There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity1 had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice2, and the sullen3 roar
Was, with its stored thunder; labouring up.
KEATS' Hyperion.
No sooner was Mary alone than she fastened the door, and put the shutters4 up against the window, which had all this time remained shaded only by the curtains hastily drawn5 together on Esther's entrance, and the lighting6 of the candle.
She did all this with the same compressed lips, and the same stony7 look that her face had assumed on the first examination of the paper. Then she sat down for an instant to think; and, rising directly, went, with a step rendered firm by inward resolution of purpose, up the stairs; passed her own door, two steps, into her father's room. What did she want there?
I must tell you; I must put into words the dreadful secret which she believed that bit of paper had revealed to her.
Her father was the murderer!
That corner of stiff, shining, thick, writing paper, she recognised as a part of the sheet on which she had copied Samuel Bamford's beautiful lines so many months ago-copied (as you perhaps remember) on the blank part of a valentine sent to her by Jem Wilson, in those days when she did not treasure and hoard8 everything he had touched, as she would do now.
That copy had been given to her father for whom it was made, and she had occasionally seen him reading it over, not a fortnight ago she was sure. But she resolved to ascertain9 if the other part still remained in his possession. He might,--it was just possible he might, have given it away to some friend; and if so, that person was the guilty one, for she could swear to the paper anywhere.
First of all she pulled out every article from the little old chest of drawers. Amongst them were some things which had belonged to her mother, but she had no time now to examine and try and remember them. All the reverence11 she could pay them was to carry them and lay them on the bed carefully, while the other things were tossed impatiently out upon the floor.
The copy of Bamford's lines was not there. Oh! perhaps he might have given it away; but then must it not have been to Jem? It was his gun.
And she set to with redoubled vigour12 to examine the deal box which served as chair, and which had once contained her father's Sunday clothes, in the days when he could afford to have Sunday clothes.
He had redeemed13 his better coat from the pawnshop before he left, that she had noticed. Here was his old one. What rustled14 under her hand in the pocket.
The paper! "Oh! Father!"
Yes, it fitted; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter; and even the part which Esther had considered blank had its tallying15 mark with the larger piece, its tails of ys and gs. And then, as if that were not damning evidence enough, she felt again, and found some little bullets or shot (I don't know which you would call them) in that same pocket, along with a small paper parcel of gunpowder16. As she was going to replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper, and bullets, etc., she saw a woollen gun-case, made of that sort of striped horse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appropriated to such a purpose. The sight of it made her examine still further, but there was nothing else that could afford any evidence, so she locked the box, and sat down on the floor to contemplate17 the articles; now with a sickening despair, now with a kind of wondering curiosity, how her father had managed to evade18 observation. After all it was easy enough. He had evidently got possession of some gun (was it really Jem's? was he an accomplice19? No! she did not believe it; he never, never would deliberately20 plan a murder with another, however he might be wrought21 up to it by passionate22 feeling at the time. Least of all would he accuse her to her father, without previously23 warning her; it was out of his nature).
Then having obtained possession of the gun, her father had loaded it at home, and might have carried it away with him some time when the neighbours were not noticing, and she was out, or asleep; and then he might have hidden it somewhere to be in readiness when he should want it. She was sure he had no such thing with him when he went away the last time.
She felt it was of no use to conjecture24 his motives25. His actions had become so wild and irregular of late, that she could not reason upon them. Besides, was it not enough to know that he was guilty of this terrible offence? Her love for her father seemed to return with painful force, mixed up as it was with horror at his crime. That dear father who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready to help either man or beast in distress26, to murder! But in the desert of misery27 with which these thoughts surrounded her, the arid28 depths of whose gloom she dared not venture to con-template, a little spring of comfort was gushing29 up at her feet, unnoticed at first, but soon to give her strength and hope.
And that was the necessity for exertion30 on her part which this discovery enforced.
Oh! I do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind of action (bodily or mentally) in time of distress, is a most infinite blessing31, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful. Something to be done implies that there is yet hope of some good thing to be accomplished32, or some additional evil that may be avoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow.
It is the woes33 that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admit least earthly comforting. Of all trite34, worn-out, hollow mockeries of comfort that we're ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble of sympathizing with others, the one I dislike the most is the exhortation35 not to grieve over an event, "for it cannot be helped." Do you think if I could help it, I would sit still with folded hands, content' to mourn? Do you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly36 what my Father sees fit to send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, or any other mourner, with the speech, "Do not grieve, for it cannot be helped. It is past remedy."
But some remedy to Mary's sorrow came with thinking. If her father was guilty, Jem was innocent. If innocent, there was a possibility of saving him. He must be saved. And she must do it; for, was not she the sole depositary of the terrible secret? Her father was not suspected; and never should be, if by any foresight37 or any exertions38 of her own she could prevent it.
She did not know how Jem was to be saved, while her father was also to be considered innocent, it would require much thought, and much prudence39. But with the call upon her exertions, and her various qualities of judgement and discretion40, came the answering consciousness of innate41 power to meet the emergency. Every step now, nay42, the employment of every minute, was of consequence; for you must remember she had learnt at Miss Simmonds' the probability that the murderer would be brought to trial the next week. And you must remember, too, that never was so young a girl so friendless, or so penniless, as Mary was at this time. But the lion accompanied Una through the wilderness43 and the danger; and so will a high, resolved purpose of right-doing ever guard and accompany the helpless.
It struck two; deep, mirk night.
It was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, endless night. Nothing could be done before morning and, at first in her impatience44, she began to long for day; but then she felt in how unfit a state her body was for any plan of exertion, and she resolutely45 made up her mind to husband her physical strength.
First of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. The powder, bullets, and gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and hid in the sacking of the bed for the present, although there was no likelihood of their affording evidence against any one. Then she carried the paper down-stairs, and burned it on the hearth46, powdering the very ashes with her fingers, and dispersing47 the fragments of fluttering black films among the cinders48 of the grate. Then she breathed again.
Her head ached with dizzying violence; she must get quit of the pain or it would incapacitate her for thinking and planning. She looked for food, but there was nothing but a little raw oatmeal in the house: still, although it almost choked her, she ate some of this, knowing from experience, how often headaches were caused by long fasting. Then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing49 temples, and quench50 her feverish51 thirst. There was none in the house, so she took the jug52 and went out to the pump at the other end of the court, whose echoes resounded53 her light footsteps in the quiet stillness of the night. The hard, square outlines of the houses cut sharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriads54 of stars were shining down in eternal repose55. There was little sympathy in the outward scene, with the internal trouble. All was so still, so motionless, so hard! Very different to this lovely night in the country in which I am now writing, where the distant horizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the nearer trees sway gently to and fro in the night wind with something of almost human motion; and the rustling56 air makes music among their branches, as if speaking soothingly57 to the weary ones, who lie awake in heaviness of heart. The sights and sounds of such a night lull58 pain and grief to rest.
But Mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher59, with a still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction of how much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self; alone with her terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous60 world.
She bathed her forehead, and quenched61 her thirst, and then, with wise deliberation of purpose, went up-stairs, and undressed herself, as if for a long night's slumber62, although so few hours intervened before day-dawn. She believed she never could sleep, but she lay down, and shut her eyes; and before many minutes she was in as deep and sound a slumber as if there was no sin or sorrow in the world.
She woke up, as it was natural, much refreshed in body; hut with a consciousness of some great impending63 calamity. She sat up in bed to recollect64, and when she did remember, she sank down again with all the helplessness of despair. But it was only the weakness of an instant; for were not the very minutes precious, for deliberation if not for action?
Before she had finished the necessary morning business of dressing65, and setting her house in some kind of order, she had disentangled her ravelled ideas, and arranged some kind of a plan for action. If Jem was innocent (and now, of his guilt10, even his slightest participation66 in, or knowledge of; the murder, she acquitted67 him with all her heart and soul), he must have been somewhere else when the crime was committed; probably with some others, who might bear witness to the fact, if she only knew where to find them. Every thing rested on her. She had heard of an alibi68, and believed it might mean the deliverance she wished to accomplish; but she was not quite sure, and determined69 to apply to Job, as one of the few among her acquaintance gifted with the knowledge of hard words, for to her, all terms of law, or natural history, were alike many-syllabled mysteries.
No time was to be lost. She went straight to Job Legh's house, and found the old man and his grand-daughter sitting at breakfast; as she opened the door she heard their voices speaking in a grave, hushed, subdued70 tone, as if something grieved their hearts They stopped talking on her entrance, and then she knew they had been conversing71 about the murder; about Jem's probable guilt; and (it flashed upon her for the first time) on the new light they would have obtained regarding herself: for until now they had never heard of her giddy flirting72 with Mr Carson; not in all her confidential73 talk with Margaret had she ever spoken of him. And now, Margaret would hear her conduct talked of by all, as that of a bold, bad girl; and eve n if she did not believe everything that was I said, she could hardly help feeling wounded, and disappointed in Mary.
So it was in a timid voice that Mary wished her usual good-morrow, and her heart sunk within her a little, when Job, with a form of civility, bade her welcome in that dwelling75, where, until now, she had been too well assured to require to be asked to sit down.
She took a chair. Margaret continued silent.
"I'm come to speak to you about this--about Jem Wilson."
"It's a bad business, I'm afeard," replied Job, sadly.
"Aye, it's bad enough anyhow. But Jem's innocent. Indeed he is; I'm as sure as sure can be."
"How can you know, wench? Facts bear strong again him, poor fellow, though he'd a deal to put him up, and aggravate76 him, they say. Aye, poor lad, he's done for himself; I'm afeard."
"Job," said Mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, "you must not say he did it. He didn't; I'm sure and certain he didn't. Oh! why do you shake your head? Who is to believe me,--who is to think him innocent, if you, who know'd him so well, stick to it he's guilty?"
"I'm loath77 enough to do it, lass," replied Job; "but I think he's been ill-used, and--jilted (that's plain truth, Mary, bare as it may seem), and his blood has been up--many a man has done the like afore, from like causes.
"Oh, God! Then you won't help me, Job, to prove him innocent? Oh Job, Job; believe me, Jem never did harm to no one."
"Not afore;--and mind, wench! I don't over-blame him for this." Job relapsed into silence.
Mary thought a moment.
"Well, Job, you'll not refuse me this, I know. I won't mind what you think, if you'll help me as if he was innocent. Now suppose I know--I knew, he was innocent,--it's only supposing, Job,--what must I do to prove it? Tell me, Job! Is not it called an alibi, the getting folk to swear to where he really was at the time?"
"Best way, if you know'd him innocent, would be to find out the real murderer. Some one did it, that's clear enough. If it wasn't Jem, who was it?"
"How can I tell?" answered Mary, in agony of terror, lest Job's question was prompted by any suspicion of the truth.
But he was far enough from any such thought. In deed, he had no doubt in his own mind that Jem had, in some passionate moment, urged on by slighted love and jealousy78, been the murderer. And he was strongly inclined to believe, that Mary was aware of this, only that, too late repentant79 of her light conduct which had led to such fatal consequences, she was now most anxious to save her old playfellow, her early friend, from the doom80 awaiting the shedder of blood.
"If Jem's not done it, I don't see as any on us can tell who did it. We might find out something if we'd time; but they say he's to be tried on Tuesday. It's no use hiding it, Mary; things looks strong against him."
"I know they do! I know they do! But oh! Job! isn't an alibi a proving where he really was at th' time of the murder; and how must I set about analibi?"
"An alibi is that, sure enough." He thought a little. "You mun ask his mother his, doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledge of that will guide a bit."
For he was anxious that on another should fall the task of enlightening Mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt that her own sense would be more convinced by inquiry81 and examination than any mere82 assertion of his.
Margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. To tell the truth, she was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of Mary's conduct, with regard to Mr Henry Carson. Gentle, reserved, and prudent83 herself; never exposed to the trial of being admired for her personal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even yet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely-joyous feeling, she was for the first time experiencing, at sight or sound, or thought of Will Wilson, was love or not,--Margaret had no sympathy with the temptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of being admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in short. Then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflict between will and principle in some who were differently constituted from herself. With her, to be convinced that an action was wrong, was tantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she had little or no difficulty in carrying out her determination. So she could not understand how it was that Mary had actedwrongly, and had felt too much ashamed, in spite of sophistry84, to speak of her actions. Margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved85; and, at the time of which I am now telling you, was strongly inclined to give Mary up altogether, as a girl devoid86 of the modest proprieties87 of her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speaking of one lover as she had done of Jem, while she was encouraging another in attentions, at best of a very doubtful character.
But now Margaret was drawn into the conversation. Suddenly it flashed across Mary's mind, that the night of the murder was the very night, or rather the same early morning, that Margaret had been with Alice. She turned sharp round, with-
"Oh! Margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back that night; were you not? No! you were not; but you were there not many hours after. Did not you hear where he'd been? He was away the night before, too, when Alice was first taken; when you were there for your tea. Oh! where was he, Margaret?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Stay! I do remember something about his keeping Will company, in his walk to Liverpool. I can't justly say what it was, so much happened that night."
"I'll go to his mother's," said Mary resolutely.
They neither of them spoke74, either to advise or dissuade88. Mary felt she had no sympathy from them, and braced89 up her soul to act without such loving aid of friendship. She knew that their advice would be willingly given at her demand, and that was all she really required for Jem's sake. Still her courage failed a little as she walked to Jane Wilson's, alone in the world with her secret.
Jane Wilson's eyes were swelled90 with crying; and it was sad to see the ravages91 which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on her appearance in four-and-twenty hours. All night long she and Mrs Davenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring92, like the burden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now impending over Mrs Wilson. She had grown--I hardly know what word to use-but, something like proud of her martyrdom she had grown to hug her grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety about her boy.
"So, Mary, you're here! Oh! Mary, lass! He's to be tried on Tuesday."
She fell to sobbing93, in the convulsive breath-catching manner which tells so of much previous weeping.
"Oh! Mrs Wilson, don't take on so! We'll get him off, you'll see. Don't fret94; they can't prove him guilty!"
"But I tell thee they will," interrupted Mrs Wilson, halfirritated at the light way, as she considered it, in which Mary spoke; and a little displeased95 that another could hope when she had almost brought herself to find pleasure in despair.
"It may suit thee well," continued she, "to make light o' the misery thou hast caused; but I shall lay his death at thy door, as long as I live, and die I know he will; and all for what he never did--no, he never did; my own blessed boy!"
She was too weak to be angry long; her wrath96 sank away to feeble sobbing and worn-out moans.
Mary was most anxious to soothe97 her from any violence of either grief or anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollection; and, besides, her tenderness was great towards Jem's mother. So she spoke in a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound so broken and powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much power, when accompanied with caressing98 looks and actions, fresh from the heart; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influence of those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, those words of love and hope, and was lulled99 into a less morbid100 state of mind.
"And now, dear Mrs Wilson, can you remember where he said he was going on Thursday night? He was out when Alice was taken ill; and he did not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true, in the night did he?"
"Aye! he went out near upon five; he went out with Will; he said he were going to set him a part of the way, for Will were hot upon walking to Liverpool, and wouldn't hearken to Jem's offer of lending him five shillings for his fare. So the two lads set off together. I mind it all now but, thou seest, Alice's illness, and this business of poor Jem's, drove it out of my head; they went off together, to walk to Liverpool; that's to say, Jem were to go a part o' th' way. But, who knows" (falling back into the old desponding tone) "if he really went? He might be led off on the road. Oh! Mary, wench! they'll hang him for what he's never done.
"No, they won't, they shan't! I see my way a bit now. We mun get Will to help; there'll be time. He can swear that Jem were with him. Where is Jem?"
"Folk said he were taken to Kirkdale, i' th' prison van this morning; without my seeing him, poor chap! Oh! wench! but they've hurried on the business at a cruel rate."
"Aye, they've not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out the man that did it," said Mary, sorrow-fully and bitterly. "But keep up your heart. They got on the wrong scent101 when they took to suspecting Jem. Don't be afeard. You'll see it will end right for Jem."
"I should mind it less if I could do aught," said Jane Wilson; "but I'm such a poor weak old body, and my head's so gone, and I'm so dazed like, what with Alice and all, that I think and think, and can do nought102 to help my child. I might ha gone and seen him last night, they tell me now, and then I missed it. Oh! Mary, I missed it; and I may never see the lad again."
She looked so piteously in Mary's face with her miserable103 eyes, that Mary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading104 the weakness of her powers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion, hastily changed the subject to Alice; and Jane, in her heart, feeling that there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow, replied,
"She keeps on much the same, thank you. She's happy, for she knows nothing of what's going on; but th' doctor says she grows weaker and weaker. Thou'lt maybe like to see her?"
Mary went up-stairs: partly because it is the etiquette105 in humble106 life, to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying or the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of the invitation; and partly because she longed to breathe, for an instant, the atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surround the pious107 good old woman. Alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any outward expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place of reality to her. Still she talked of green fields, and still she spoke to the long-dead mother and sister, low-lying in their graves this many a year, as if they were with her and about her, in the pleasant places where her youth had passed.
But the voice was fainter, the motions were more languid; she was evidently passing away; but how happily!
Mary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. Then she bent108 down and reverently109 kissed Alice's cheek; and drawing Jane Wilson away from the bed, as if the spirit of her who lay there were yet cognizant of present realities, she whispered a few words of hope to the poor mother, and kissing her over and over again in a warm, loving manner, she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, and then once more came back to bid her keep up her heart.
And when she had fairly left the house, Jane Wilson felt as if a sunbeam had ceased shining into the room.
Yet oh! how sorely Mary's heart ached; for more and more the fell certainty came on her that her father was the murderer! She struggled hard not to dwell on this conviction; to think alone on the means of proving Jem's innocence110; that was her first duty, and that should be done.
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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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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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tallying
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| v.计算，清点( tally的现在分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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accomplice
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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previously
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conjecture
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motives
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distress
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misery
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arid
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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exertion
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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36
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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37
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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42
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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43
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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48
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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51
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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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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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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84
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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85
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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88
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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89
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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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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93
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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94
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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96
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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97
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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98
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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99
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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101
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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102
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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103
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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104
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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105
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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106
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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107
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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108
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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109
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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110
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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