June 1st, 1821. - We have just returned to Staningley - that is, we returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence of my uncle's indisposition; - I wonder what would have been the result if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid2 and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch3, and always without success; and that vexes4 me. As for the owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind - and, indeed, I never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other wonderments - questions for time and fate to answer - concluding with - Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent5 it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I was thinking about.
How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.
'Helen,' said she, after a thoughtful silence, 'do you ever think about marriage?'
'Yes, aunt, often.'
'And do you ever contemplate6 the possibility of being married yourself, or engaged, before the season is over?'
'Sometimes; but I don't think it at all likely that I ever shall.'
'Why so?'
'Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.'
'That is no argument at all. It may be very true - and I hope is true, that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wish to marry any one till you were asked: a girl's affections should never be won unsought. But when they are sought - when the citadel7 of the heart is fairly besieged8 - it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner is aware of, and often against her better judgment9, and in opposition10 to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she be extremely careful and discreet11. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of these things, and to exhort12 you to be watchful13 and circumspect14 from the very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets15 the possession of it. - You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you likewise - for, if I don't, others will - that you have a fair share of beauty besides - and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!'
'I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?'
'Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and, therefore, it is likely to entail16 a great deal of trouble on the possessor.'
'Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?'
'No, Helen,' said she, with reproachful gravity, 'but I know many that have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares17 and temptations terrible to relate.'
'Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.'
'Remember Peter, Helen! Don't boast, but watch. Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet18, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained19 and duly considered the worth of the aspirant20; and let your affections be consequent upon approbation21 alone. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations22 of flattery and light discourse23. - These are nothing - and worse than nothing - snares and wiles24 of the tempter, to lure25 the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished26 and superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery27 that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a worthless reprobate28, or even an impracticable fool.'
'But what are all the poor fools and reprobates29 to do, aunt? If everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.'
'Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but do you follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen - I am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.' And she spoke31 it so seriously, that one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no more impertinent questions, and merely answered, - 'I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but you need not fear me, for I not only should think it wrong to marry a man that was deficient32 in sense or in principle, but I should never be tempted33 to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate him - despise him - pity him - anything but love him. My affections not only ought to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so: for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as well as love him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.'
'I hope it may be so,' answered she.
'I know it is so,' persisted I.
'You have not been tried yet, Helen - we can but hope,' said she in her cold, cautious way.
'I was vexed34 at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were entirely35 without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to remember her advice than to profit by it; - indeed, I have sometimes been led to question the soundness of her doctrines36 on those subjects. Her counsels may be good, as far as they go - in the main points at least; - but there are some things she has overlooked in her calculations. I wonder if she was ever in love.
I commenced my career - or my first campaign, as my uncle calls it - kindling37 with bright hopes and fancies - chiefly raised by this conversation - and full of confidence in my own discretion38. At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but soon I began to weary of its mingled39 turbulence40 and constraint41, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed42 me by turns; I for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities43, and laughing at their foibles - particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them - and they - the ladies especially - appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen scorned better, but, perhaps, it was because I knew them less - perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily44 despised.
There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old friend of my uncle's, who, I believe, thought I could not do better than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and disagreeable, - and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less hateful, but still more tiresome45, because she favoured him, and was always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears - Mr. Boarham by name, Bore'em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore he was: I shudder46 still at the remembrance of his voice - drone, drone, drone, in my ear - while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour together, and beguiling47 himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction48 of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment49 of more agreeable society.
One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually tormenting50, and my patience was quite exhausted51. It appeared as if the whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb52, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and seemed determined53 to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never danced himself, and there he sat, poking54 his head in my face, and impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed, acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently55 on all the time, and wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving a loose to my exasperated56 feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen57 silence was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity58, that only required an indulgent rebuke59; and flat contradictions were but as oil to the flames, calling forth60 new strains of argument to support his dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to overwhelm me with conviction.
But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation61 of my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion's remorseless pertinacity62 and my manifest annoyance63, and laughing to himself at the asperity64 and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house, apparently65 for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for, shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr. Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle's. He asked me to dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual, insisted upon an early departure.
I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful66 ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose67 and expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had been doomed68 to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it did not anger me.
'Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?' said my aunt, as we took our seats in the carriage and drove away.
'Worse than ever,' I replied.
She looked displeased69, but said no more on that subject.
'Who was the gentleman you danced with last,' resumed she, after a pause - 'that was so officious in helping70 you on with your shawl?'
'He was not officious at all, aunt: he never attempted to help me till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly forward and said, "Come, I'll preserve you from that infliction."'
'Who was it, I ask?' said she, with frigid71 gravity.
'It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle's old friend.'
'I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I've heard him say, "He's a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I fancy." So I'd have you beware.'
'What does "a bit wildish" mean?' I inquired.
'It means destitute72 of principle, and prone73 to every vice30 that is common to youth.'
'But I've heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was young.'
She sternly shook her head.
'He was jesting then, I suppose,' said I, 'and here he was speaking at random74 - at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing blue eyes.'
'False reasoning, Helen!' said she, with a sigh.
'Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt - besides, I don't think it is false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of people's characters by their looks - not by whether they are handsome or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance75. For instance, I should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful, sanguine76 disposition1; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot's, that he was a worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham's, that he was not an agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon's, that he was neither a fool nor a knave77, though, possibly, neither a sage78 nor a saint - but that is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again - unless as an occasional partner in the ball-room.'
It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not heard, till the previous night, of my uncle's arrival in town; and after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.
'I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,' he would say, - 'can you tell, Helen? - Hey? He wants none o' my company, nor I his - that's certain.'
'I wish you'd tell him so, then,' said my aunt.
'Why, what for? If I don't want him, somebody does, mayhap' (winking at me). 'Besides, he's a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know - not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won't hear of that match: for, somehow, these old chaps don't go down with the girls - with all their money, and their experience to boot. I'll bet anything she'd rather have this young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold. Wouldn't you, Nell?'
'Yes, uncle; but that's not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I'd rather be an old maid and a pauper79 than Mrs. Wilmot.'
'And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs. Huntingdon - eh?'
'I'll tell you when I've considered the matter.'
'Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now - would you rather be an old maid - let alone the pauper?'
'I can't tell till I'm asked.'
And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld80 Mr. Boarham coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable suspense81, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing82 to hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind her.
'Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,' said she. 'He wishes to see you.'
'Oh, aunt! - Can't you tell him I'm indisposed? - I'm sure I am - to see him.'
'Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling83 matter. He is come on a very important errand - to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.'
'I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it. What right had he to ask any one before me?'
'Helen!'
'What did my uncle say?'
'He said he would not interfere84 in the matter; if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham's obliging offer, you - '
'Did he say obliging offer?'
'No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might please yourself.'
'He said right; and what did you say?'
'It is no matter what I said. What will you say? - that is the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.'
'I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want to be civil and yet decided85 - and when I've got rid of him, I'll give you my reasons afterwards.'
'But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable86 man?'
'No.'
'Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?'
'No; he may be all this, but - '
'But, Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is this such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of such noble qualities without a moment's hesitation87? Yes, noble I may call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many inestimable virtues88 they include (and I might add many more to the list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your power to secure this inestimable blessing89 for life - a worthy90 and excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life's pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss91. Think how - '
'But I hate him, aunt,' said I, interrupting this unusual flow of eloquence92.
'Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian93 spirit? - you hate him? and he so good a man!'
'I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I - one as good as himself, or better - if you think that possible - provided she could like him; but I never could, and therefore - '
'But why not? What objection do you find?'
'Firstly, he is at least forty years old - considerably94 more, I should think - and I am but eighteen; secondly95, he is narrow-minded and bigoted96 in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing97 to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person that I never can surmount98.'
'Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which you have so often professed99 to hold in light esteem), tell me which is the better man.'
'I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness - than be his wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense - so let me go.'
'But don't give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present - '
'But I have thoughts of it.'
'Or that you desire a further acquaintance.'
'But I don't desire a further acquaintance - quite the contrary.'
And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing- room, humming snatches of tunes100 and nibbling101 the end of his cane102.
'My dear young lady,' said he, bowing and smirking103 with great complacency, 'I have your kind guardian's permission - '
'I know, sir,' said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as possible, 'and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the experiment were tried.'
My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded104 at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.
'I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us in years, in temperament105, and perhaps some other things; but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a young and ardent106 nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke them with all a father's care, believe me, no youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no disparagement107 in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all conducive108 to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no young lady's affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.'
'I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we were not made for each other.'
'You really think so?'
'I do.'
'But you don't know me - you wish for a further acquaintance - a longer time to - '
'No, I don't. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so incongruous - so utterly109 unsuitable to you in every way.'
'But, my dear young lady, I don't look for perfection; I can excuse - '
'Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won't trespass110 upon your goodness. You may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object, that won't tax them so heavily.'
'But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am sure, will - '
'I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself; and no persuasion111 can alter my inclinations112, or induce me to believe that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours - and I wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of choosing such a wife.'
'Ah, well!' said he, 'I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have sometimes said to myself, "Now Boarham, what is this you're after? Take care, man - look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature, but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove the husband's greatest torments113!" I assure you my choice has not been made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a sleepless114 hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an earnest of virtues yet unblown - a strong ground of presumption115 that her little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated116 by the patient efforts of a watchful and judicious117 adviser118, and where I failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon, for the sake of her many excellences119. Therefore, my dearest girl, since I am satisfied, why should you object - on my account, at least?'
'But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I principally object; so let us - drop the subject,' I would have said, 'for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,' but he pertinaciously120 interrupted me with, - 'But why so? I would love you, cherish you, protect you,' &c., &c.
I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us. Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to convince that I really meant what I said, and really was so obstinate121 and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections. Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate122 the same replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words were, - 'I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you - at least, I would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man - but I cannot love you, and never could - and the more you talk the further you repel123 me; so pray don't say any more about it.'
Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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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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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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opposition
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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outlet
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aspirant
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approbation
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fascinations
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discourse
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wiles
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lure
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accomplished
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misery
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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reprobates
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| n.道德败坏的人，恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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31
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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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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35
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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36
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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37
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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39
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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40
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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41
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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43
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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44
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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45
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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46
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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48
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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49
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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50
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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51
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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52
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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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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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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68
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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70
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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71
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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78
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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79
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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80
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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81
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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82
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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83
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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84
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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85
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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86
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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87
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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88
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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89
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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91
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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92
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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93
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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94
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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95
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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96
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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97
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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98
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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99
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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100
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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101
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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102
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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103
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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104
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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105
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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106
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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107
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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108
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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109
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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110
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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111
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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112
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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113
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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114
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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115
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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116
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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118
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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119
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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120
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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121
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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122
reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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123
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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