Suddenly the little Bible fell from Powell's numbed12 right hand on to the carpetless floor, and, with a start, he turned his head and looked around him. By contrast with the wintry light without, the garret appeared quite dark to him, and it was not until after a few seconds that his eye became sufficiently13 accustomed to its gloom, to perceive the book lying almost at his feet. He picked it up, and began to chafe14 his numbed fingers, rising at the same time, and walking up and down the room.
His thoughts had been straying idly as he sat at the window, with his eyes fixed15 on the sky. They had gone back to the days of his boyhood, and in memory he had seen the wild Welsh valley where he was born, and heard the bleat16 of sheep from the hills, as he had listened to it many a summer morning, sitting ragged17 and barefoot on the turf. And with these recollections the image of Rhoda Maxfield was strangely mingled18, appearing and disappearing, like a face in a dream. Indeed, he had been dreaming open-eyed in his solitude19, unconscious of the cold and the gathering20 dusk.
Now, such aimless, vagrant21 wanderings of the fancy were considered reprehensible22 by earnest Methodists; and by none were they more strongly disapproved24 of than by David Powell himself. His life was guided, as nearly as might be, in conformity25 with the rules laid down by John Wesley himself for the helpers, as his first lay-preachers were called. And among these rules, diligence—unflagging, unfaltering—diligence and the strenuous26 employment of every minute, so that no fragment of time should be wasted, were emphatically insisted upon. Powell had ceased to read when the daylight waned27, and remained in his place by the window, intending to devote a few minutes of the twilight28 to the rigid29 self-examination which was his daily habit. And instead, behold30! his mind had strayed and wandered in idle recollections and unsanctified imaginings.
Presently he began to mutter to himself, as he paced up and down the chill bare room.
"What have I to do with these things," he said aloud, "when I should be about my Master's business? Where is the comfortable assurance of old days—the bright light which used to shine within my soul, turning its darkness to noon-day? I have lost my first love;[1] I have fallen from grace; and the enemy finds a ready entrance for any idle thoughts he wills to put into my mind. And yet—have I not striven? Have I not searched my own heart with sincerity31?"
All at once, stopping short in his walk across the garret floor, he threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and, burying his face in his hands, began to pray aloud. The sound of his own voice rising ever higher, as his supplications grew more fervent33, hid from his ears the noise of a tap at the door, which was repeated twice or thrice. At length, the person who had knocked pushed the door gently open a little way, and called him by his name, "Mr. Powell! Mr. Powell!"
"Who calls me?" asked the preacher, lifting his head, but not rising at once from his knees.
"It's me, sir; Mrs. Thimbleby. I have made you a cup of herb tea accordin' to the directions in the Primitive34 Physic,[2] and there is a handful of fire in the kitchen grate, whilst here it is downright freezing. Dear, dear Mr. Powell, I can't think it right for you to set for hours up here by yourself in the cold!"
The good widow—a gentle, loquacious35 woman, with mild eyes and a humble36 manner—had advanced into the room by this time, and stood holding up a lighted candle in one hand, whilst with the other she drew her scanty37 black shawl closer round her shoulders.
"I will come, Mrs. Thimbleby," answered Powell. "Do you go downstairs, and I will follow you forthwith."
"Well, it is a miracle of the Lord if he don't catch his death of cold," muttered the widow as she redescended the steep, narrow staircase. "But there! he is a select vessel38, if ever there was one; and a burning and a shining light. And I suppose the Lord will take care of His own, in His own way."
Mrs. Thimbleby sat down by her own clean-swept hearth39, in which a small fire was burning brightly. The little kitchen was wonderfully clean. Not a speck40 of rust41 marked the bright pewter and tin vessels42 that hung over the dresser. Not an atom of dust lay on any visible object in the place. There was no sound to be heard save the ticking of the old eight-day clock, and, now and then, the dropping of a coal on to the hearth. As soon as she heard her lodger43's step on the stairs, Mrs. Thimbleby bestirred herself to pour out the herb tea of which she had spoken.
"I wish it was China tea, Mr. Powell," she said, when he entered the kitchen. "But you won't take that, so I know it's no good to offer it to you. Else I have a cup here as is really good, and came out of my new lodger's pot."
"You do not surely take of what is not your own!" cried Powell, looking quickly round at her.
"Lord forbid, sir! No, but the gentleman drinks a sight of tea. And last evening he would have some fresh made, and I say to him"—Mrs. Thimbleby's narrative44 style was chiefly remarkable45 for its simplification of the English syntax, by means of omitting all past tenses, and thus getting rid of any difficulty attendant on the conjugation of irregular verbs—"I say, 'Won't you have none of that last as was made for breakfast, as is beautiful tea, and only wants warming up again?' But he refuse; and then I ask him if I may use it myself, seeing I look on it as a sin to waste anything; and he only just look up from his book and nod his head, and say, 'Do what you like with it, ma'am,' and wave his hand as much as to say I may go. He is not much of a one to talk, but he paid the first week punctual, and is as quiet as quiet, and—there he is! I hear his key in the door."
A quick, firm step came along the passage, and Matthew Diamond appeared at the door of the kitchen. "Will you be good enough to give me a light?" he said, addressing the landlady46. Then he saw David Powell standing47 near the fire, and looked at him curiously48. Powell did not turn, nor seem to observe the new comer. His head was bent49 down, and the firelight partially50 illumined his profile, which was presented to anyone standing at the door. Mr. Diamond silently formed the word "Preacher?" with his lips, at the same time nodding towards Powell, and raising his eyebrows51 interrogatively. Mrs. Thimbleby answered aloud with alacrity52, well pleased to begin a conversation with her taciturn lodger.
"Yes, sir; it is our preacher, Mr. Powell, as is one of our shiningest lights, and an awakening53 caller of sinners to repentance55. You've maybe heard him preach, sir? A many of the unconverted—ahem!—a many as does not belong to the connexion has come to hear him in Whitford Wesleyan Chapel56, and on Whit9 Meadow. And we have had seasons of abundant blessing57 and refreshment58."
Powell had turned round at the beginning of Mrs. Thimbleby's speech, and was looking earnestly at Mr. Diamond. The latter, who had seen the preacher only in the full tide of his eloquence59 and the excitement of addressing a crowded audience, was struck by the change in the face now before him. It was much thinner, haggard, and deadly pale. There were lines round the mouth, which expressed anxiety and suffering; and the eyes were sunk in their orbits, and startlingly bright. Diamond was, in fact, startled out of his usual silent reserve by the glance which met his own, and exclaimed, impulsively60, "I'm afraid you are ill, Mr. Powell!"
"No," returned the other at once, and without hesitation61. "I have no bodily ailment62. I have seen you at the house of Jonathan Maxfield, have I not?"
"Yes; I have been in the habit of going there to read with a young gentleman. My name is Diamond—Matthew Diamond."
"I know it," answered Powell. "I should like, if you are willing, to say a few words to you privately63."
Diamond was a good deal surprised, and a little displeased64, at this proposition. He had been interested in the Methodist preacher, and the thought had more than once crossed his mind that he should like to see more of the man, whose whole personality was so striking and uncommon65. But Mr. Diamond had felt his wish just as he might have wished to have Paganini with his violin all to himself for an evening; or to learn viva voce from Edmund Kean how he produced his great effects. To be the object and subject of a private sermon from this Methodist enthusiast66 (for Diamond could conceive no other reason for the preacher's desiring an interview with him than zeal67 for converting) was, however, a different matter; and Diamond had half a mind to decline the private communication. He was a man peculiarly averse68 to outspokenness69 about his own feelings. Nor was he given to be frank and diffusive70 on topics of mere71 intellectual speculation72; although, occasionally, he could exchange thoughts on such matters with a congenial mind. But he knew well enough that, with the Methodists in general, an excited state of feeling, which might do duty for conviction, was the aim and end of their teaching and preaching.
"This man is ignorant and enthusiastic, and will make himself absurd and me uncomfortable, and I shall have to offend him, which I don't wish to do," thought Mr. Diamond, standing stiff and grave with the candle in his hand. But once more the sight of Powell's haggard, suffering face and bright wistful eyes touched him; and once more the resolute73 Matthew Diamond suffered himself to be swayed by an impulse of sympathy with this man.
"Oh," said he, "well, you can come into my sitting-room74."
The invitation was not very graciously given, but Powell did not seem to heed75 that at all. Mrs. Thimbleby stood in admiring astonishment76 as her two lodgers77 left the kitchen together.
The two young men, so strangely contrasted in all outward circumstances, entered the small parlour, which served as dining-room, sitting-room, and study to Matthew Diamond, and seated themselves at a table almost covered with books, one corner of which had been cleared to admit of a little tea-tray being placed upon it.
"Will you share my tea, Mr. Powell?" asked Diamond, as he filled a cup with the strong brown liquid.
"No; I thank you for proffering78 it to me, but I do not drink tea."
"I am sorry for that, for I am afraid I have no other refreshment to offer you. I don't indulge in wine or spirits."
Diamond threw into his manner a certain determined79 commonplaceness, as though to quench80 any tendency to excitement or exaltation which might show itself in the preacher. Although he would have expressed it in different terms, Matthew Diamond had at the bottom of his mind a feeling akin7 to that in Miss Chubb's, when she declared her dread81 of the Maxfield family "going into convulsions" in the parish church of St. Chad.
"I will take a cup of tea myself, if you have no objection," said Diamond, suiting the action to the word, and stretching out his legs, so as to bring them within reach of the warmth from the fire. "Won't you draw nearer to the hearth, Mr. Powell?"
Powell sat looking fixedly82 into the fire with an abstracted air. His hands were joined loosely, and rested on his knees. The firelight shone on his wan2, clearly-cut face, but seemed to be absorbed and quenched83 in the blackness of his hair, which hung down in two straight, thick locks behind his ears. He did not accept Mr. Diamond's invitation to draw nearer to the warm hearth, but, after a pause, turned his face to his companion, and said, "It is on behalf of the young maiden84, Rhoda Maxfield, that I would speak with you, sir."
He could scarcely have said anything more thoroughly85 unexpected and disconcerting to Matthew Diamond. The latter did not start or stare, or make any strong demonstration86 of surprise, but he could not help a sudden flush mounting to his face, much to his annoyance87.
"About Miss Rhoda Maxfield?" he returned coldly; "I do not understand what concern either you or I can have with any private conversation about that young lady."
"My concern with Rhoda is that of one who has had it laid upon him to lead a tender soul out of the darkness into the light, and who suddenly finds himself divided from that precious charge, even at the moment when he hoped the goal was reached. Her father has left our Society, and has thus carried Rhoda away from the reach of my exhortations88."
"By Jove!" thought Diamond to himself, as he turned his keen grey eyes on the preacher, "this is a specimen89 of spiritual conceit90 on a colossal91 scale!" Then he said aloud, "You must console yourself with the hope that the exhortations she will hear in the parish church will differ from your own rather in manner than matter, Mr. Powell. There really are some very decent people among the congregation of St. Chad's."
"Nay," answered Powell, with simple gentleness, "do you think I doubt it? It has been the boast of Methodism that it receives into its bosom92 all denominations93 of Christians94, without distinction. The Churchman and the Dissenter95, the Presbyterian and the Independent, are alike welcome to us, and are free alike to follow their own method of worship. In the words of John Wesley himself, 'one condition, and one only, is required—a real desire to save their souls. Where this is, it is enough; they desire no more. They lay stress upon nothing else. They ask only, Is thy heart herein as my heart? If it be, give me thy hand.'"
"Methodism has changed somewhat since the days of John Wesley," said Diamond, drily.
"Not Methodism, but perhaps—Methodists. But it was not of Methodism that I had it on my mind to speak to you now."
Diamond controlled his face and his attitude to express civil indifference96; but—his pulse was quickened, and he hid his mouth with his hand. Powell went on: "I have turned the matter in my mind, many ways. And I have sought for guidance on it with much wrestling of the spirit. But I had not received a clear leading until this evening. When I saw you standing in the doorway97, it was borne in upon me that you could be an instrument of help in this matter. And the leading was the more assured to me, because that to-day, having opened my Bible after due supplication32, mine eyes fell at once on the words, 'I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eyes seeth thee.' Now these words were dark to me until just now, when you seemed to appear as the explanation and interpretation98 thereof."
Diamond could not but acknowledge to himself that all the scriptural phraseology, and the technicalities of sectarianism, which he found merely grotesque99 or disgusting in men of common, vulgar natures, came from this man's lips with as much ease and propriety100 as if he had been a Hebrew of old time uttering his native idiom. Indeed, the impression of there being something oriental about David Powell, which Diamond had received on first seeing him, was deepened on further acquaintance. This black-haired Welshman was picturesque101 and poetic102, despite his threadbare cloth suit, made in the ungraceful mode of the day; and impressive, despite his equally threadbare phrases. It is possible to make a wonderful difference in the effect both of clothes and words, by putting something earnest and unaffected inside them.
"What is the help you seek? And how can I help you?" asked Diamond, with grave directness.
"You are acquainted with the daughter of the principal of the grammar school here——"
"Miss Bodkin?"
"Yes. Do you think that, if you carried to her a request that I might be permitted to see and speak with her, she would admit me?"
"I—I don't know," answered Diamond, greatly taken aback.
There was a pause. Each man was busy with his own thoughts. "Rhoda is beyond my reach now," said Powell at length. "I can neither see nor speak with her. Nor do I know of any of those who see her familiarly who would be likely to influence her for good, except Miss Bodkin. I am told that she is a lady of much ability and power of mind; and I hear, moreover, of her doing many acts of charity and kindness. You know her well, do you not?"
"I know her. Yes."
"Would you consent to carry such a request from me?"
Diamond hesitated. "Why not prefer the request yourself?" he said. "If you have any good reason for desiring an interview with Miss Bodkin, I believe she would grant it."
"I had thought of doing so. I had thought, even, of writing all that I have to say. But, for many reasons, I believe it would be more profitable for me to see her face to face. I am no penman. I am indeed, as you perceive, a man very ignorant in the world's learning and the world's ways."
Diamond suspected a covert103 boast under this humble speech, and answered in his coolest tones, "The first is a disadvantage—or an advantage, as you choose to consider it—which you share with a good many of your brethren, Mr. Powell. As to the latter kind of ignorance—Methodists are generally thought to have worldly wisdom enough for their needs."
Powell bent his head. "I would fain have more learning," he said in a low voice, "but only as a means, not as an end—not as an end."
"But," said Diamond, in a constrained104 voice, "it seems to me hardly worth while to trouble Miss Bodkin, by asking for an interview on any such grounds. Since you are charitable enough to believe that Miss Maxfield's spiritual welfare is not imperilled by going to St. Chad's, I don't see what need there is for you to be uneasy about her!"
"I am uneasy; but not for the reasons you suppose. Rhoda is very guileless, and I would shield her from peril105."
Diamond looked at the preacher sternly. "I don't understand you," he said. "And to say the truth, Mr. Powell, I disapprove23 of meddling107 in other people's affairs. Miss Maxfield is a young lady for whom I have the very highest respect."
For the first time a flame of quick anger flashed from Powell's dark eyes, as he answered, "Your high respect would teach you to stand aside and let the innocent maiden pine under a delusion108 which might spoil her life and peril her soul; mine prompts me to step forward and awaken54 her to the truth, never heeding109 what figure I make in the matter."
The sudden passion in the man's face and figure was like a material illumination. Diamond had grown pale, and looked at him attentively110, and in silence.
"Do you think," proceeded Powell, his thin hands working nervously111, and his eyes blazing, "that I do not understand how pure a creature she is—how innocent, confiding112, and devoid113 of all suspicion of guile106? Yea, and even, therefore, the more in need of warning! But because I am a man still young in years, and neither the maiden's brother, nor any kin8 to her, I must stand silent and withhold114 my help, lest the world should say I am transgressing115 its rules, and bid me mind my own affairs, or deride116 me for a fanatical fool! Do you think I do not foresee all this? or do you think that, foreseeing it, I heed it? I have broken harder bonds than that; I have fought with strong impulses, to which such motives117 are as cobwebs——" Then, with a sudden check and change of tone which a grain of affectation would have sufficed to render ludicrous, but which, in its simplicity118, was almost touching119, he added, in a low voice, "I ask pardon for my vehemence120; I speak too much of myself. I have had some suffering in this matter, and am not always able to control my words. I have had strange visitings of the old Adam of late. It is only by much striving after grace, and by strong wrestling in prayer, that I have not wandered utterly121 from the right way."
He had risen from his chair at the beginning of his speech, and now sank down again on it wearily, with drooping122 head.
Matthew Diamond sat and looked at him still with the same earnest attention; but blended, now, with a look of compassion123. He was thinking to himself what must be the force of enthusiastic faith, which could so subdue124 the fiery125 nature of this man, and how he must suffer in the conflict. Presently, he said aloud, "I am ready to admit, Mr. Powell, that you are actuated by conscientious126 motives; I am sure that you are. But your conscience cannot be a rule for all the rest of the world. Mine may counsel me differently, you know."
"Oh, sir, we are neither of us left to our own guidance, thanks be to God! There is a sure counsellor that can never fail us. I have searched diligently127, and I have received a clear leading which I cannot mistrust. I do not feel free to tell you more particularly the grounds of my anxiety respecting Rhoda Maxfield. But I do assure you, with all sincerity and solemnity, that I have her welfare wholly at heart, and that I would not injure her by the least shadow of blame in the opinion of any human being."
There was silence for some minutes. Diamond leant his head on his hand, and reflected. Then at length he said, "Look here, Mr. Powell; I believe, if you had pitched on anyone else in all Whitford to speak to about Miss Rhoda Maxfield, I should have declined to assist you. But Miss Bodkin is so superior in sense and goodness to most other folks here, that I am sure whatever you may say to her confidentially128 will be sacred. And then, she may be able to set you right, if you are wrong. She has the woman's tact129 and insight which we lack. And, besides, she is fond of Rhoda." He coloured a little as he said the name, and dropped his voice.
"You confirm all that I have heard of this lady. She is abundantly blessed with good gifts."
"Well, then, Mr. Powell, I will write to Miss Bodkin to-morrow, telling her merely that you desire to speak with her, and entreat130 her good offices on behalf of one who needs them."
Powell sprang up from his seat eagerly. "I thank you, sir, from a full heart," he said. "You are doing a good action. Farewell."
Diamond held out his hand, which the preacher grasped in his own. The two hands were as strongly contrasted as the owners of them. Diamond's was broad, muscular, and yet smooth—a strong young hand, full of latent power. Powell's was slender, nervous, showing the corded veins131, and with long emaciated132 fingers. It, too, indicated force; but force of a different kind. The one hand might have driven a plough, or written out a mathematical problem; the other might have wielded133 a scimitar in the service of the Prophet, or held up a crucifix in the midst of persecuting134 savages135. As they stood for a second thus hand in hand, Powell's mouth broke into a wonderfully sweet and radiant smile, and he said, "You see, sir, I was right to have faith in my counsellor. You have helped me."
Diamond sat musing136 late that night, and was roused by the cold to find his fire gone out and his watch marking half-past twelve o'clock. "I wonder," he thought to himself, "if Powell has any foundation for his hints, and if any scoundrel is playing false with her. If there be, I should like to shoot him like a dog!"
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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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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bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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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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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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41
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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43
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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44
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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45
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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46
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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47
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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48
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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51
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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52
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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53
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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54
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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55
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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56
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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57
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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58
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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59
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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60
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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61
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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62
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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63
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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64
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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65
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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66
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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67
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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outspokenness
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diffusive
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| adj.散布性的，扩及的，普及的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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73
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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74
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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75
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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76
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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77
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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80
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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81
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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83
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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86
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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87
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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90
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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96
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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99
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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100
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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101
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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102
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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103
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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104
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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105
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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106
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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107
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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108
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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109
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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110
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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111
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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112
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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113
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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114
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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115
transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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116
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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117
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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118
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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119
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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120
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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121
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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122
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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123
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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124
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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125
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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126
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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127
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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128
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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129
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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130
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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131
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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132
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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133
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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134
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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135
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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136
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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