Holcroft was not long in climbing to a sunny nook whence he could see not only his farm and dwelling1, but also the Oakville valley, and the little white spire2 of the distant meeting house. He looked at this last-named object wistfully and very sadly. Mrs. Mumpson's tirade3 about worship had been without effect, but the memories suggested by the church were bitter-sweet indeed. It belonged to the Methodist denomination4, and Holcroft had been taken, or had gone thither5, from the time of his earliest recollection. He saw himself sitting between his father and mother, a round-faced urchin6 to whom the sermon was unintelligible7, but to whom little Bessie Jones in the next pew was a fact, not only intelligible8, but very interesting. She would turn around and stare at him until he smiled, then she would giggle9 until her mother brought her right-about-face with considerable emphasis. After this, he saw the little boy--could it have been himself?--nodding, swaying, and finally slumbering10 peacefully, with his head on his mother's lap, until shaken into sufficient consciousness to be half dragged, half led, to the door. Once in the big, springless farm wagon11 he was himself again, looking eagerly around to catch another glimpse of Bessie Jones. Then he was a big, irreverent boy, shyly and awkwardly bent12 on mischief13 in the same old meeting house. Bessie Jones no longer turned and stared at him, but he exultingly14 discovered that he could still make her giggle on the sly. Years passed, and Bessie was his occasional choice for a sleigh-ride when the long body of some farm wagon was placed on runners, and boys and girls--young men and women, they almost thought themselves--were packed in like sardines15. Something like self-reproach smote16 Holcroft even now, remembering how he had allowed his fancy much latitude17 at this period, paying attention to more than one girl besides Bessie, and painfully undecided which he liked best.
Then had come the memorable18 year which had opened with a protracted19 meeting. He and Bessie Jones had passed under conviction at the same time, and on the same evening had gone forward to the anxious seat. From the way in which she sobbed20, one might have supposed that the good, simple-hearted girl had terrible burdens on her conscience; but she soon found hope, and her tears gave place to smiles. Holcroft, on the contrary, was terribly cast down and unable to find relief. He felt that he had much more to answer for than Bessie; he accused himself of having been a rather coarse, vulgar boy; he had made fun of sacred things in that very meeting house more times than he liked to think of, and now for some reason could think of nothing else.
He could not shed tears or get up much emotion; neither could he rid himself of the dull weight at heart. The minister, the brethren and sisters, prayed for him and over him, but nothing removed his terrible inertia21. He became a familiar form on the anxious seat for there was a dogged persistence22 in his nature which prevented him from giving up; but at the close of each meeting he went home in a state of deeper dejection. Sometimes, in returning, he was Bessie Jones' escort, and her happiness added to his gall23 and bitterness. One moonlight night they stopped under the shadow of a pine near her father's door, and talked over the matter a few moments before parting. Bessie was full of sympathy which she hardly knew how to express. Unconsciously, in her earnestness--how well he remembered the act!--she laid her hand on his arm as she said, "James, I guess I know what's the matter with you. In all your seeking you are thinking only of yourself--how bad you've been and all that. I wouldn't think of myself and what I was any more, if I was you. You aint so awful bad, James, that I'd turn a cold shoulder to you; but you might think I was doing just that if ye stayed away from me and kept saying to yourself, 'I aint fit to speak to Bessie Jones.'"
Her face had looked sweet and compassionate25, and her touch upon his arm had conveyed the subtle magic of sympathy. Under her homely26 logic27, the truth had burst upon him like sunshine. In brief, he had turned from his own shadow and was in the light. He remembered how in his deep feeling he had bowed his head on her shoulder and murmured, "Oh, Bessie, Heaven bless you! I see it all."
He no longer went to the anxious seat. With this young girl, and many others, he was taken into the church on probation28. Thereafter, his fancy never wandered again, and there was no other girl in Oakville for him but Bessie. In due time, he had gone with her to yonder meeting house to be married. It had all seemed to come about as a matter of course. He scarcely knew when he became formally engaged. They "kept company" together steadfastly29 for a suitable period, and that seemed to settle it in their own and everybody else's mind.
There had been no change in Bessie's quiet, constant soul. After her words under the shadow of the pine tree she seemed to find it difficult to speak of religious subjects, even to her husband; but her simple faith had been unwavering, and she had entered into rest without fear or misgiving30.
Not so her husband. He had his spiritual ups and downs, but, like herself, was reticent31. While she lived, only a heavy storm kept them from "going to meeting," but with Holcroft worship was often little more than a form, his mind being on the farm and its interests. Parents and relatives had died, and the habit of seclusion32 from neighborhood and church life had grown upon them gradually and almost unconsciously.
For a long time after his wife's death Holcroft had felt that he did not wish to see anyone who would make references to his loss.
He shrank from formal condolences as he would from the touch of a diseased nerve. When the minister called, he listened politely but silently to a general exhortation33; then muttered, when left alone, "It's all as he says, I suppose; but somehow his words are like the medicines Bessie took--they don't do any good."
He kept up the form of his faith and a certain vague hope until the night on which he drove forth34 the Irish revelers from his home. In remembrance of his rage and profanity on that occasion, he silently and in dreary35 misgiving concluded that he should not, even to himself, keep up the pretense36 of religion any longer. "I've fallen from grace--that is, if I ever had any"--was a thought which did much to rob him of courage to meet his other trials. Whenever he dwelt on these subjects, doubts, perplexities, and resentment37 at his misfortunes so thronged38 his mind that he was appalled39; so he strove to occupy himself with the immediate40 present.
Today, however, in recalling the past, his thoughts would question the future and the outcome of his experiences. In accordance with his simple, downright nature, he muttered, "I might as well face the truth and have done with it. I don't know whether I'll ever see my wife again or not; I don't know whether God is for me or against me. Sometimes, I half think there isn't any God. I don't know what will become of me when I die. I'm sure of only one thing--while I do live I could take comfort in working the old place."
In brief, without ever having heard of the term, he was an agnostic, but not one of the self-complacent, superior type who fancy that they have developed themselves beyond the trammels of faith and are ever ready to make the world aware of their progress.
At last he recognized that his long reverie was leading to despondency and weakness; he rose, shook himself half angrily, and strode toward the house. "I'm here, and here I'm going to stay," he growled41. "As long as I'm on my own land, it's nobody's business what I am or how I feel. If I can't get decent, sensible women help, I'll close up my dairy and live here alone. I certainly can make enough to support myself."
Jane met him with a summons to dinner, looking apprehensively42 at his stern, gloomy face. Mrs. Mumpson did not appear. "Call her," he said curtly43.
The literal Jane returned from the parlor44 and said unsympathetically, "She's got a hank'chif to her eyes and says she don't want no dinner."
"Very well," he replied, much relieved.
Apparently45 he did not want much dinner, either, for he soon started out again. Mrs. Wiggins was not utterly46 wanting in the intuitions of her sex, and said nothing to break in upon her master's abstraction.
In the afternoon Holcroft visited every nook and corner of his farm, laying out, he hoped, so much occupation for both hands and thoughts as to render him proof against domestic tribulations47.
He had not been gone long before Mrs. Mumpson called in a plaintive48 voice, "Jane!"
The child entered the parlor warily49, keeping open a line of retreat to the door. "You need not fear me," said her mother, rocking pathetically. "My feelings are so hurt and crushed that I can only bemoan50 the wrongs from which I suffer. You little know, Jane, you little know a mother's heart."
"No," assented51 Jane. "I dunno nothin' about it."
"What wonder, then that I weep, when even my child is so unnatural52!"
"I dunno how to be anything else but what I be," replied the girl in self-defense.
"If you would only yield more to my guidance and influence, Jane, the future might be brighter for us both. If you had but stored up the Fifth Commandment in memory--but I forbear. You cannot so far forget your duty as not to tell me how HE behaved at dinner."
"He looked awful glum53, and hardly said a word."
"Ah-h!" exclaimed the widow, "the spell is working."
"If you aint a-workin' tomorrow, there'll be a worse spell," the girl remarked.
"That will do, Jane, that will do. You little understand--how should you? Please keep an eye on him, and let me know how he looks and what he is doing, and whether his face still wears a gloomy or a penitent54 aspect. Do as I bid you, Jane, and you may unconsciously secure your own well-being55 by obedience56."
Watching anyone was a far more congenial task to the child than learning the Commandments, and she hastened to comply. Moreover, she had the strongest curiosity in regard to Holcroft herself. She felt that he was the arbiter58 of her fate. So untaught was she that delicacy59 and tact60 were unknown qualities. Her one hope of pleasing was in work. She had no power of guessing that sly espionage61 would counterbalance such service. Another round of visiting was dreaded62 above all things; she was, therefore, exceedingly anxious about the future. "Mother may be right," she thought. "P'raps she can make him marry her, so we needn't go away any more. P'raps she's taken the right way to bring a man around and get him hooked, as Cousin Lemuel said. If I was goin' to hook a man though, I'd try another plan than mother's. I'd keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. I'd see what he wanted and do it, even 'fore24 he spoke63. 'Fi's big anuf I bet I could hook a man quicker'n she can by usin' her tongue 'stead of her hands."
Jane's scheme was not so bad a one but that it might be tried to advantage by those so disposed. Her matrimonial prospects64, however, being still far in the future, it behooved65 her to make her present existence as tolerable as possible. She knew how much depended on Holcroft, and was unaware66 of any other method of learning his purposes except that of watching him. Both fearing and fascinated, she dogged his steps most of the afternoon, but saw nothing to confirm her mother's view that any spell was working. She scarcely understood why he looked so long at field, thicket67, and woods, as if he saw something invisible to her.
In planning future work and improvements, the farmer had attained68 a quieter and more genial57 frame of mind. "When, therefore, he sat down and in glancing about saw Jane crouching69 behind a low hemlock70, he was more amused than irritated. He had dwelt on his own interests so long that he was ready to consider even Jane's for a while. "Poor child!" he thought, "she doesn't know any better and perhaps has even been taught to do such things. I think I'll surprise her and draw her out a little. Jane, come here," he called.
The girl sprang to her feet, and hesitated whether to fly or obey. "Don't be afraid," added Holcroft. "I won't scold you. Come!"
She stole toward him like some small, wild, fearful animal in doubt of its reception. "Sit down there on that rock," he said.
She obeyed with a sly, sidelong look, and he saw that she kept her feet gathered under her so as to spring away if he made the slightest hostile movement.
"Jane, do you think it's right to watch people so?" he asked gravely.
"She told me to."
"Your mother?"
The girl nodded.
"But do you think it's right yourself?"
"Dunno. 'Taint71 best if you get caught."
"Well, Jane," said Holcroft, with something like a smile lurking72 in his deep-set eyes. "I don't think it's right at all. I don't want you to watch me any more, no matter who tells you to. Will you promise not to?"
The child nodded. She seemed averse73 to speaking when a sign would answer.
"Can I go now?" she asked after a moment.
"Not yet. I want to ask you some questions. Was anyone ever kind to you?"
"I dunno. I suppose so."
"What would you call being kind to you?"
"Not scoldin' or cuffin' me."
"If I didn't scold or strike you, would you think I was kind, then?"
She nodded; but after a moment's thought, said, "and if you didn't look as if you hated to see me round."
"Do you think I've been kind to you?"
"Kinder'n anybody else. You sorter look at me sometimes as if I was a rat. I don't s'pose you can help it, and I don't mind. I'd ruther stay here and work than go a-visitin' again. Why can't I work outdoors when there's nothin' for me to do in the house?"
"Are you willing to work--to do anything you can?"
Jane was not sufficiently74 politic75 to enlarge on her desire for honest toil76 and honest bread; she merely nodded. Holcroft smiled as he asked, "Why are you so anxious to work?"
"'Cause I won't feel like a stray cat in the house then. I want to be some'ers where I've a right to be."
"Wouldn't they let you work down at Lemuel Weeks'?" She shook her head.
"Why not?" he asked.
"They said I wasn't honest; they said they couldn't trust me with things, 'cause when I was hungry I took things to eat."
"Was that the way you were treated at other places?"
"Mostly."
"Jane," asked Holcroft very kindly77, "did anyone ever kiss you?"
"Mother used to 'fore people. It allus made me kinder sick."
Holcroft shook his head as if this child was a problem beyond him, and for a time they sat together in silence. At last he arose and said, "It's time to go home. Now, Jane, don't follow me; walk openly at my side, and when you come to call me at any time, come openly, make a noise, whistle or sing as a child ought. As long as you are with me, never do anything on the sly, and we'll get along well enough."
She nodded and walked beside him. At last, as if emboldened78 by his words, she broke out, "Say, if mother married you, you couldn't send us away, could you?"
"Why do you ask such a question?" said Holcroft, frowning.
"I was a-thinkin'--"
"Well," he interrupted sternly, "never think or speak of such things again."
The child had a miserable79 sense that she had angered him; she was also satisfied that her mother's schemes would be futile80, and she scarcely spoke again that day.
Holcroft was more than angry; he was disgusted. That Mrs. Mumpson's design upon him was so offensively open that even this ignorant child understood it, and was expected to further it, caused such a strong revulsion in his mind that he half resolved to put them both in his market wagon on the morrow and take them back to their relatives. His newly awakened81 sympathy for Jane quickly vanished. If the girl and her mother had been repulsive82 from the first, they were now hideous83, in view of their efforts to fasten themselves upon him permanently84. Fancy, then, the climax85 in his feelings when, as they passed the house, the front door suddenly opened and Mrs. Mumpson emerged with clasped hands and the exclamation86, "Oh, how touching87! Just like father and child!"
Without noticing the remark he said coldly as he passed, "Jane, go help Mrs. Wiggins get supper."
His anger and disgust grew so strong as he hastily did his evening work that he resolved not to endanger his self-control by sitting down within earshot of Mrs. Mumpson. As soon as possible, therefore, he carried the new stove to his room and put it up. The widow tried to address him as he passed in and out, but he paid no heed88 to her. At last, he only paused long enough at the kitchen door to say, "Jane, bring me some supper to my room. Remember, you only are to bring it."
Bewildered and abashed89, Mrs. Mumpson rocked nervously90. "I had looked for relentings this evening, a general softening," she murmured, "and I don't understand his bearing toward me." Then a happy thought struck her. "I see, I see," she cried softly and ecstatically: "He is struggling with himself; he finds that he must either deny himself my society or yield at once. The end is near."
A little later she, too, appeared at the kitchen door and said, with serious sweetness, "Jane, you can also bring me MY supper to the parlor."
Mrs. Wiggins shook with mirth in all her vast proportions as she remarked, "Jane, ye can bring me MY supper from the stove to the table 'ere, and then vait hon yeself."
1 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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2 spire | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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3 tirade | |
n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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4 denomination | |
n.命名,取名,(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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5 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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6 urchin | |
n.顽童;海胆 | |
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7 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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8 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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9 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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10 slumbering | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的现在分词形式) | |
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11 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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12 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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13 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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14 exultingly | |
兴高采烈地,得意地 | |
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15 sardines | |
n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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16 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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17 latitude | |
n.纬度,行动或言论的自由(范围),(pl.)地区 | |
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18 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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19 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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20 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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21 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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22 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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23 gall | |
v.使烦恼,使焦躁,难堪;n.磨难 | |
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24 fore | |
adv.在前面;adj.先前的;在前部的;n.前部 | |
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25 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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26 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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27 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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28 probation | |
n.缓刑(期),(以观后效的)察看;试用(期) | |
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29 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
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30 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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31 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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32 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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33 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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34 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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35 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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36 pretense | |
n.矫饰,做作,借口 | |
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37 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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38 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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40 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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41 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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42 apprehensively | |
adv.担心地 | |
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43 curtly | |
adv.简短地 | |
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44 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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45 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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46 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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47 tribulations | |
n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 );艰难;苦难的缘由;痛苦 | |
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48 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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49 warily | |
adv.留心地 | |
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50 bemoan | |
v.悲叹,哀泣,痛哭;惋惜,不满于 | |
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51 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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53 glum | |
adj.闷闷不乐的,阴郁的 | |
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54 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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55 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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56 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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57 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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58 arbiter | |
n.仲裁人,公断人 | |
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59 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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60 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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61 espionage | |
n.间谍行为,谍报活动 | |
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62 dreaded | |
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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63 spoke | |
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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64 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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65 behooved | |
v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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67 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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68 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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69 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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70 hemlock | |
n.毒胡萝卜,铁杉 | |
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71 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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72 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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73 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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74 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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75 politic | |
adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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76 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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77 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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78 emboldened | |
v.鼓励,使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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80 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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81 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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82 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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83 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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84 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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85 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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86 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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87 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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88 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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89 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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