August 25th. - I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady occupations and quiet amusements - tolerably contented1 and cheerful, but still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted2 to meet his eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period. This, at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way. It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre3, as long as it does not lure4 me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt's advice, and I see clearly, now, the folly5 of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable6 of responding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost heart - so clearly, that even if I should see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which, alas7! is too little probable, considering how he is situated8, and by whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him - I am determined9 not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt's opinion of him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I think it is not wrong - no, no - there is a secret something - an inward instinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodness in him; - and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, what bliss10 to recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful11 influence of corrupting12 and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh! if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!
* * * * *
To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. 'What gentlemen?' I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invited to shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt's friend, Mr. Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but all regret and apprehension13 vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr. Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly against his coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade14 my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief15 was already done: he had invited Huntingdon and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but to fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am sure of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult to conceal16 it from my aunt; but I don't wish to trouble her with my feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified17 in indulging this attachment18, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best friend, for its object - surely, I shall soon know. But they are not coming till about the middle of the month.
We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle deportment and lowly and tractable19 spirit; and the former I suspect she intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon's attention from me. I don't thank her for this; but I shall be glad of Milicent's company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like her - more like her, at least, than I am.
* * * * *
19th. - They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in the drawing-room. I have retired20 to the library, for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential21 friend into whose ear I might pour forth22 the overflowings of my heart. It will not sympathise with my distresses24, but then it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend I could have for the purpose.
First, let me speak of his arrival - how I sat at my window, and watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park- gates - for they all came before him, - and how deeply I was disappointed at every arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies. When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us since our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld25 another carriage at the door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot; and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he one of the profligate26 friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one could call him a jolly companion, I'm sure, - and, besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently27 between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn28 aspect.
At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light phaeton came bowling29 merrily up the lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico30 steps, and disappeared into the house.
I now submitted to be dressed for dinner - a duty which Rachel had been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled. Shortly after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a little conciliation31 and steady perseverance32 on his part might yet succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the window, conversing33 with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.
'How will he greet me, I wonder?' said my bounding heart; and, instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue34 my emotion. But having saluted35 his host and hostess, and the rest of the company, he came to me, ardently36 squeezed my hand, and murmured he was glad to see me once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious37 Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces38, offered his arm to me; and I was condemned39 to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much suffering by a few delightful40 minutes of conversation with Mr. Huntingdon.
In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished41 musician, I think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my drawings than to her music.
So far so good; - but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with peculiar42 emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, 'This is better than all!' - I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror, beheld him complacently43 gazing at the back of the picture:- it was his own face that I had sketched44 there and forgotten to rub out! To make matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, 'No - by George, I'll keep it!' placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a delighted chuckle45.
Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, 'I must look at both sides now,' he eagerly commenced an examination, which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for, though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several with abortive46 attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully obliterated47 all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of rubbing can efface48. Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own satisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny49, he quietly remarked, - 'I perceive the backs of young ladies' drawings, like the postscripts50 of their letters, are the most important and interesting part of the concern.'
Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in silence, complacently smiling to himself, and while I was concocting51 some cutting speech wherewith to check his gratification, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently52 coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for the rest of the evening.
'So then,' thought I, 'he despises me, because he knows I love him.'
And the reflection made me so miserable53 I knew not what to do. Milicent came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks upon them; but I could not talk to her - I could talk to no one, and, upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open door and the slight diversion caused by its entrance to slip out - for I was sure I could not take any - and take refuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me, to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied with her guests to make any further inquiries54 at the time.
As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired early to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up- stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room sideboard. But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest. He was just at the foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and hearing my step in the hall - though I could hardly hear it myself - he instantly turned back.
'Helen, is that you?' said he. 'Why did you run away from us?'
'Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I, coldly, not choosing to answer the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.
'But you'll shake hands, won't you?' said he, placing himself in the doorway55 before me. And he seized my hand and held it, much against my will.
'Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I. 'I want to get a candle.'
'The candle will keep,' returned he.
I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.
'Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?' he said, with a smile of the most provoking self-sufficiency. 'You don't hate me, you know.'
'Yes, I do - at this moment.'
'Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.'
'I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,' said I, burning with indignation.
'But I have, you know,' returned he, with peculiar emphasis.
'That is nothing to me, sir,' I retorted.
'Is it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?'
'No I won't, Mr. Huntingdon! and I will go,' cried I, not knowing whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of fury.
'Go, then, you vixen!' he said; but the instant he released my hand he had the audacity56 to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.
Trembling with anger and agitation57, and I don't know what besides, I broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room. He would not have done so but for that hateful picture. And there he had it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my humiliation58.
It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose perplexed59 and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at breakfast. I knew not how it was to be done. An assumption of dignified60, cold indifference61 would hardly do, after what he knew of my devotion - to his face, at least. Yet something must be done to check his presumption62 - I would not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing eyes. And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning salutation as calmly and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with brief answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conversation, while I comported63 myself with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance64 towards every other member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even her uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility on the occasion, not from any motives65 of coquetry, but just to show him that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general ill-humour or depression of spirits.
He was not, however, to be repelled66 by such acting67 as this. He did not talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree of freedom and openness, and kindliness68 too, that plainly seemed to intimate he knew his words were music to my ears; and when his looks met mine it was with a smile - presumptuous69, it might be - but oh! so sweet, so bright, so genial70, that I could not possibly retain my anger; every vestige71 of displeasure soon melted away beneath it like morning clouds before the summer sun.
Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish eagerness, set out on their expedition against the hapless partridges; my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies72, Mr. Huntingdon and Lord Lowborough on their legs: the one exception being Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration of the rain that had fallen during the night, thought it prudent73 to remain behind a little and join them in a while when the sun had dried the grass. And he favoured us all with a long and minute disquisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet, delivered with the most imperturbable74 gravity, amid the jeers75 and laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied forth with their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to have a look at the horses and let out the dogs.
Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham's company for the whole of the morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth my easel and began to paint. The easel and the painting apparatus76 would serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my aunt should come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted to finish the picture. It was one I had taken great pains with, and I intended it to be my masterpiece, though it was somewhat presumptuous in the design. By the bright azure77 of the sky, and by the warm and brilliant lights and deep long shadows, I had endeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny morning. I had ventured to give more of the bright verdure of spring or early summer to the grass and foliage78 than is commonly attempted in painting. The scene represented was an open glade79 in a wood. A group of dark Scotch80 firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the prevailing81 freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of the gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs82 of a large forest- tree, whose foliage was of a brilliant golden green - not golden from autumnal mellowness84, but from the sunshine and the very immaturity85 of the scarce expanded leaves. Upon this bough83, that stood out in bold relief against the sombre firs, were seated an amorous86 pair of turtle doves, whose soft sad-coloured plumage afforded a contrast of another nature; and beneath it a young girl was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back and masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped, lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased yet earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers - too deeply absorbed in each other to notice her.
I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on their return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash and sprang in, and set himself before my picture.
'Very pretty, i'faith,' said he, after attentively87 regarding it for a few seconds; 'and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening into summer - morning just approaching noon - girlhood just ripening88 into womanhood, and hope just verging89 on fruition. She's a sweet creature! but why didn't you make her black hair?'
'I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy90.'
'Upon my word - a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn't the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she's thinking there will come a time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond and fervent91 a lover; and she's thinking how pleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.'
'And perhaps,' suggested I, 'how tender and faithful she shall find him.'
'Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope's imaginings at such an age.'
'Do you call that, then, one of her wild, extravagant92 delusions93?'
'No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once, but now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternal constancy to her and her alone, through summer and winter, through youth and age, and life and death! if age and death must come.'
He spoke94 this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with a significant smile, if I had 'any more portraits.'
'No,' replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath95.
But my portfolio96 was on the table: he took it up, and coolly sat down to examine its contents.
'Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches97,' cried I, 'and I never let any one see them.'
And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest98 it from him, but he maintained his hold, assuring me that he 'liked unfinished sketches of all things.'
'But I hate them to be seen,' returned I. 'I can't let you have it, indeed!'
'Let me have its bowels99 then,' said he; and just as I wrenched100 the portfolio from his hand, he deftly101 abstracted the greater part of its contents, and after turning them over a moment he cried out, - 'Bless my stars, here's another;' and slipped a small oval of ivory paper into his waistcoat pocket - a complete miniature portrait that I had sketched with such tolerable success as to be induced to colour it with great pains and care. But I was determined he should not keep it.
'Mr. Huntingdon,' cried I, 'I insist upon having that back! It is mine, and you have no right to take it. Give it me directly - I'll never forgive you if you don't!'
But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated103 my distress23 by his insulting, gleeful laugh. At length, however, he restored it to me, saying, - 'Well, well, since you value it so much, I'll not deprive you of it.'
To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it into the fire. He was not prepared for this. His merriment suddenly ceasing, he stared in mute amazement104 at the consuming treasure; and then, with a careless 'Humph! I'll go and shoot now,' he turned on his heel and vacated the apartment by the window as he came, and setting on his hat with an air, took up his gun and walked away, whistling as he went - and leaving me not too much agitated105 to finish my picture, for I was glad, at the moment, that I had vexed106 him.
When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham had ventured to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly after lunch, to which they did not think of returning, I volunteered to accompany the ladies in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent the beauties of the country. We took a long ramble107, and re-entered the park just as the sportsmen were returning from their expedition. Toil-spent and travel-stained, the main body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us, but Mr. Huntingdon, all spattered and splashed as he was, and stained with the blood of his prey108 - to the no small offence of my aunt's strict sense of propriety109 - came out of his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and words for all but me, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself, walked up the road and began to relate the various exploits and disasters of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with laughter if I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himself entirely110 to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter and all the badinage111 to her, and affecting the utmost indifference to whatever passed between them, walked along a few paces apart, and looking every way but theirs, while my aunt and Milicent went before, linked arm in arm and gravely discoursing112 together. At length Mr. Huntingdon turned to me, and addressing me in a confidential whisper, said, - 'Helen, why did you burn my picture?'
'Because I wished to destroy it,' I answered, with an asperity113 it is useless now to lament114.
'Oh, very good!' was the reply; 'if you don't value me, I must turn to somebody that will.'
I thought it was partly in jest - a half-playful mixture of mock resignation and pretended indifference: but immediately he resumed his place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this - during all that evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next, and all this morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kind word or one pleasant look - never spoken to me, but from pure necessity - never glanced towards me but with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of assuming.
My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired the cause or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives her pleasure. Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly115 ascribes it to her own superior charms and blandishments; but I am truly miserable - more so than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.
He meant no harm - it was only his joyous116, playful spirit; and I, by my acrimonious117 resentment118 - so serious, so disproportioned to the offence - have so wounded his feelings, so deeply offended him, that I fear he will never forgive me - and all for a mere119 jest! He thinks I dislike him, and he must continue to think so. I must lose him for ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as she will.
But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore120 so greatly as the wreck121 of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her unworthiness of his affection, and the injury he will do himself by trusting his happiness to her. She does not love him: she thinks only of herself. She cannot appreciate the good that is in him: she will neither see it, nor value it, nor cherish it. She will neither deplore his faults nor attempt their amendment122, but rather aggravate102 them by her own. And I doubt whether she will not deceive him after all. I see she is playing double between him and Lord Lowborough, and while she amuses herself with the lively Huntingdon, she tries her utmost to enslave his moody123 friend; and should she succeed in bringing both to her feet, the fascinating commoner will have but little chance against the lordly peer. If he observes her artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but rather adds new zest124 to his diversion by opposing a stimulating125 check to his otherwise too easy conquest.
Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by his neglect of me to renew their advances; and if I were like Annabella and some others I should take advantage of their perseverance to endeavour to pique126 him into a revival127 of affection; but, justice and honesty apart, I could not bear to do it. I am annoyed enough by their present persecutions without encouraging them further; and even if I did it would have precious little effect upon him. He sees me suffering under the condescending128 attentions and prosaic129 discourses130 of the one, and the repulsive131 obtrusions of the other, without so much as a shadow of commiseration132 for me, or resentment against my tormentors. He never could have loved me, or he would not have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talking to everybody else so cheerfully as he does - laughing and jesting with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent Hargrave, and flirting133 with Annabella Wilmot - as if nothing were on his mind. Oh! why can't I hate him? I must be infatuated, or I should scorn to regret him as I do. But I must rally all the powers I have remaining, and try to tear him from my heart. There goes the dinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at my desk all day, instead of staying with the company: wish the company were - gone.
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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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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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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32
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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33
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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34
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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35
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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36
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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37
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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38
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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41
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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42
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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43
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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44
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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46
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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47
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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48
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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49
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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50
postscripts
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| （信末签名后的）附言，又及( postscript的名词复数 )； （正文后的）补充说明 | |
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51
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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52
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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53
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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55
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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56
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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57
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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58
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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59
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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60
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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61
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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62
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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63
comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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66
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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67
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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68
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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69
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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71
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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72
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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73
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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74
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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75
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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77
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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78
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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79
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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80
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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81
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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82
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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83
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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84
mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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86
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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87
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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88
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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89
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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90
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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91
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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92
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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93
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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94
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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95
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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96
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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97
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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98
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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99
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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101
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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102
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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103
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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104
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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105
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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106
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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107
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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108
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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109
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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110
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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111
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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112
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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113
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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114
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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115
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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116
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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117
acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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118
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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119
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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120
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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121
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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122
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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123
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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124
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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125
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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126
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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127
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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128
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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129
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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130
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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131
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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132
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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133
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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