While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weatherdown at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling--drip,drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad down inLincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehendits ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant lifeof imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and,truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in thatparticular), but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude1, with duskywings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.
There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals atChesney Wold. The horses in the stables--the long stables in abarren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in aturret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who livenear it and who love to perch2 upon its shoulders seem to be alwaysconsulting--THEY may contemplate3 some mental pictures of fineweather on occasions, and may be better artists at them than thegrooms. The old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning hislarge eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember thefresh leaves that glisten4 there at other times and the scents5 thatstream in, and may have a fine run with the hounds, while the humanhelper, clearing out the next stall, never stirs beyond hispitchfork and birch-broom. The grey, whose place is opposite thedoor and who with an impatient rattle6 of his halter pricks7 his earsand turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom theopener says, "'Woa grey, then, steady! Noabody wants you to-day!"may know it quite as well as the man. The whole seeminglymonotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, maypass the long wet hours when the door is shut in liveliercommunication than is held in the servants' hall or at the DedlockArms, or may even beguile8 the time by improving (perhaps corrupting)the pony9 in the loose-box in the corner.
So the mastiff, dozing10 in his kennel11 in the court-yard with hislarge head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when theshadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changingand leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than theshadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growlingshort, and very much wanting something to worry besides himself andhis chain. So now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall thehouse full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, thestables fall of horses, and the out-buildings full of attendantsupon horses, until he is undecided about the present and comes forthto see how it is. Then, with that impatient shake of himself, hemay growl12 in the spirit, "Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain--andno family here!" as he goes in again and lies down with a gloomyyawn.
So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who havetheir resfless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has beenvery obstinate13 have even made it known in the house itself--upstairs, downstairs, and in my Lady's chamber14. They may hunt thewhole country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round theirinactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails,frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively withideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of thoseseasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw15. Theturkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance(probably Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morningwrongfully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felledtrees, where there was a barn and barley16. The discontented goose,who stoops to pass under the old gateway17, twenty feet high, maygabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling18 preference for weatherwhen the gateway casts its shadow on the ground.
Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring atChesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes,like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way andusually leads off to ghosts and mystery.
It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire thatMrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper19 at Chesney Wold, has severaltimes taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certainthat the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell mighthave been sufficiently20 assured by hearing the rain, but that she israther deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. She is afine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such aback and such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out whenshe dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate,nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. Weatheraffects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in allweathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looksat." She sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor,with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned21 atregular intervals23 with smooth round trees and smooth round blocksof stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with thestones), and the whole house reposes24 on her mind. She can open iton occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now andlies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom25 in amajestic sleep.
It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagineChesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been herefifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shallanswer "fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessingof heaven, if I live till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some timebefore the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestlyhid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyardin the park near the mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town,and so was his young widow. Her progress in the family began inthe time of the last Sir Leicester and originated in the still-room.
The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master.
He supposes all his dependents to be utterly26 bereft27 of individualcharacters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he wasborn to supersede28 the necessity of their having any. If he were tomake a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--wouldnever recover himself, most likely, except to gasp29 and die. But heis an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to beso. He has a great liking30 for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is amost respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands withher when he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; andif he were very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or runover, or placed in any situation expressive31 of a Dedlock at adisadvantage, he would say if he could speak, "Leave me, and sendMrs. Rouncewell here!" feeling his dignity, at such a pass, saferwith her than with anybody else.
Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sons, of whomthe younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back.
Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose theircomposure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from herstomacher, hover32 about her in an agitated33 manner as she says what alikely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever ladhe was! Her second son would have been provided for at ChesneyWold and would have been made steward34 in due season, but he took,when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out ofsaucepans and setting birds to draw their own water with the leastpossible amount of labour, so assisting them with artfulcontrivance of hydraulic35 pressure that a thirsty canary had only,in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel and the jobwas done. This propensity36 gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness.
She felt it with a mother's anguish37 to be a move in the Wat Tylerdirection, well knowing that Sir Leicester had that generalimpression of an aptitude38 for any art to which smoke and a tallchimney might be considered essential. But the doomed39 young rebel(otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign ofgrace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model ofa power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention hisbackslidings to the baronet. "Mrs. Rouncewell," said SirLeicester, "I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any oneon any subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had betterget him into some Works. The iron country farther north is, Isuppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies."Farther north he went, and farther north he grew up; and if SirLeicester Dedlock ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold tovisit his mother, or ever thought of him afterwards, it is certainthat he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousandconspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turningout by torchlight two or three nights in the week for unlawfulpurposes.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course of natureand art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and calledunto him Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, who, being out of hisapprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whitherhe was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparationsfor the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney Wold.
"And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt41! And, onceagain, I am glad to see you, Watt!" says Mrs. Rouncewell. "You area fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!"Mrs. Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.
"They say I am like my father, grandmother.""Like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle George!
And your dear father." Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again. "Heis well?""Thriving, grandmother, in every way.""I am thankful!" Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has aplaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourablesoldier who had gone over to the enemy.
"He is quite happy?" says she.
"Quite.""I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways andhas sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knowsbest. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don'tunderstand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen aquantity of good company too!""Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what avery pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You calledher Rosa?""Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids areso hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young.
She's an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the housealready, very pretty. She lives with me at my table here.""I hope I have not driven her away?""She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.
She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. Andscarcer," says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to itsutmost limits, "than it formerly42 was!"The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the preceptsof experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens.
"Wheels!" says she. They have long been audible to the youngerears of her companion. "What wheels on such a day as this, forgracious sake?"After a short interval22, a tap at the door. "Come in!" A dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in herrosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which havebeaten on her hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.
"What company is this, Rosa?" says Mrs. Rouncewell.
"It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house--yes, and if you please, I told them so!" in quick reply to agesture of dissent43 from the housekeeper. "I went to the hall-doorand told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but theyoung man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged meto bring this card to you.""Read it, my dear Watt," says the housekeeper.
Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it betweenthem and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up.
Rosa is shyer than before.
"Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields.
"Guppy!" repeats Mrs. Rouncewell, "MR. Guppy! Nonsense, I neverheard of him!""If you please, he told ME that!" says Rosa. "But he said that heand the other young gentleman came from London only last night bythe mail, on business at the magistrates44' meeting, ten miles off,this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and theyhad heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn't knowwhat to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to seeit. They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn'soffice, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name ifnecessary." Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been makingquite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.
Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place,and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will. Theold lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as afavour, and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being smittenby a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join theparty. The grandmother, who is pleased that he should have thatinterest, accompanies him--though to do him justice, he isexceedingly unwilling45 to trouble her.
"Much obliged to you, ma'am!" says Mr. Guppy, divesting46 himself ofhis wet dreadnought in the hall. "Us London lawyers don't oftenget an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, youknow."The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, wavesher hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friendfollow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a younggardener goes before to open the shutters47.
As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppyand his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. Theystraggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't carefor the right things, gape48 when more rooms are opened, exhibitprofound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. Ineach successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is asupright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat or othersuch nook and listens with stately approval to Rosa's exposition.
Her grandson is so attentive49 to it that Rosa is shyer than ever--and prettier. Thus they pass on from room to room, raising thepictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardeneradmits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shutsit out again. It appears to the afflicted50 Mr. Guppy and hisinconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whosefamily greatness seems to consist in their never having doneanything to distinguish themselves for seven hundred years.
Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr.
Guppy's spirits. He is so low that he droops51 on the threshold andhas hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over thechimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, actsupon him like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at itwith uncommon52 interest; he seems to be fixed53 and fascinated by it.
"Dear me!" says Mr. Guppy. "Who's that?""The picture over the fire-place," says Rosa, "is the portrait ofthe present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness54, andthe best work of the master.""'Blest," says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at hisfriend, "if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has thepicture been engraved55, miss?""The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has alwaysrefused permission.""Well!" says Mr. Guppy in a low voice. "I'll be shot if it ain'tvery curious how well I know that picture! So that's Lady Dedlock,is it!""The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock.
The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester."Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. "It'sunaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "howwell I know that picture! I'm dashed," adds Mr. Guppy, lookinground, "if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture,you know!"As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy'sdreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains56 soabsorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it untilthe young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out ofthe room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficientsubstitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms witha confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlockagain.
He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the lastshown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows fromwhich she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored herto death. All things have an end, even houses that people takeinfinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to seethem. He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh villagebeauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "Theterrace below is much admired. It is called, from an old story inthe family, the Ghost's Walk.""No?" says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious. "What's the story, miss?
Is it anything about a picture?""Pray tell us the story," says Watt in a half whisper.
"I don't know it, sir." Rosa is shyer than ever.
"It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten," says thehousekeeper, advancing. "It has never been more than a familyanecdote.""You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with apicture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do assure you thatthe more I think of that picture the better I know it, withoutknowing how I know it!"The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper canguarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the informationand is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend,guided down another staircase by the young gardener, and presentlyis heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rouncewell can trustto the discretion57 of her two young hearers and may tell THEM howthe terrace came to have that ghostly name.
She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window andtells them: "In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles theFirst--I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels wholeagued themselves against that excellent king--Sir Morbury Dedlockwas the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of aghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should thinkit very likely indeed."Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that afamily of such antiquity58 and importance has a right to a ghost.
She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes,a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.
"Sir Morbury Dedlock," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "was, I have nooccasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr59. But it ISsupposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in herveins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relationsamong King Charles's enemies, that she was in correspondence withthem, and that she gave them information. When any of the countrygentlemen who followed his Majesty's cause met here, it is saidthat my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-roomthan they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep passingalong the terrace, Watt?"Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper.
"I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and Ihear a curious echo--I suppose an echo--which is very like ahalting step."The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account ofthis division between them, and partly on other accounts, SirMorbury and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of ahaughty temper. They were not well suited to each other in age orcharacter, and they had no children to moderate between them.
After her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in thecivil wars (by Sir Morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was soviolent that she hated the race into which she had married. Whenthe Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king'scause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into thestables in the dead of night and lamed60 their horses; and the storyis that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding61 down thestairs and followed her into the stall where his own favouritehorse stood. There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggleor in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing62 out,she was lamed in the hip40 and from that hour began to pine away."The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than awhisper.
"She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage.
She never complained of the change; she never spoke63 to any one ofbeing crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried towalk upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade,went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, withgreater difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband(to whom she had never, on any persuasion64, opened her lips sincethat night), standing65 at the great south window, saw her drop uponthe pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed66 himas he bent67 over her, and looking at him fixedly68 and coldly, said,'I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk here, thoughI am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this houseis humbled69. And when calamity70 or when disgrace is coming to it,let the Dedlocks listen for my step!'
Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down uponthe ground, half frightened and half shy.
"There and then she died. And from those days," says Mrs.
Rouncewell, "the name has come down--the Ghost's Walk. If thetread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, andis often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back fromtime to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in thefamily, it will be heard then.""And disgrace, grandmother--" says Watt.
"Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold," returns the housekeeper.
Her grandson apologizes with "True. True.""That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worryingsound," says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; "and whatis to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Lady, who isafraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard.
You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behindyou (placed there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is inmotion and can play music. You understand how those things aremanaged?""Pretty well, grandmother, I think.""Set it a-going."Watt sets it a-going--music and all.
"Now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "Hither, child, towardsmy Lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, butlisten! Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through themusic, and the beat, and everything?""I certainly can!""So my Lady says."
收听单词发音 |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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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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glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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hydraulic
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| adj.水力的；水压的，液压的；水力学的 | |
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propensity
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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watt
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| n.瓦，瓦特 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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divesting
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| v.剥夺( divest的现在分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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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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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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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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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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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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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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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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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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