On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but that his sister was at length released from her afflictive1, overwhelming toil2 - no hope but that she would in time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a painful commiseration3 for her unhappy husband (though fully4 aware that he had brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing5 cares, those dreadful vigils, that incessant7 and deleterious confinement8 beside a living corpse9 - for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the sufferings she had had to endure.
'You will go to her, Lawrence?' said I, as I put the letter into his hand.
'Yes, immediately.'
'That's right! I'll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.'
'I've done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.'
Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew. He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other's hands at parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance10, he saw there nothing but the most becoming gravity - it might be mingled11 with a little sternness in momentary12 resentment13 at what I suspected to be passing in his mind.
Had I forgotten my own prospects14, my ardent15 love, my pertinacious16 hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert17 to them now, but I had not forgotten them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no longer a crime to think of her - but did she ever think of me? Not now - of course it was not to be expected - but would she when this shock was over? In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our mutual18 friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned me but once - and that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong presumption19 that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst: it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she might be only trying to forget; but in addition to this, I had a gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her reconciliation20 with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings and death, must eventually efface21 from her mind all traces of her passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to be restored to her former health, her tranquillity22, her cheerfulness even - but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting23 fancy, a vain, illusive24 dream; especially as there was no one to remind her of my existence - no means of assuring her of my fervent25 constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy26 forbade me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove27 of my attachment28 now as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor - too lowly born, to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs. Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor29, and those of Mrs. Graham, the artist, the tenant30 of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to place restrictions31 upon her marrying again. So that you see I had reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.
Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience32 that I looked forward to Mr. Lawrence's return from Grassdale: impatience that increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty33 for my own future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted34 and worn by her unremitting exertions35 in behalf of that man who had been the scourge36 of her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the grave, and was still much shaken and depressed37 by his melancholy38 end and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that Lawrence was indeed averse39 to the idea of my union with his sister.
I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit, and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened40 jealousy41, or alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he rather shrank from that impending42 scrutiny43, and was no less pleased than surprised to find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a smooth face, or at least a stoic44 calmness, throughout the interview. It was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment45, I must say it would have been highly absurd and improper46 to have quarrelled with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I wronged him in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the world calls a mesalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the world at defiance47; especially in such a case as this, for its dread6 laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how fervently48 I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and though refraining entirely49 from any active opposition50 to the match, he would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the part of prudence51, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections52, than that of feeling, to encourage them. 'And he was in the right of it,' you will say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs53 of wounded pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved was alone and afflicted54, suffering from injured health and dejected spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question.
But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me, which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then, dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that I had ceased to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it - at least to express my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation55 of her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy those blessings56 of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than herself - adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful57 hours I had passed in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the salt and solace58 of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not entirely banished59 me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some fashion), my future proceedings60 should be regulated by her reply.
Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable61 state of uncertainty; but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still pursue my habitual62 inquiries63 after his sister, if he had lately heard from her, and how she was, but nothing more.
I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to the letter of the inquiry64: she was much as usual: she made no complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and very busy with her son's education, and with the management of her late husband's property, and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal65 had never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he should misconstrue into covetousness66 my desire to know. He never offered to show me his sister's letters now, and I never hinted a wish to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past; January, at length, was almost over - a few more weeks, and then, certain despair or renewal67 of hope would put an end to this long agony of suspense68.
But alas69! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another blow in the death of her uncle - a worthless old fellow enough in himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed to regard him as a parent. She was with him when he died, and had assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness. Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at Staningley.
'Where is Staningley?' I asked at last.
'In -shire,' was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred70 from requesting a more definite account.
'When will she return to Grassdale?' was my next question.
'I don't know.'
'Confound it!' I muttered.
'Why, Markham?' asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise. But I did not deign71 to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen72 contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated73 the carpet with a slight smile, half pensive74, half amused; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse75 with him, and soon took leave.
You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too touchy76. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to affronts77 where none are intended. I am no martyr78 to it now, as you can bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and you.
Partly from accident, partly from wilful79 negligence80 on my part (for I was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I saw my friend again. When we did meet, it was he that sought me out. One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I was just commencing my hay harvest.
'It is long since I saw you, Markham,' said he, after the first few words had passed between us. 'Do you never mean to come to Woodford again?'
'I called once, and you were out.'
'I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, and now I have called, and you were out, which you generally are, or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being determined81 to see you this time, I have left my pony82 in the lane, and come over hedge and ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a month or two.'
'Where are you going?'
'To Grassdale first,' said he, with a half-smile he would willingly have suppressed if he could.
'To Grassdale! Is she there, then?'
'Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell to F- for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.' (F- was at that time a quiet but respectable watering- place: it is considerably83 more frequented now.)
Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to entrust84 him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if I had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not offer to do so, if I was content to let it alone. But I could not bring myself to make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to remedy the evil.
He did not return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me twice or thrice from F-, but his letters were most provokingly unsatisfactory, dealing85 in generalities or in trifles that I cared nothing about, or replete86 with fancies and reflections equally unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing about his sister, and little more about himself. I would wait, however, till he came back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then. At all events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her aunt, who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous87 aspirations88 than himself. When she was returned to the silence and solitude89 of her own home, it would be my fittest opportunity.
When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived90 considerable benefit from her stay at F- that her son was quite well, and - alas! that both of them were gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and there they stayed at least three months. But instead of boring you with my chagrin91, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations92 of dull despondency and flickering93 hope, my varying resolutions, now to drop it, and now to persevere94 - now to make a bold push, and now to let things pass and patiently abide95 my time, - I will employ myself in settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in the course of this narrative96, whom I may not have occasion to mention again.
Some time before Mr. Huntingdon's death Lady Lowborough eloped with another gallant97 to the Continent, where, having lived a while in reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and parted. She went dashing on for a season, but years came and money went: she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery98; and died at last, as I have heard, in penury99, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this might be only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all lost sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly100 forget her if they could. Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour, immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again. It was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose101 and moody102 as he seemed, was not the man for a bachelor's life. No public interests, no ambitious projects, or active pursuits, - or ties of friendship even (if he had had any friends), could compensate103 to him for the absence of domestic comforts and endearments104. He had a son and a nominal105 daughter, it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their mother, and the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness to his soul. He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal106 kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel some degree of kindly107 regard for her, at last, in return for her artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent being, his constant struggles to subdue108 the evil promptings of his nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by those who knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone; - so also was the hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to the vice109 of his youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities110, and deadness to the present misery of a blighted111 heart a joyless, friendless life, and a morbidly112 disconsolate113 mind, by yielding again to that insidious114 foe115 to health, and sense, and virtue116, which had so deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.
The second object of his choice was widely different from the first. Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed117 it - but in this their folly118 was more apparent than his. The lady was about his own age - i.e., between thirty and forty - remarkable119 neither for beauty, nor wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments120; nor any other thing that I ever heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity, active piety121, warm-hearted benevolence122, and a fund of cheerful spirits. These qualities, however, as you way readily imagine, combined to render her an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable123 wife to his lordship. He, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence124 in conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate125 the good she did him, and so far succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who question the good taste of either partner may be thankful if their respective selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or repay their preference with affection half as lasting126 and sincere.
If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting127 only with the worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society - happily for the rest of the world - and at last met his end in a drunken brawl128, from the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at play.
As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to 'come out from among them,' and behave like a man and a Christian129, and the last illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so deeply and seriously impressed him with the evil of their former practices, that he never needed another lesson of the kind. Avoiding the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his life in the country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty130, active, country gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses and cattle, diversified131 with a little hunting and shooting, and enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy little wife (now cheerful and confiding132 as heart could wish), and his fine family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His father, the banker, having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now full scope for the exercise of his prevailing133 tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated134 throughout the country for his noble breed of horses.
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afflictive
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| 带给人痛苦的，苦恼的，难受的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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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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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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disapprove
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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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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melancholy
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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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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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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56
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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57
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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58
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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59
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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63
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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64
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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65
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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66
covetousness
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67
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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68
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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69
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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70
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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72
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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74
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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75
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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76
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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77
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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78
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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80
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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82
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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83
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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84
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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85
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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86
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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90
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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93
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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100
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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101
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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102
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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103
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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104
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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106
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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107
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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108
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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109
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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110
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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111
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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112
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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113
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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114
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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115
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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116
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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117
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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119
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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120
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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121
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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122
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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123
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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124
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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125
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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126
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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127
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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128
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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129
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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130
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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131
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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132
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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133
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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134
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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