dead, Iforgive you all else. If you tell me that he is dead, I am in your debtand bound to you for life. He is! I see it in your faces. Whotriumphs now? Is this your dreadful news; this your terribleintelligence? You see how it moves me. You did well to send. Iwould have travelled a hundred miles afoot, through mud, mire,and darkness, to hear this news just at this time.’
Even then, moved as he was by this savage69 joy, Ralph could seein the faces of the two brothers, mingling70 with their look of disgustand horror, something of that indefinable compassion56 for himselfwhich he had noticed before.
‘And he brought you the intelligence, did he?’ said Ralph,pointing with his finger towards the recess71 already mentioned;‘and sat there, no doubt, to see me prostrated72 and overwhelmed byit! Ha, ha, ha! But I tell him that I’ll be a sharp thorn in his side formany a long day to come; and I tell you two, again, that you don’tknow him yet; and that you’ll rue15 the day you took compassion onthe vagabond.’
‘You take me for your nephew,’ said a hollow voice; ‘it would bebetter for you, and for me too, if I were he indeed.’
The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowlydown. He started back, for he found that he confronted—notNicholas, as he had supposed, but Brooker.
Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had 1102never feared him before; but the pallor which had been observedin his face when he issued forth that night, came upon him again.
He was seen to tremble, and his voice changed as he said, keepinghis eyes upon him,‘What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, afelon, a common thief?’
‘Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr Nickleby, hear what hehas to tell you, be he what he may!’ cried the brothers, with suchemphatic earnestness, that Ralph turned to them in wonder. Theypointed to Brooker. Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemedmechanically.
‘That boy,’ said the man, ‘that these gentlemen have beentalking of—’
‘That boy,’ repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
‘Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who isnow in his grave—’
‘Who is now in his grave,’ echoed Ralph, like one who talks inhis sleep.
The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnlytogether:
‘—Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!’
In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his twohands upon his temples. He removed them, after a minute, andnever was there seen, part of a living man undisfigured by anywound, such a ghastly face as he then disclosed. He looked atBrooker, who was by this time standing73 at a short distance fromhim; but did not say one word, or make the slightest sound orgesture.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the man, ‘I offer no excuses for myself. I am 1103long past that. If, in telling you how this has happened, I tell youthat I was harshly used, and perhaps driven out of my real nature,I do it only as a necessary part of my story, and not to shieldmyself. I am a guilty man.’
He stopped, as if to recollect75, and looking away from Ralph, andaddressing himself to the brothers, proceeded in a subdued76 andhumble tone:
‘Among those who once had dealings with this man,gentlemen—that’s from twenty to five-and-twenty years ago—there was one: a rough fox-hunting, hard-drinking gentleman, whohad run through his own fortune, and wanted to squander78 awaythat of his sister: they were both orphans79, and she lived with himand managed his house. I don’t know whether it was, originally, toback his influence and try to over-persuade the young woman ornot, but he,’ pointing, to Ralph, ‘used to go down to the house inLeicestershire pretty often, and stop there many days at a time.
They had had a great many dealings together, and he may havegone on some of those, or to patch up his client’s affairs, whichwere in a ruinous state; of course he went for profit. Thegentlewoman was not a girl, but she was, I have heard say,handsome, and entitled to a pretty large property. In course oftime, he married her. The same love of gain which led him tocontract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly80 private; for aclause in her father’s will declared that if she married without herbrother’s consent, the property, in which she had only some lifeinterest while she remained single, should pass away altogether toanother branch of the family. The brother would give no consentthat the sister didn’t buy, and pay for handsomely; Mr Nicklebywould consent to no such sacrifice; and so they went on, keeping 1104their marriage secret, and waiting for him to break his neck or dieof a fever. He did neither, and meanwhile the result of this privatemarriage was a son. The child was put out to nurse, a long way off;his mother never saw him but once or twice, and then by stealth;and his father—so eagerly did he thirst after the money whichseemed to come almost within his grasp now, for his brother-inlaw was very ill, and breaking more and more every day—neverwent near him, to avoid raising any suspicion. The brotherlingered on; Mr Nickleby’s wife constantly urged him to avow81 theirmarriage; he peremptorily82 refused. She remained alone in a dullcountry house: seeing little or no company but riotous83, drunkensportsmen. He lived in London and clung to his business. Angryquarrels and recriminations took place, and when they had beenmarried nearly seven years, and were within a few weeks of thetime when the brother’s death would have adjusted all, she elopedwith a younger man, and left him.’
Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signedto him to proceed.
‘It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstancesfrom his own lips. They were no secrets then; for the brother, andothers, knew them; but they were communicated to me, not onthis account, but because I was wanted. He followed the fugitives84.
Some said to make money of his wife’s shame, but, I believe, totake some violent revenge, for that was as much his character asthe other; perhaps more. He didn’t find them, and she died notlong after. I don’t know whether he began to think he might likethe child, or whether he wished to make sure that it should neverfall into its mother’s hands; but, before he went, he intrusted mewith the charge of bringing it home. And I did so.’
1105He went on, from this point, in a still more humble77 tone, andspoke in a very low voice; pointing to Ralph as he resumed.
‘He had used me ill—cruelly—I reminded him in what, not longago when I met him in the street—and I hated him. I brought thechild home to his own house, and lodged85 him in the front garret.
Neglect had made him very sickly, and I was obliged to call in adoctor, who said he must be removed for change of air, or hewould die. I think that first put it in my head. I did it then. He wasgone six weeks, and when he came back, I told him—with everycircumstance well planned and proved; nobody could havesuspected me—that the child was dead and buried. He might havebeen disappointed in some intention he had formed, or he mighthave had some natural affection, but he was grieved at that, and Iwas confirmed in my design of opening up the secret one day, andmaking it a means of getting money from him. I had heard, likemost other men, of Yorkshire schools. I took the child to one keptby a man named Squeers, and left it there. I gave him the name ofSmike. Year by year, I paid twenty pounds a-year for him for sixyears; never breathing the secret all the time; for I had left hisfather’s service after more hard usage, and quarrelled with himagain. I was sent away from this country. I have been away nearlyeight years. Directly I came home again, I travelled down intoYorkshire, and, skulking86 in the village of an evening-time, madeinquiries about the boys at the school, and found that this one,whom I had placed there, had run away with a young man bearingthe name of his own father. I sought his father out in London, andhinting at what I could tell him, tried for a little money to supportlife; but he repulsed87 me with threats. I then found out his clerk,and, going on from little to little, and showing him that there were 1106good reasons for communicating with me, learnt what was goingon; and it was I who told him that the boy was no son of the manwho claimed to be his father. All this time I had never seen theboy. At length, I heard from this same source that he was very ill,and where he was. I travelled down there, that I might recallmyself, if possible, to his recollection and confirm my story. I cameupon him unexpectedly; but before I could speak he knew me—hehad good cause to remember me, poor lad!—and I would havesworn to him if I had met him in the Indies. I knew the piteousface I had seen in the little child. After a few days’ indecision, Iapplied to the young gentleman in whose care he was, and I foundthat he was dead. He knows how quickly he recognised me again,how often he had described me and my leaving him at the school,and how he told him of a garret he recollected88: which is the one Ihave spoken of, and in his father’s house to this day. This is mystory. I demand to be brought face to face with the schoolmaster,and put to any possible proof of any part of it, and I will show thatit’s too true, and that I have this guilt74 upon my soul.’
‘Unhappy man!’ said the brothers. ‘What reparation can youmake for this?’
‘None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing tohope now. I am old in years, and older still in misery and care.
This confession89 can bring nothing upon me but new suffering andpunishment; but I make it, and will abide90 by it whatever comes. Ihave been made the instrument of working out this dreadfulretribution upon the head of a man who, in the hot pursuit of hisbad ends, has persecuted91 and hunted down his own child to death.
It must descend92 upon me too. I know it must fall. My reparationcomes too late; and, neither in this world nor in the next, can I 1107have hope again!’
He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon thetable close to where Ralph was seated, and which was the only onein the room, was thrown to the ground, and left them in darkness.
There was some trifling93 confusion in obtaining another light; theinterval was a mere27 nothing; but when the light appeared, RalphNickleby was gone.
The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time indiscussing the probability of his return; and, when it becameapparent that he would not come back, they hesitated whether orno to send after him. At length, remembering how strangely andsilently he had sat in one immovable position during the interview,and thinking he might possibly be ill, they determined94, although itwas now very late, to send to his house on some pretence95. Findingan excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom they knew not how todispose of without consulting his wishes, they concluded to actupon this resolution before going to bed.
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thither
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solicitude
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guttering
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somnolent
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lethargic
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slumbers
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regaining
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faculties
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considerably
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spotted
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drawn
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rue
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vent
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pithy
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hiccuped
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| v.嗝( hiccup的过去式和过去分词 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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ornament
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doting
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insolent
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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dissected
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| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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32
orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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34
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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41
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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52
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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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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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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71
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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73
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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74
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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75
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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76
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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77
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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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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79
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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80
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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81
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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83
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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84
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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85
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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86
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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90
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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91
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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92
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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93
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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95
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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