My rest is gone,
My heart is sore
Peace find I never,
And never more.
Margaret's Song in 'Faust.'
I must go back a little to explain the motives1 which caused Esther to seek an interview with her niece.
The murder had been committed early on Thursday night, and between then and the dawn of the following day there was ample time for the news to spread far and wide among all those whose duty, or whose want, or whose errors, caused them to be abroad in the streets of Manchester.
Among those who listened to the tale of violence was Esther.
A craving2 desire to know more took possession of her mind. Far away as she was from Turner Street, she immediately set off to the scene of the murder, which was faintly lighted by the grey dawn as she reached the spot. It was so quiet and still that she could hardly believe it to be the place. The only vestige3 of any scuffle or violence was a trail on the dust as if somebody bad been lying there, and then been raised by extraneous4 force. The little birds were beginning to hop5 and twitter in the leafless hedge, making the only sound that was near and distinct. She crossed into the field where she guessed the murderer to have stood; it was easy of access, for the worn, stunted6 hawthorn-hedge had many gaps in it. The night-smell of bruised7 grass came up from under her feet, as she went towards the saw-pit and carpenter's shed, which, as I have said before, were in a corner of the field near the road, and where one of her informants had told her it was supposed by the police that the murderer had lurked8 while waiting for his victim. There was no sign, however, that any one had been about the place. If the grass had been bruised or bent9 where he had trod, it had had enough of the elasticity10 of life to raise itself under the dewy influences of night. She hushed her breath in involuntary awe11, but nothing else told of the violent deed by which a fellowcreature had passed away. She stood still for a minute, imagining to herself the position of the parties, guided by the only circumstance which afforded any evidence, the trailing mark on the dust in the road.
Suddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the horizon) she became aware of something white in the hedge. All other colours wore the same murky12 hue13, though the forms of objects were perfectly14 distinct. What was it? It could not be a flower;--that, the time of year made clear. A frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of the gnarled tufts of the hedge? She stepped forward to examine. It proved to be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed into a round shape. She understood it instantly; it was the paper that had served as wadding for the murderer's gun. Then she had been standing15 just where the murderer must have been but a few hours before; probably (as the rumour16 had spread through the town, reaching her ears) one of the poor maddened turn-outs, who hung about everywhere, with black, fierce looks, as if contemplating17 some deed of violence. Her sympathy was all with them, for she had known what they suffered; and besides this, there was her own individual dislike of Mr Carson, and dread18 of him for Mary's sake. Yet, poor Mary! Death was a terrible, though sure, remedy for the evil Esther had dreaded19 for her; and how would she stand the shock, loving as her aunt believed her to do! Poor Mary who would comfort her? Esther's thoughts began to picture her sorrow, her despair, when the news of her lover's death should reach her; and she longed to tell her there might have been a keener grief yet, had he lived.
Bright, beautiful came the slanting20 rays of the morning sun. It was time for such as she to hide themselves, with the other obscene things of night, from the glorious light of day, which was only for the happy. So she turned her steps towards town, still holding the paper. But in getting over the hedge it encumbered21 to hold it in her clasped hand, and she threw it down. She passed on a few steps, her thoughts still of Mary, till the idea crossed her mind, could it (blank as it appeared to be) give any clue to the murderer? As I said before, her sympathies were all on that side, so she turned back and picked it up; and then feeling as if in some measure an accessory, she hid it unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the street at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it.
And what do you think she felt, when, having walked some distance from the spot, she dared to open the crushed paper, and saw written on it Mary Barton's name, and not only that, but the street in which she lived! True, a letter or two was torn off, but, nevertheless, there was the name clear to he recognised. And oh! what terrible thought flashed into her mind, or was it only fancy? But it looked very like the writing which she had once known well--the writing of Jem Wilson, who, when she lived at her brother-in-law's, and he was a near neighbour, had often been employed by her to write her letters to people, to whom she was ashamed of sending her own misspelt scrawl22. She remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much admired in those days, while she sat by dictating23, and Jem, in all the pride of newly-acquired penman ship, used to dazzle her eyes by extraordinary graces and twirls.
If it were his!
Oh! perhaps it was merely that her head was running so on Mary, that she was associating every trifle with her. As if only one person wrote ill that flourishing meandering24 style!
It was enough to fill her mind to think from what she might have saved Mary by securing the paper. She would look at it just once more, and see if. some very dense25 and stupid policeman could have mistaken the name, or if Mary would certainly have been dragged into notice in the affair.
No! no one could have mistaken the "ry Barton, and it was Jem's handwriting?
Oh! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been the cause! With her violent and unregulated nature, rendered morbid26 by the course of life she led, and her consciousness of her degradation27, she cursed herself for the interference which she believed had led to this; for the information and the warning she had given to Jem, which had roused him to this murderous action. How could she, the abandoned and polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing28, even on her efforts to do good? The black curse of Heaven rested on all her doings, were they for good or for evil.
Poor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister to thee!
So she wandered about, too restless to take her usual heavy morning's sleep, up and down the streets, greedily listening to every word of the passers-by, and loitering near each group of talkers, anxious to scrape together every morsel30 of information, or conjecture31, or suspicion, though without possessing any definite purpose in all this. And ever and always she clenched32 the scrap29 of paper which might betray so much, until her nails had deeply indented33 the palm of her hand; so fearful was she in her nervous dread, lest unawares she should let it drop.
Towards the middle of the day she could no longer evade34 the body's craving want of rest and refreshment35, but the rest was taken in a spirit vault36, and the refreshment was a glass of gin.
Then she started up from the stupor37 she had taken for repose38; and suddenly driven before the gusty39 impulses of her mind, she pushed her way to the place where at that very time the police were bringing the information they had gathered with regard to the all-engrossing murder. She listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to dropped words, and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which became clearer, and yet, more clear to her. Jem was suspected. Jem was ascertained41 to be the murderer.
She saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, saw her not), she saw him brought handcuffed, and guarded out of the coach. She saw him enter the station,--she gasped42 for breath till he came out, still handcuffed, and still guarded, to be conveyed to the New Bailey.
He was the only one who had spoken to her with hope that she might win her way back to virtue44. His words had lingered in her heart with a sort of call to Heaven, like distant Sabbath bells, although in her despair she had turned away from his voice. He was the only one who had spoken to her kindly45. The murder, shocking though it was, was an absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and would not dwell all that was present in her mind was Jem's danger, and his kindness.
Then Mary came to remembrance. Esther wondered till she was sick of wondering, in what way she was taking the affair. In some manner it would be a terrible blow for the poor, motherless girl; with her dreadful father, too, who was to Esther a sort of accusing angel.
She set off towards the court where Mary lived, to pick up what she could there of information. But she was ashamed to enter in where once she had been innocent, and hung about the neighbouring streets, not daring to question, so she learnt but little; nothing, in fact, but the knowledge of John Barton's absence from home.
She went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a doorstep and think. Her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her hands, she tried to gather together and arrange her thoughts. But still every now and then she opened her hand to see if the paper were yet there.
She got up at last. She had formed a plan, and had a course of action to look forward to that would satisfy one craving desire at least. The time was long gone by when there was much wisdom or consistency46 in her projects.
It was getting late, and that was so much the better. She went to a pawnshop, and took off her finery in a back room. She was known by the people, and had a character for honesty, so she had no very great difficulty in inducing them to let her have a suit of outer clothes, befitting the wife of a working man, a black silk bonnet47, a printed gown, a plaid shawl, dirty and rather worn to be sure, but which had a sort of sanctity to the eyes of the street-walker, as being the appropriate garb48 of that happy class to which she could never, never more belong.
She looked at herself in the little glass which hung against the wall, and sadly shaking her head, thought how easy were the duties of that Eden of innocence49 from which she was shut out; how she would work, and toil50, and starve, and die, if necessary, for a husband, a home,--for children,--but that thought she could not bear; a little form rose up, stern in its innocence, from the witches' cauldron of her imagination, and she rushed into action again.
You know now how she came to stand by the threshold of Mary's door, waiting, trembling, until the latch51 was lifted, and her niece, with words that spoke43 of such desolation among the living, fell into her arms.
She had felt as if some holy spell would prevent her (even as the unholy Lady Geraldine was prevented, in the abode52 of Christabel) from crossing the threshold of that home of her early innocence; and she had meant to wait for an invitation. But Mary's helpless action did away with all reluctant feeling, and she bore or dragged her to her seat, and looked on her bewildered eyes, as, puzzled with the likeness53, which was not identity, she gazed on her aunt's features.
In pursuance of her plan, Esther meant to assume the manners and character, as she had done the dress, of a mechanic's wife; but then, to account for her long absence, and her long silence towards all that ought to have been dear to her, it was necessary that she should put on an indifference54 far distant from her heart, which was loving and yearning55, in spite of all its faults. And, perhaps, she over-acted her part, for certainly Mary felt a kind of repugnance56 to the changed and altered aunt, who so suddenly reappeared on the scene; and it would have cut Esther to the very core, could she have known how her little darling of former days was feeling towards her.
"You don't remember me, I see, Mary!" she began. "It's a long while since I left you all, to be sure; and I, many a time, thought of coming to see you, and--and your father. But I live so far off, and am always so busy, I cannot do just what I wish. You recollect57 aunt Esther, don't you, Mary?"
"Are you aunt Hetty?" asked Mary, faintly, still looking at the face which was so different from the old recollections of her aunt's fresh dazzling beauty.
"Yes! I am aunt Hetty. Oh! it's so long since I heard that name," sighing forth58 the thoughts it suggested; then, recovering herself; and striving after the hard character she wished to assume, she continued: and to-day I heard a friend of yours, and of mine too, long ago, was in trouble, and I guessed you would be in sorrow, so I thought I would just step this far and see you."
Mary's tears flowed afresh, but she had no desire to open her heart to the strangely-found aunt, who had, by her own confession59, kept aloof60 from and neglected them for so many years. Yet she tried to feel grateful for kindness (however late) from any one, and wished to be civil. Moreover, she had a strong disinclination to speak on the terrible subject uppermost in her mind. So, after a pause, she said,
"Thank you. I daresay you mean very kind. Have you bad a long walk? I'm so sorry," said she, rising with a sudden thought, which was as suddenly checked by recollection, "but I've nothing to eat in the house, and I'm sure you must be hungry, after your walk."
For Mary concluded that certainly her aunt's residence must be far away on the other side of the town, out of sight or hearing. But, after all, she did not think much about her; her heart was so aching-full of other things, that all besides seemed like a dream. She received feelings and impressions from her conversation with her aunt, but did not, could not, put them together, or think or argue about them.
And Esther! How scanty61 had been her food for days and weeks, her thinly-covered bones and pale lips might tell, but her words should never reveal! So, with a little unreal laugh, she replied,
"Oh! Mary, my dear! don't talk about eating. We've the best of everything, and plenty of it, for my husband is in good work. I'd such a supper before I came out. I couldn't touch a morsel if you had it."
Her words shot a strange pang62 through Mary's heart. She had always remembered her aunt's loving and unselfish disposition63; how was it changed, if, living in plenty, she had never thought it worth while to ask after relations who were all but starving! She shut up her heart instinctively64 against her aunt.
And all the time poor Esther was swallowing her sobs65, and over-acting her part, and controlling herself more than she had done for many a long day, in order that her niece might not be shocked and revolted, by the knowledge of what her aunt had become:--a prostitute; an outcast.
She had longed to open her wretched, wretched heart, so hopeless, so abandoned by all living things, to one who had loved her once; and yet she refrained, from dread of the averted66 eye, the altered voice, the internal loathing67, which she feared such disclosure might create. She would go straight to the subject of the day. She could not tarry long, for she felt unable to support the character she had assumed for any length of time.
They sat by the little round table, facing each other. The candle was placed right between them, and Esther moved it in order to have a clearer view of Mary's face, so that she might read her emotions, and ascertain40 her interests. Then she began:
"It's a bad business, I'm afraid, this of Mr Carson's murder."
"I hear Jem Wilson is taken up for it."Mary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade them from the light, and Esther herself; less accustomed to self-command, was getting too much agitated69 for calm observation of another.
"I was taking a walk near Turner Street, and I went to see the spot," continued Esther, "and, as luck would have it, I spied this bit of paper in the hedge," producing the precious piece still folded in her hand. "It bas been used as wadding for the gun, I reckon, indeed, that's clear enough, from the shape it's crammed70 into. I was sorry for the murderer, whoever he might be (I didn't then know of Jem's being suspected), and I thought I would never leave a thing about, as might help, ever so little, to convict him; the police are so 'cute about straws. So I carried it a little way, and then I opened it, and saw your name, Mary.
Mary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked with surprise at her aunt's face, as she uttered these words. She was kind after all, for was she not saving her from being summoned, and from being questioned and examined; a thing to be dreaded above all others, as she felt sure that her unwilling71 answers, frame them how she might, would add to the suspicions against Jem; her aunt was indeed kind, to think of what would spare her this.
Esther went on, without noticing Mary's look. The very action of speaking was so painful to her, and so much interrupted by the hard, raking cough, which had been her constant annoyance72 for months, that she was too much engrossed73 by the physical difficulty of utterance74, to be a very close observer.
"There could be no mistake if they had found it. Look at your name, together with the very name of this court! And in Jem's handwriting too, or I'm much mistaken. Look, Mary!"
And now she did watch her.
Mary took the paper and flattened75 it: then suddenly stood stiff up, with irrepressible movement, as if petrified76 by some horror abruptly77 disclosed; her face, strung and rigid78; her lips compressed tight, to keep down some rising exclamation79. She dropped on her seat, as suddenly as if the braced80 muscles had in an instant given way. But she spoke no word.
"It is his handwriting--isn't it?" asked Esther, though Mary's manner was almost confirmation81 enough.
"You will not tell. You never will tell," demanded Mary, in a tone so sternly earnest, as almost to be threatening.
"Nay82, Mary," said Esther, rather reproachfully, "I am not so bad as that. Oh! Mary, you cannot think I would do that, whatever I may be."
The tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was suspected of being one who would help to inform against an old friend.
Mary caught her sad and upbraiding83 look.
"No! I know you would not tell, aunt. I don't know what I say, I am so shocked. But say you will not tell. Do."
"No, indeed I will not tell, come what may."
Mary sat still looking at the writing, and turning the paper round with careful examination, trying to hope, but her very fears belying84 her hopes.
"I thought you cared for the young man that's murdered," observed Esther, half-aloud; but feeling that she could not mistake this strange interest in the suspected murderer, implied by Mary's eagerness to screen him from anything which might strengthen suspicion against him. She had come, desirous to know the extent of Mary's grief for Mr Carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her by the important scrap of paper. Her remark about its being Jem's handwriting, she had, with this view of ascertaining85 Mary's state of feeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she had uttered it; but Mary's anxiety that she should not tell, was too great, and too decided86, to leave a doubt as to her interest for Jem. She grew more and more bewildered, and her dizzy head refused to reason. Mary never spoke. She held the bit of paper firmly, determined87 to retain possession of it, come what might; and anxious, and impatient for her aunt to go. As she sat, her face bore a likeness to Esther's dead child.
"You are so like my little girl, Mary!" said Esther, weary of the one subject on which she could get no satisfaction, and recurring88, with full heart, to the thought of the dead.
Mary looked up. Her aunt had children, then. That was all the idea she received. No faint imagination of the love and the woe89 of that poor creature crossed her mind, or she would have taken her, all guilty and erring90, to her bosom91, and tried to bind92 up the broken heart. No! it was not to be. Her aunt had children, then; and she was on the point of putting some question about them, but before it could be spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went back to her task of unravelling93 the mystery of the paper, and the handwriting. Oh! how she wished her aunt would go'.
As if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the intenseness of her wish gave her power over another, although the wish was unexpressed, Esther felt herself unwelcome, and that her absence was desired.
She felt this some time before she could summon up resolution to go. She was so much disappointed in this longed-for, dreaded interview with Mary; she had wished to impose upon her with her tale of married respectability, and yet she had yearned94 and craved95 for sympathy in her real lot. And she had imposed upon her well. She should perhaps be glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of ho e seemed for the time redoubled. And she must leave the old dwellingplace, whose very walls, and flags, dingy96 and sordid97 as they were, had a charm for her. Must leave the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes98 of vice99. She must-she would go.
"Well, good night, Mary. That bit 9f paper is safe enough with you, I see. But you made me promise I would not tell about it, and you must promise me to destroy it before you sleep."
"I promise," said Mary, hoarsely100, but firmly. "Then you are going?"
"Yes. Not if you wish me to stay. Not if I could be of any comfort to you, Mary;" catching101 at some glimmering102 hope.
"Oh, no," said Mary, anxious to be alone. "Your husband will be wondering where you are. Some day you must tell me all about yourself. I forget what your name is?"
"Fergusson," said Esther, sadly.
"Mrs Fergusson, repeated Mary, half unconsciously. "And where did you say you lived?"
"I never did say," muttered Esther; then aloud, "In Angel's Meadow, 145 Nicholas Street."
"145 Nicholas Street, Angel's Meadow. I shall remember."
As Esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a thought crossed Mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her manner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in bringing her the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper!), and thus saving her from----she could not rightly think how much, or how little she was spared. So, desirous of making up for her previous indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her departure.
But, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic103 kind of gesture, and saying the words,
"Not me. You must never kiss me. You!"
She rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept long and bitterly.
收听单词发音 |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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elasticity
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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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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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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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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dictating
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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morsel
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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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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vault
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stupor
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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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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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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46
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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48
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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49
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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50
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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51
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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52
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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53
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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54
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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56
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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57
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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59
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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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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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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63
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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67
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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71
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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81
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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82
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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83
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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84
belying
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| v.掩饰，与…不符，使…失望；掩饰( belie的现在分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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85
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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86
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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87
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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88
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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89
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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91
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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92
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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96
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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97
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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98
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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99
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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100
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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101
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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102
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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103
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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