December 20th, 1825. - Another year is past; and I am weary of this life. And yet I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail1 me here, I cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes2, to warn him of its thousand snares3, and guard him from the perils4 that beset5 him on every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father's spirit and temperament6, and I tremble for the consequences; and too often damp the innocent mirth I ought to share. That father, on the contrary, has no weight of sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples7 concerning his son's future welfare; and at evenings especially, the times when the child sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always particularly jocund8 and open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with anything or anybody but me, and I am particularly silent and sad: therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous9 amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of my son's affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it is my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to rob me of, and, from motives10 of mere11 idle egotism, is pleased to win to himself; making no use of it but to torment12 me and ruin the child. My only consolation13 is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good the evil he has wrought14 by his wilful15 mismanagement. But then it is a bitter trial to behold16 him, on his return, doing his utmost to subvert17 my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable18 darling into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous19 boy; thereby20 preparing the soil for those vices21 he has so successfully cultivated in his own perverted22 nature.
Happily, there were none of Arthur's 'friends' invited to Grassdale last autumn: he took himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish he would always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave, considerably23 to my annoyance24, did not go with him; but I think I have done with that gentleman at last.
For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably25 well, and managed so skilfully26 too, that I was almost completely off my guard, and was really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as such, with certain prudent27 restrictions28 (which I deemed scarcely necessary); when, presuming upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought he might venture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and propriety29 that had so long restrained him. It was on a pleasant evening at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he had ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone, without the sanction of his mother's or sister's company, or at least the excuse of a message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and easy, so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness30, that, though a little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash-trees and by the water-side, and talked, with considerable animation31, good taste, and intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water - I revolving32 in my mind the best means of politely dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his senses, - he suddenly electrified33 me by beginning, in a peculiar34 tone, low, soft, but perfectly35 distinct, to pour forth36 the most unequivocal expressions of earnest and passionate37 love; pleading his cause with all the bold yet artful eloquence38 he could summon to his aid. But I cut short his appeal, and repulsed39 him so determinately, so decidedly, and with such a mixture of scornful indignation, tempered with cool, dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted40 mind, that he withdrew, astonished, mortified41, and discomforted; and, a few days after, I heard that he had departed for London. He returned, however, in eight or nine weeks, and did not entirely43 keep aloof44 from me, but comported45 himself in so remarkable46 a manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail to notice the change.
'What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?' said she one morning, when I had called at the Grove47, and he had just left the room after exchanging a few words of the coldest civility. 'He has been so extremely ceremonious and stately of late, I can't imagine what it is all about, unless you have desperately48 offended him. Tell me what it is, that I may be your mediator49, and make you friends again.'
'I have done nothing willingly to offend him,' said I. 'If he is offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.'
'I'll ask him,' cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head out of the window: 'he's only in the garden - Walter!'
'No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease50 me if you do; and I shall leave you immediately, and not come again for months - perhaps years.'
'Did you call, Esther?' said her brother, approaching the window from without.
'Yes; I wanted to ask you - '
'Good-morning, Esther,' said I, talking her hand and giving it a severe squeeze.
'To ask you,' continued she, 'to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.' He departed. 'Mrs. Huntingdon,' she exclaimed, turning to me and still holding me fast by the hand, 'I'm quite shocked at you - you're just as angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I'm determined51 you shall be as good friends as ever before you go.'
'Esther, how can you be so rude!' cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated gravely knitting in her easy-chair. 'Surely, you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady!'
'Well, mamma, you said yourself - ' But the young lady was silenced by the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake of the head.
'Isn't she cross?' whispered she to me; but, before I could add my share of reproof52, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a beautiful moss-rose in his hand.
'Here, Esther, I've brought you the rose,' said he, extending it towards her.
'Give it her yourself, you blockhead!' cried she, recoiling53 with a spring from between us.
'Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,' replied he, in a very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me.
'My brother's compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he will come to a better understanding by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?' added the saucy54 girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his neck, as he stood leaning upon the sill of the window - 'or should I have said that you are sorry you were so touchy55? or that you hope she will pardon your offence?'
'You silly girl! you don't know what you are talking about,' replied he gravely.
'Indeed I don't: for I'm quite in the dark!'
'Now, Esther,' interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on the subject of our estrangement56, saw at least that her daughter was behaving very improperly57, 'I must insist upon your leaving the room!'
'Pray don't, Mrs. Hargrave, for I'm going to leave it myself,' said I, and immediately made my adieux.
About a week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant, half- stately, half-melancholy58, altogether injured air; but Esther made no remark upon it this time: she had evidently been schooled into better manners. She talked to me, and laughed and romped59 with little Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort42, enticed60 her from the room to have a run in the hall, and thence into the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt cold, and shut the door - a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for I had meditated61 following the noisy playfellows if they did not speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.
'No; but it's no matter,' I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed like fire, it was rather at the question than the information it conveyed.
'You don't object to it?' he said.
'Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.'
'You have no love left for him, then?'
'Not the least.'
'I knew that - I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own nature to continue to regard one so utterly62 false and polluted with any feelings but those of indignation and scornful abhorrence63!'
'Is he not your friend?' said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he assigned to another.
'He was,' replied he, with the same calm gravity as before; 'but do not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my friendship and esteem64 to a man who could so infamously65, so impiously forsake66 and injure one so transcendently - well, I won't speak of it. But tell me, do you never think of revenge?'
'Revenge! No - what good would that do? - it would make him no better, and me no happier.'
'I don't know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he, smiling; 'you are only half a woman - your nature must be half human, half angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don't know what to make of it.'
'Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if I, a mere ordinary mortal, am, by your own confession67, so vastly your superior; and since there exists so little sympathy between us, I think we had better each look out for some more congenial companion.' And forthwith moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son and his gay young friend.
'No, I am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,' replied Mr. Hargrave. 'I will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but you, Madam - I equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?' he asked in a serious tone.
'As happy as some others, I suppose.'
'Are you as happy as you desire to be?'
'No one is so blest as that comes to on this side eternity68.'
'One thing I know,' returned he, with a deep sad sigh; 'you are immeasurably happier than I am.'
'I am very sorry for you, then,' I could not help replying.
'Are you, indeed? No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve me.'
'And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any other.'
'And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You are miserable69 now, Mrs. Huntingdon,' continued he, looking me boldly in the face. 'You do not complain, but I see - and feel - and know that you are miserable - and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am miserable, too. Deign70 to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you shall be happy also, for if you are a woman I can make you so - and I will do it in spite of yourself!' he muttered between his teeth; 'and as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot injure your husband, you know, and no one else has any concern in the matter.'
'I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,' said I, retiring from the window, whither he had followed me.
'They need not know,' he began; but before anything more could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter's flushed, excited countenance71, and then at mine - a little flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and was evidently perplexed72 and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was too polite or too much afraid of her brother's anger to refer to it. She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden ringlets, that were scattered73 in wild profusion74 over her face, she immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow, and continued to chatter75 away in her usual strain till her brother summoned her to depart.
'If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,' he murmured on taking his leave, 'or I shall never forgive myself.' Esther smiled and glanced at me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor return for Walter's generous concession76, and was disappointed in her friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in!
Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for several weeks after this; but when he did meet me there was less of pride and more of touching77 melancholy in his manner than before. Oh, how he annoyed me! I was obliged at last almost entirely to remit78 my visits to the Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave and seriously afflicting79 poor Esther, who really values my society for want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her brother. But that indefatigable80 foe81 was not yet vanquished82: he seemed to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past the premises83, looking searchingly round him as he went - or, if I did not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters stood between us, and descrying84 the enemy's movements from her elevation85 at the nursery-window, she would give me a quiet intimation if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer86 my ramble87, or confine myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if the proposed excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or afflicted88, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested89.
But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth alone to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants90, and on my return I was alarmed at the clatter91 of a horse's feet behind me, approaching at a rapid, steady trot92. There was no stile or gap at hand by which I could escape into the fields, so I walked quietly on, saying to myself, 'It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he do annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am determined, if there be power in words and looks against cool impudence93 and mawkish94 sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.'
The horse soon overtook me, and was reined95 up close beside me. It was Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and melancholy, but his triumphant96 satisfaction at having caught me at last so shone through that it was quite a failure. After briefly97 answering his salutation and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned away and walked on; but he followed and kept his horse at my side: it was evident he intended to be my companion all the way.
'Well! I don't much care. If you want another rebuff, take it - and welcome,' was my inward remark. 'Now, sir, what next?'
This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn tones the following appeal to my humanity:-
'It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. Huntingdon - you may have forgotten the circumstance, but I never can. I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not love you. In the following autumn I saw so much of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not show it. For upwards98 of three years I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish99 of suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings100, silent sorrow, crushed hopes, and trampled101 affections, I have suffered more than I can tell, or you imagine - and you were the cause of it, and not altogether the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects102 are darkened; my life is a desolate103 blank; I have no rest day or night: I am become a burden to myself and others, and you might save me by a word - a glance, and will not do it - is this right?'
'In the first place, I don't believe you,' answered I; 'in the second, if you will be such a fool, I can't hinder it.'
'If you affect,' replied he, earnestly, 'to regard as folly104 the best, the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature, I don't believe you. I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be - you had a heart once, and gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the treasure, you reclaimed105 it; and you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly- minded profligate106 so deeply, so devotedly107, that you can never love another? I know that there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called forth; I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely state you are and must be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give (for you can love me if you will); you may tell me that you scorn and detest108 me, but, since you have set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer that I do not believe you. But you will not do it! you choose rather to leave us miserable; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God that we should remain so. You may call this religion, but I call it wild fanaticism109!'
'There is another life both for you and for me,' said I. 'If it be the will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may reap in joy hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others by the gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a mother, and sisters, and friends who would be seriously injured by your disgrace; and I, too, have friends, whose peace of mind shall never be sacrificed to my enjoyment110, or yours either, with my consent; and if I were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion, and I would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting111 happiness - happiness sure to end in misery112 even here - for myself or any other!'
'There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,' persisted he. 'I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world's opinion.' But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation - and even shame - that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend against his powerful sophistries113. Finding, however, that he could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly114 exulted115 in his seeming advantage, and ventured to deride116 those assertions I had not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.
'Do you really love me?' said I, seriously, pausing and looking him calmly in the face.
'Do I love you!' cried he.
'Truly?' I demanded.
His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his attachment117, which I cut short by another question:-
'But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested118 affection to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?'
'I would give my life to serve you.'
'I don't want your life; but have you enough real sympathy for my afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relieve them, at the risk of a little discomfort to yourself?'
'Try me, and see.'
'If you have, never mention this subject again. You cannot recur119 to it in any way without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so feelingly deplore120. I have nothing left me but the solace121 of a good conscience and a hopeful trust in heaven, and you labour continually to rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest foe.'
'But hear me a moment - '
'No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask your silence on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what I say I mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude that your protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in your heart as fervently122 as you profess123 to love me!'
He bit his lip, and bent124 his eyes upon the ground in silence for a while.
'Then I must leave you,' said he at length, looking steadily125 upon me, as if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible anguish or dismay awakened126 by those solemn words. 'I must leave you. I cannot live here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject of my thoughts and wishes.'
'Formerly127, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,' I answered; 'it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a while - if that be really necessary.'
'If that be really possible,' he muttered; 'and can you bid me go so coolly? Do you really wish it?'
'Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting128 me as you have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.'
He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of genuine agony of soul, that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded pride, or lingering love, or burning wrath129 were uppermost, I could not hesitate to put my hand in his as frankly130 as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his horse and galloped131 away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to Paris, where he still is; and the longer he stays there the better for me.
I thank God for this deliverance!
收听单词发音 |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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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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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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subvert
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| v.推翻；暗中破坏；搅乱 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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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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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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42
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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45
comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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47
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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50
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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53
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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54
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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55
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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56
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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57
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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58
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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59
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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60
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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62
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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63
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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64
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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65
infamously
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| 不名誉地 | |
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66
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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67
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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68
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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69
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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70
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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71
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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72
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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73
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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74
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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75
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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76
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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77
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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78
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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79
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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80
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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81
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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82
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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83
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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84
descrying
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| v.被看到的，被发现的，被注意到的( descried的过去分词 ) | |
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85
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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86
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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87
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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88
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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89
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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90
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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91
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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92
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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93
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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94
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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95
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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96
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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97
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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98
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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99
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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100
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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101
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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102
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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103
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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104
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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105
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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106
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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107
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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108
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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109
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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110
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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111
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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112
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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113
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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114
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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115
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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117
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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118
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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119
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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120
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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121
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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122
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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123
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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124
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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125
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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126
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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127
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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128
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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129
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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130
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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131
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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