So the best course had seemed to be to send the fugitive14 packing, and nip this love-affair in the bud. And that was what Foxwell had supposed would result from the alternative offers. In any reasonable issue of the matter, there must have been separation for the lovers and sorrow for Georgiana. Would that sorrow be ultimately greater for the postponement15, and for the probable deepening of the attachment17 between the lovers? Perhaps; but Foxwell had not looked for this outcome. The cruelty of his little experiment upon the human passions, then, consisted in his exposing the young lover’s heart, and playing upon it, for the amusement of onlookers18. The cruelty of the intention was not lessened19 by the fact that Everell himself, wholly concerned as to his fate and his love, did not at the time see himself as a man exhibited and played upon.
Perhaps Foxwell and his friends underwent some self-reproach. However that be, it is certain they had the delicacy20 to refrain from spying or intruding21 upon the lovers during the week for which Everell had so devotedly22 bargained. The party of four went their way, and the party of two, attended by the faithful Prudence23, went theirs, both parties meeting twice or thrice each day at meals. On these occasions, a pleasant courtesy prevailed, and there was no rallying of the lovers, no inquisitive24 observation of them. Indeed it is doubtful if the feelings of young lovers were ever more nicely considered. The two found themselves always favoured by that conspiracy25 which good-natured people customarily form for the benefit of a young lady and her favoured suitor. Everell found that he was not even expected to remain at the table with the other gentlemen after the ladies had gone, nor was it required that he and Georgiana should join the latter at the tea-table or at cards. The lovers’ chief place of resort within the house was the library, a room quite neglected by the others, who preferred only the newest plays, poems, and magazines for their reading. In good weather the lovers sat in the old garden, or strolled in the park, Foxwell and his visitors going farther afield for their outdoor amusements, and receiving no company from the neighbourhood. Thus the young couple, from their meeting at breakfast to their parting at night, passed all the hours together, in a singular freedom from observant eyes.
We shall imitate Foxwell and his friends in this abstention from prying26; not because the love-making of the two young people is sacred from us, but because such love-making, interesting as it is to the participants, is sadly tedious to the spectator. The love-stories of actual people are interesting for the events that give rise to their love, and to which their love gives rise; not (excepting the critical moments of the awakening27, the unintentional disclosure, the first confession28, and such) for the regular course of its own manifestation29. The reader who has dreaded30 the slow account of a week’s love-making—the sighs, the gazes, the silences, the hand-holdings, the poutings, the forgivings, and all the rest—may breathe freely. The peculiar31 pathos32 of the situation of these young lovers—a pathos as yet perceptible only to Everell—did not much alter their conduct from that of other young lovers. For Everell made fair shift to put the future out of sight, to regard only the day: he was resolved not to look forward till the last hour of his term should arrive. As long as he was with Georgiana, he could keep to this: ’twas only when he had retired33 to his own chamber34 that visions of the approaching end would harass35 him in the darkness; only then would he count the hours that yet remained.
On the eventful night of his capture, and after Georgiana had retired, Everell had obtained Foxwell’s permission to communicate with John Tarby by means of the keeper, who, as he had learned from Tarby himself, was privately36 on excellent terms with the poacher. By this medium, then, Everell had taken leave of his former host with due expressions of thanks, both in words and in gold, and had obtained the cloak-bag containing his travelling equipment. Tarby had been left under the impression that the young gentleman, after being sheltered secretly for a time at Foxwell Court, was to proceed upon his journey.
That indeed was the impression of the servants at Foxwell Court, and of Georgiana herself. Everell did not tell her how long or short was to be his visit, and she, glad enough to postpone16 all thought of his departure, never broached37 the subject. Only once did he hint at the probability of his leaving her before many days. It was when, on Saturday evening, she spoke38 of going to church next day. “Nay,” he pleaded, with a sudden alarm in his eyes, “you will have Sundays enough for church-going, when I am not here.” It was not necessary to say more; but he had to feign39 excessive lightness of heart to quiet the vague apprehension40 his own earnestness had raised in her mind.
Foxwell and his friends appeared at church that Sunday without Georgiana. Her absence was noted41 by one important person, at least, for, after the service, Squire42 Thornby accosted43 Foxwell outside the church porch, with a lack of preliminary salutation, blurting44 out:
“How now, neighbour Foxwell, ’tis no illness, I hope, keeps Miss Foxwell home such a fine day?”
“No illness, thank you,” replied Foxwell, mildly; “nothing of consequence, that is: my niece slept rather badly last night, because of the wind.”
“I’m glad ’tis nothing serious. Tell her I said so, with my best compliments. Tell her she was missed. We could better ’a’ spared you, Foxwell,—and that’s a true word spoken in jest, if ever there was one.”
This pleasantry was accompanied by a smile of such confident insolence45 that the onlookers set their ears for the piercing retort they thought sure to come. It was on the tip of Foxwell’s tongue; but he checked it, dropped his eyes, and sought refuge in a feebly counterfeited46 laugh. His enemy looked around triumphantly47, and walked off. Foxwell, who saw nothing in the Squire’s concern for Georgiana but a pretext48 for rudeness to himself, digested his chagrin49 in silence, though aware of the surprised glances of Rashleigh and the ladies, to whom he had mentioned his former method of dealing50 with this booby.
The next morning, as Foxwell was about to set forth51 on horseback with his friends, the gamekeeper sought an interview. Being ordered to speak out, the man said that Squire Thornby’s people had again broken down the fence on t’other side of the four beeches52, and were busy putting it up again on the hither side. “Us were going to drive them back, and were a’most come to blows, when the Squire’s agent told us we’d best come first to your Honour, and see as if you hadn’t changed your mind about the rights o’ that bound’ry. He said it in such a manner, sir, as how I thought maybe there was some new agreement, or the courts had decided53, or something—begging pardon if I’m wrong, sir. So, after a few words, I thought I’d better see your Honour afore us starts a-breaking heads.”
Foxwell had been able to keep a clear brow, and to stifle54 a bitter sigh, but he could not prevent his face from turning a shade darker. His visitors, who had heard the keeper’s tale, looked with curiosity for the answer. After a moment’s silence, Foxwell said: “Oh, damn the fence!—’tis no matter:—yes, we’ve made a new agreement; let Thornby’s men alone,” and turned his horse to ride off with his guests.
He was by turns morose55 and excessively mirthful on that day’s excursion. In the afternoon, as the four were riding up the slope toward the house, they saw a mounted gentleman emerge through the gateway56. Nearing them, he proved to be Thornby. Foxwell dissembled his inward rage, and had sufficient self-command to greet his enemy with polite carelessness.
“I suppose you came to see me in regard to the fence,” he added, reining57 in his horse. His companions also stopped, on pretence58 of viewing the distant sun-bathed hills to the west; but they listened to what passed between their host and his foe59.
“Fence?” said Thornby. “Oh no, sir,—no need to see you in regard to that. I don’t consult anybody as to what I do on my own land—not even such a wise fellow as you, Foxwell.”
“Oh, I merely thought it required some particular occasion to persuade you to visit us at Foxwell Court. I heard you were—rebuilding the fence by the four beeches.”
“So I am, that’s true enough. I intend to do a considerable amount of rebuilding of that sort; but I sha’n’t need to come to Foxwell Court on that account. No; ’twas just the whim61 brought me to Foxwell Court to-day—just a neighbourly visit, that’s all.”
“Then pray turn back with us,” said Foxwell.
“No, thankye, sir. I’ve got business awaiting me at home. Glad to find Miss Foxwell is quite herself again.—No, I won’t trouble you in respect of my fences, Foxwell,—not me. Good evening to you.”
The Squire’s assured, derisive62 manner made his speeches doubly exasperating63. As Foxwell rode on with his guests, he could only suppose that his enemy had come to Foxwell Court for the purpose of exulting64 over him upon this new settlement of the old boundary dispute. As the reader knows, however, Foxwell Court had another attraction for Mr. Thornby. He had, in fact, rejoiced at Foxwell’s absence, and, upon arrival, had asked to see Miss Foxwell. The servant found her walking in the garden with Everell; but she sent her excuses to the visitor, whom she then casually65 described to Everell as a neighbour having some business with her uncle. But the servant presently returned, saying that Mr. Thornby declared his business important, and would come to her in the garden if it was a trouble for her to go to him in the house.
Fearing a second refusal might make the Squire too inquisitive, Georgiana obtained leave from Everell to go and get rid of this gentleman. As she entered the drawing-room, where Thornby waited, she began abruptly66 by saying that she was very much occupied, and that she hoped his business would not take many minutes.
“Why, now, I’ll tell you truth, Miss Foxwell,” was the reply, “’twas just for another glimpse of yourself that I came.”
“But you said important business,” answered Miss Foxwell, looking her displeasure.
“Well, and it was important to me. When I thought of you, I couldn’t let my horse pass the gate without turning in. To tell the truth again, ’twas the thought of you that made me ride in this here direction. You wasn’t at church yesterday—I’d been looking forward to see you there. For my life, I ha’n’t been able to get your face out of my head this whole week past, odd rabbit me if I have!—not that I ever wanted to, neither.” The rustic67 gentleman had lapsed68 into a state of red-faced confusion which at another time Georgiana would have pitied; but just now she was merciless in showing her annoyance69.
“I’m vastly flattered, Mr. Thornby; but you have come at a time when I’m very much taken up with my own affairs—very much taken up. So I beg you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, now, wait a minute, Miss Foxwell, as you’ve got a kind Christian70 heart. Why, rat me! if you knew as how I’ve pined to see you again since t’other day, I’ll warrant you’d never go to treat me so unneighbourly. If you knew as how—”
“Really I must go, Mr. Thornby,—really.”
“Why can’t we be neighbourly, Miss Foxwell,—us two? Your uncle and me ha’n’t always been sworn brothers, so to speak, but I think as how we shall be mending that; and if you’d only just—er—ah—be neighbourly like—”
“I’m perfectly71 willing we should be good neighbours, Mr. Thornby,—perfectly. But just now if you’ll do me the favour to excuse—”
“Ah, that’s what I hoped for from such a sweet, gentle face, Miss Foxwell. Perfectly willing to be good neighbours. You make me a happy man, by the lord Harry72, you do that! Ecod, if you knew as how I’ve laid awake nights this week past—”
Georgiana, convinced that fair means would not serve, feigned73 a sudden dizziness, which threw the Squire into such embarrassment74, as he knew nothing of what to do for a lady in a faint, that he was very glad to leave the field, though he manfully remained until she declared she was better and would entirely76 recover if left alone. As soon as she saw him ride out of the courtyard, she went back to Everell in the garden.
“How long you stayed!” said he.
“Nay, if you knew this gentleman!—so stupid, and repeating himself a hundred times:—and after all, ’twas nothing I could be of use in.”
Alluded77 to in this careless manner, the personality of Thornby awakened78 no curiosity in Everell’s mind. He vaguely79 remembered the name as that of a landowner in the neighbourhood, whom the innkeeper and John Tarby had mentioned. How glad Mr. Foxwell would have been could he have felt a like indifference80 with regard to the Squire! The reader is aware of their encounter as Thornby was riding down the slope that afternoon. As soon after that as Foxwell found himself alone with Rashleigh, his vexation broke out in words.
“Damn that Thornby! Damn, damn, damn him!”
“The gentleman you were accustomed to take down in company, didn’t you tell us?” said Rashleigh with marked innocence81.
“Ay, George, laugh at me: I deserve it, I own. But something has happened since I told you that. No doubt you remember, the fellow came to see me the other day. Do you know what he showed me then?”
“Not I—unless it was a list of men he had killed.”
“Alas, nothing of that sort. To make a long story short, years ago in London, when I was in bad straits, I wrote a foolish letter—imbecile that I was!—wrote it in the madness of anger, poverty, imprisonment,—in the recklessness of drink.”
“We make such blunders now and then, certainly,” was Rashleigh’s sage82 comment.
“I soon enough realized my blunder. The recipient83 of the letter—he is dead now—told me he had burnt it. It contained things I should be sorry to have everybody see.”
“But if it was burnt?”
“It wasn’t: there was trickery somewhere. And the letter is now in the possession of this Thornby. ’Tis the real letter—I recognized it. He will show it to the world if I provoke him. Till I can get it from him—and heaven knows how that is to be done: he is a cunning fellow, and on the qui vive—well, now you understand my meekness84. He really has me at his mercy—hardly less than I have the Jacobite yonder at mine.”
From the window the gentlemen could see Everell and Georgiana strolling within the verge85 of the park. As Foxwell evinced no mind to say more about Thornby or the letter, but rather seemed to dismiss them with a sigh of disgust, Rashleigh took the cue for a change of subject.
“Will you really hand over the Jacobite, after all, Bob?”
“I haven’t thought much of that matter,” replied Foxwell. “I frankly86 didn’t expect him to choose as he did.”
“His time is coming to an end,” said Rashleigh. “You will soon have to decide.”
“Why, deuce take it, has he not decided for himself? What can I do but hand him over? Were I to let him go free, he would probably be caught, nevertheless: in the end I should be in trouble for having harboured him.”
“You’ll pardon me, of course, for introducing the subject. We’ve all avoided it, as you set the example of doing. But to-day Lady Strange was hoping that you could find it in your heart to let the young fellow go.”
“Oh, I could find it in my heart; but should I find it to my interest? Several possibilities have occurred to me, but they all seem attended by risk or inconvenience. The safest and easiest course is clearly to observe both the law and our agreement. The man Filson is still in the village. He seems to have an instinct that his prey87 is in the neighbourhood—nay, as he looked at me yesterday at church, I could almost imagine he suspected something. He has a clue, perhaps. He told Caleb he might be hereabouts for another fortnight. So you see—well, I can make up my mind at the last moment if need be—one can always toss a coin. ’Tis time we were changing our clothes.”
On the afternoon of the last day of Everell’s week, something occurred to bring Foxwell to a decision without recourse to the toss of a coin. Georgiana having mentioned to Everell a miniature portrait of herself, he had eagerly expressed a desire to see it. He had thought she would send Prudence for it, but Georgiana, saying that she alone could find it, and that she would return in a minute, left Everell in the garden. As she entered the hall, on the way to her apartments, she saw her uncle there in the act of greeting Squire Thornby, who had evidently just dismounted from his horse. She curtsied, and essayed to pass swiftly to the stairs, but Thornby intervened.
“Nay, one moment, Miss Foxwell,” said he, with precipitation, and looking very red in the face. “I’m going to say something to your uncle that concerns you.” As he stood directly in her way, she had no choice but to stop. She did not conceal88 her impatience89. “It needn’t keep you long,” Thornby went on, “for I won’t beat about the bush. Mr. Foxwell, I may say without vanity I’m a man of some substance as fortunes go in this here part of the world. And, in course, you know I’m a bachelor. Not because I’m a woman-hater, but because, to be all open and aboveboard, I never yet saw the woman in these parts that I thought fit to be mistress of Thornby Hall—damn me if I ever did!”
“I can understand your feeling, Mr. Thornby,” said Foxwell, while the Squire paused and glared at both uncle and niece.
“That is to say,” resumed Thornby, “never till a few days ago. Ecod, it seems more than a few days, one way I look at it! I mean, I saw your niece—yes, you, Miss Foxwell, I say it to your face. Now the secret’s out. I hadn’t thought to come to the point so soon—I thought to go softly, and court the young lady awhile, and so forth—but hang me if I desire to wait and give somebody else a chance to carry off such a prize.—Well, what d’ye say, Miss Foxwell?”
Georgiana was quite too confounded to say anything.
“She says you do us a great honour, Mr. Thornby,” put in Foxwell, discreetly90; “a very great honour. My niece, I am sure, is fully75 sensible of the honour. But are you aware how small her fortune is?”
“Hang fortunes! I’ve enough for two!” cried Thornby.
“And then, sir,” went on Foxwell, with quiet frankness, “upon her marriage, you must know, the division of our estate will leave me rather ill provided for. That would not influence me, were she not so young; but, as it is, she can very well afford to wait two or three years, during which I may improve my affairs.”
“You sha’n’t suffer, Foxwell,” said the Squire, bluntly: “you shall come out of the affair as well provided for as both of you now are together. But what does the lady say?”
“The lady says, no!” And emphatically she said it, too, now that she had found her voice. “I thank you very much, Mr. Thornby; but ’tis not to be heard of!”
“Oh, come now, Miss Foxwell! Don’t be so determined91 all in a moment. Consider it—be kind—be—be neighbourly!”
“’Tis not to be heard of, I assure you, Mr. Thornby. No, no, no, I say! I will never consider it—I will never—” As Thornby still barred her path to the stairs, she turned suddenly and hastened from the hall by the way she had entered. After making sure she was not followed, she rejoined Everell, with an excuse for postponing92 her quest of the miniature. She trusted to her uncle to soften93 the refusal of Thornby’s offer; for she could not but think, although she had nobody’s word for it, that Foxwell had decided to favour Everell as her suitor—a turn she attributed to some assurance of Everell’s prospects94 in France, which, she supposed, the fugitive had given Foxwell on the night of the capture. Indeed in no other way could she account for the strange situation that existed; she was glad enough to accept without question a state of affairs in which she found joy for the present and hope for the future.
But her exit from the hall did not finish the scene there. Thornby, after staring open-mouthed a moment, addressed himself to Foxwell:
“Ecod, why should she fly out like that—well, well, I haven’t the gift of fine speech. You have that, Foxwell, and I look to you to persuade her, d’ye hear? I’ll make it worth your while. The day I marry her, you shall have back that there letter we both know of; but if she won’t have me, damme if I know what use I sha’n’t make of it!”
“I hold you to that promise,” said Foxwell, quickly, “and to what you mentioned in regard to terms of settlement.”
“As to providing for you, and so forth? You’ll find me as good as my word: I’ll have my lawyer ready for yours the minute she gives her consent.”
“’Tis but a girl’s coyness that stands in the way: we shall break that in a little time.”
“Nay, no force, neither!” said Thornby. “It must be of her own free will—she must tell me herself she takes me willingly—you’re to persuade, not compel.”
“Certainly.”
“I dare say I’d best not see her again to-day,” the Squire faltered95.
“Not for a few days, at the least, I should advise.”
“Well, I suppose you know. I’ll do my best to bide96 patient for two days.”
“But I scarcely hope to change her mind within a week,” said Foxwell, thoughtfully.
“I’ll come to see how you fare, nevertheless.—If you do succeed sooner than you hope, send me word immediately.”
Left alone, Foxwell paced the hall, in cogitation97. He was joined presently by Rashleigh.
“Egad, Bob, your meditations98 must have grown pleasanter, to make you smile to yourself.”
“Was I smiling? Well, you must know my excellent niece has received an offer of marriage—a mighty99 advantageous100 one. The little fool spurns101 it: the Jacobite stands in the way, of course, and will as long as he is alive to communicate with her. I shall have to do my duty as a loyal subject of King George, I see.”
“But will she be the more favourable102 to another suitor, while the one she loves is about being hanged?”
“Perhaps I can keep the Jacobite’s fate from her knowledge. ’Tis plain he hasn’t told her of our bargain: he probably will not tell her—probably will but announce his departure on some pretext—may indeed say nothing of it, leaving us to break it. I will deliver him up to-night, but not in her presence. At ten o’clock his claims cease. If he has meanwhile prepared her for his going, well and good: if not, she shall think he has taken sudden leave for his own reasons. Hearing no more of him, she will put his silence down to inconstancy; in that case, pride may incline her to the other man. If she learns the truth, she will be too broken to resist my persuasions103 long.—I’m sorry for the rebel: but there’s much at stake for me in the affair—and ’tis only what he agreed to and expects—what he risked before ever I saw him—his just deserts under the law. The girl will suffer, too,—but not for many days. I hope he will not tell her the full truth.”
Everell himself was in doubt as to what he should tell her. He was trying still to postpone consideration of the end so close at hand. He was sorely perplexed104 for her sake, for he knew now how far beyond mere60 compassion105 her love was.
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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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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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callousness
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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fugitive
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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intruding
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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conspiracy
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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awakening
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confession
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manifestation
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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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peculiar
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pathos
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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privately
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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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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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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43
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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45
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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49
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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50
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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reining
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的现在分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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85
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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93
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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95
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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96
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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99
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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100
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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101
spurns
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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103
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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104
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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105
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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