. . . this heart, I know,
To be long lov’d was never fram’d;
But something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.
—Matthew Arnold, “A Farewell” (1853)
I gave the two most obvious reasons why Sarah Woodruff presented herself for Mrs. Poulteney’s inspection1. But she was the last person to list reasons, however instinctively2, and there were many others—indeed there must have been, since she was not unaware3 of Mrs. Poulteney’s reputation in the less elevated milieux5 of Lyme. For a day she had been undecided; then she had gone to see Mrs. Talbot to seek her advice. Now Mrs. Talbot was an extremely kindhearted but a not very perspicacious6 young woman; and though she would have liked to take Sarah back—indeed, had earlier firmly offered to do so—she was aware that Sarah was now incapa-ble of that sustained and daylong attention to her charges that a governess’s duties require. And yet she still wanted very much to help her.
She knew Sarah faced penury7; and lay awake at nights imagining scenes from the more romantic literature of her adolescence8, scenes in which starving heroines lay huddled9 on snow-covered doorsteps or fevered in some bare, leaking garret. But one image—an actual illustration from one of Mrs. Sherwood’s edifying10 tales—summed up her worst fears. A pursued woman jumped from a cliff. Lightning flashed, revealing the cruel heads of her persecutors above; but worst of all was the shrieking11 horror on the doomed12 creature’s pallid13 face and the way her cloak rippled14 upwards15, vast, black, a falling raven’s wing of terrible death.
So Mrs. Talbot concealed16 her doubts about Mrs. Poulteney and advised Sarah to take the post. The ex-governess kissed little Paul and Virginia goodbye, and walked back to Lyme a condemned18 woman. She trusted Mrs. Talbot’s judgment19; and no intelligent woman who trusts a stupid one, however kind-hearted, can expect else.
Sarah was intelligent, but her real intelligence belonged to a rare kind; one that would certainly pass undetected in any of our modern tests of the faculty20. It was not in the least analytical21 or problem-solving, and it is no doubt symptomatic that the one subject that had cost her agonies to master was mathematics. Nor did it manifest itself in the form of any particular vivacity22 or wit, even in her happier days. It was rather an uncanny—uncanny in one who had never been to London, never mixed in the world—ability to classify other people’s worth: to understand them, in the fullest sense of that word.
She had some sort of psychological equivalent of the experienced horse dealer’s skill—the ability to know almost at the first glance the good horse from the bad one; or as if, jumping a century, she was born with a computer in her heart. I say her heart, since the values she computed24 belong more there than in the mind. She could sense the pretensions25 of a hollow argument, a false scholarship, a biased26 logic23 when she came across them; but she also saw through people in subtler ways. Without being able to say how, any more than a computer can explain its own processes, she saw them as they were and not as they tried to seem. It would not be enough to say she was a fine moral judge of people. Her comprehension was broader than that, and if mere27 morality had been her touchstone she would not have behaved as she did—the simple fact of the matter being that she had not lodged28 with a female cousin at Weymouth.
This instinctual profundity29 of insight was the first curse of her life; the second was her education. It was not a very great education, no better than could be got in a third-rate young ladies’ seminary in Exeter, where she had learned during the day and paid for her learning during the evening— and sometimes well into the night—by darning and other menial tasks. She did not get on well with the other pupils. They looked down on her; and she looked up through them. Thus it had come about that she had read far more fiction, and far more poetry, those two sanctuaries30 of the lonely, than most of her kind. They served as a substitute for experience. Without realizing it she judged people as much by the standards of Walter Scott and Jane Austen as by any empirically arrived at; seeing those around her as fictional31 characters, and making poetic32 judgments33 on them. But alas34, what she had thus taught herself had been very largely vitiated by what she had been taught. Given the veneer35 of a lady, she was made the perfect victim of a caste society. Her father had forced her out of her own class, but could not raise her to the next. To the young men of the one she had left she had become too select to marry; to those of the one she aspired36 to, she remained too banal37.
This father, he the vicar of Lyme had described as “a man of excellent principles,” was the very reverse, since he had a fine collection of all the wrong ones. It was not concern for his only daughter that made him send her to boarding school, but obsession38 with his own ancestry39. Four generations back on the paternal40 side one came upon clearly established gentle-men. There was even a remote relationship with the Drake family, an irrelevant41 fact that had petrified42 gradually over the years into the assumption of a direct lineal descent from the great Sir Francis. The family had certainly once owned a manor44 of sorts in that cold green no-man’s-land between Dartmoor and Exmoor. Sarah’s father had three times seen it with his own eyes; and returned to the small farm he rented from the vast Meriton estate to brood, and plot, and dream.
Perhaps he was disappointed when his daughter came home from school at the age of eighteen—who knows what miracles he thought would rain on him?—and sat across the elm table from him and watched him when he boasted, watching with a quiet reserve that goaded45 him, goaded him like a piece of useless machinery46 (for he was born a Devon man and money means all to Devon men), goaded him finally into madness. He gave up his tenancy and bought a farm of his own; but he bought it too cheap, and what he thought was a cunning good bargain turned out to be a shocking bad one. For several years he struggled to keep up both the mortgage and a ridiculous facade47 of gentility; then he went quite literally48 mad and was sent to Dorchester Asylum49. He died there a year later. By that time Sarah had been earning her own living for a year—at first with a family in Dorchester, to be near her father. Then when he died, she had taken her post with the Talbots.
She was too striking a girl not to have had suitors, in spite of the lack of a dowry of any kind. But always then had her first and innate50 curse come into operation; she saw through the too confident pretendants. She saw their meannesses, their condescensions, their charities, their stupidities. Thus she appeared inescapably doomed to the one fate nature had so clearly spent many millions of years in evolving her to avoid: spinsterhood.
Let us imagine the impossible, that Mrs. Poulteney drew up a list of fors and againsts on the subject of Sarah, and on the very day that Charles was occupied in his highly scientific escapade from the onerous51 duties of his engagement. At least it is conceivable that she might have done it that afternoon, since Sarah, Miss Sarah at Marlborough House, was out.
And let us start happily, with the credit side of the ac-count. The first item would undoubtedly52 have been the least expected at the time of committal a year before. It could be written so: “A happier domestic atmosphere.” The astonish-ing fact was that not a single servant had been sent on his, or her (statistically it had in the past rather more often proved to be the latter) way.
It had begun, this bizarre change, one morning only a few weeks after Miss Sarah had taken up her duties, that is, her responsibility for Mrs. Poulteney’s soul. The old lady had detected with her usual flair53 a gross dereliction of duty: the upstairs maid whose duty it was unfailingly each Tuesday to water the ferns in the second drawing room—Mrs. Poulteney kept one for herself and one for company—had omitted to do so. The ferns looked greenly forgiving; but Mrs. Poulteney was whitely the contrary. The culprit was summoned. She confessed that she had forgotten; Mrs. Poulteney might pon-derously have overlooked that, but the girl had a list of two or three recent similar peccadilloes54 on her charge sheet. Her knell55 had rung; and Mrs. Poulteney began, with the grim sense of duty of a bulldog about to sink its teeth into a burglar’s ankles, to ring it.
“I will tolerate much, but I will not tolerate this.”
“I’ll never do it again, mum.”
“You will most certainly never do it again in my house.”
“Oh, mum. Please, mum.”
Mrs. Poulteney allowed herself to savor56 for a few earnest, perceptive57 moments the girl’s tears.
“Mrs. Fairley will give you your wages.”
Miss Sarah was present at this conversation, since Mrs. Poulteney had been dictating58 letters, mostly to bishops59 or at least in the tone of voice with which one addresses bishops, to her. She now asked a question; and the effect was remark-able. It was, to begin with, the first question she had asked in Mrs. Poulteney’s presence that was not directly connected with her duties. Secondly60, it tacitly contradicted the old lady’s judgment. Thirdly, it was spoken not to Mrs. Poulten-ey, but to the girl.
“Are you quite well, Millie?”
Whether it was the effect of a sympathetic voice in that room, or the girl’s condition, she startled Mrs. Poulteney by sinking to her knees, at the same time shaking her head and covering her face. Miss Sarah was swiftly beside her; and within the next minute had established that the girl was indeed not well, had fainted twice within the last week, had been too afraid to tell anyone ...
When, some time later, Miss Sarah returned from the room in which the maids slept, and where Millie had now been put to bed, it was Mrs. Poulteney’s turn to ask an astounding62 question.
“What am I to do?”
Miss Sarah had looked her in the eyes, and there was that in her look which made her subsequent words no more than a concession63 to convention.
“As you think best, ma’m.”
So the rarest flower, forgiveness, was given a precarious64 footing in Marlborough House; and when the doctor came to look at the maid, and pronounced green sickness, Mrs. Poul-teney discovered the perverse65 pleasures of seeming truly kind. There followed one or two other incidents, which, if not so dramatic, took the same course; but only one or two, since Sarah made it her business to do her own forestalling66 tours of inspection. Sarah had twigged67 Mrs. Poulteney, and she was soon as adept68 at handling her as a skilled cardinal69, a weak pope; though for nobler ends.
The second, more expectable item on Mrs. Poulteney’s hypothetical list would have been: “Her voice.” If the mis-tress was defective70 in more mundane71 matters where her staff was concerned, she took exceedingly good care of their spiritual welfare. There was the mandatory72 double visit to church on Sundays; and there was also a daily morning service—a hymn73, a lesson, and prayers—over which the old lady pompously74 presided. Now it had always vexed75 her that not even her most terrible stares could reduce her servants to that state of utter meekness76 and repentance77 which she con-sidered their God (let alone hers) must require. Their nor-mal face was a mixture of fear at Mrs. Poulteney and dumb incomprehension—like abashed78 sheep rather than converted sinners. But Sarah changed all that.
Hers was certainly a very beautiful voice, controlled and clear, though always shaded with sorrow and often intense in feeling; but above all, it was a sincere voice. For the first time in her ungrateful little world Mrs. Poulteney saw her servants with genuinely attentive79 and sometimes positively80 religious faces.
That was good; but there was a second bout17 of worship to be got through. The servants were permitted to hold evening prayer in the kitchen, under Mrs. Fairley’s indifferent eye and briskly wooden voice. Upstairs, Mrs. Poulteney had to be read to alone; and it was in these more intimate ceremonies that Sarah’s voice was heard at its best and most effective. Once or twice she had done the incredible, by drawing from those pouched81, invincible82 eyes a tear. Such an effect was in no way intended, but sprang from a profound difference between the two women. Mrs. Poulteney believed in a God that had never existed; and Sarah knew a God that did.
She did not create in her voice, like so many worthy83 priests and dignitaries asked to read the lesson, an uncon-scious alienation84 effect of the Brechtian kind (“This is your mayor reading a passage from the Bible”) but the very contrary: she spoke61 directly of the suffering of Christ, of a man born in Nazareth, as if there was no time in history, almost, at times, when the light in the room was dark, and she seemed to forget Mrs. Poulteney’s presence, as if she saw Christ on the Cross before her. One day she came to the passage Lama, lama, sabachthane me; and as she read the words she faltered85 and was silent. Mrs. Poulteney turned to look at her, and realized Sarah’s face was streaming with tears. That moment redeemed87 an infinity88 of later difficulties; and perhaps, since the old lady rose and touched the girl’s drooping89 shoulder, will one day redeem86 Mrs. Poulteney’s now well-grilled soul.
I risk making Sarah sound like a bigot. But she had no theology; as she saw through people, she saw through the follies90, the vulgar stained glass, the narrow literalness of the Victorian church. She saw that there was suffering; and she prayed that it would end. I cannot say what she might have been in our age; in a much earlier one I believe she would have been either a saint or an emperor’s mistress. Not be-cause of religiosity on the one hand, or sexuality on the other, but because of that fused rare power that was her essence—understanding and emotion.
There were other items: an ability—formidable in itself and almost unique—not often to get on Mrs. Poulteney’s nerves, a quiet assumption of various domestic responsibilities that did not encroach, a skill with her needle.
On Mrs. Poulteney’s birthday Sarah presented her with an antimacassar—not that any chair Mrs. Poulteney sat in need-ed such protection, but by that time all chairs without such an adjunct seemed somehow naked—exquisitely embroidered92 with a border of ferns and lilies-of-the-valley. It pleased Mrs. Poulteney highly; and it slyly and permanently—perhaps af-ter all Sarah really was something of a skilled cardinal— reminded the ogress, each time she took her throne, of her protegee’s forgivable side. In its minor94 way it did for Sarah what the immortal95 bustard had so often done for Charles.
Finally—and this had been the crudest ordeal96 for the victim—Sarah had passed the tract97 test. Like many insulated Victorian dowagers, Mrs. Poulteney placed great reliance on the power of the tract. Never mind that not one in ten of the recipients98 could read them—indeed, quite a number could not read anything—never mind that not one in ten of those who could and did read them understood what the reverend writers were on about ... but each time Sarah departed with a batch99 to deliver Mrs. Poulteney saw an equivalent number of saved souls chalked up to her account in heaven; and she also saw the French Lieutenant’s Woman doing public penance100, an added sweet. So did the rest of Lyme, or poorer Lyme; and were kinder than Mrs. Poulteney may have real-ized.
Sarah evolved a little formula: “From Mrs. Poulteney. Pray read and take to your heart.” At the same time she looked the cottager in the eyes. Those who had knowing smiles soon lost them; and the loquacious101 found their words die in their mouths. I think they learned rather more from those eyes than from the close-typed pamphlets thrust into their hands.
But we must now pass to the debit102 side of the relationship. First and foremost would undoubtedly have been: “She goes out alone.” The arrangement had initially103 been that Miss Sarah should have one afternoon a week free, which was considered by Mrs. Poulteney a more than generous acknowledgment of her superior status vis-a-vis the maids’ and only then condoned104 by the need to disseminate105 tracts106; but the vicar had advised it. All seemed well for two months. Then one morning Miss Sarah did not appear at the Marlborough House matins; and when the maid was sent to look for her, it was discovered that she had not risen. Mrs. Poulteney went to see her. Again Sarah was in tears, but on this occasion Mrs. Poulteney felt only irritation107. However, she sent for the doctor. He remained closeted with Sarah a long time. When he came down to the impatient Mrs. Poulteney, he gave her a brief lecture on melancholia—he was an advanced man for his time and place—and ordered her to allow her sinner more fresh air and freedom.
“If you insist on the most urgent necessity for it.”
“My dear madam, I do. And most emphatically. I will not be responsible otherwise.”
“It is very inconvenient108.” But the doctor was brutally109 silent. “I will dispense110 with her for two afternoons.”
Unlike the vicar, Doctor Grogan was not financially very dependent on Mrs. Poulteney; to be frank, there was not a death certificate in Lyme he would have less sadly signed than hers. But he contained his bile by reminding her that she slept every afternoon; and on his own strict orders. Thus it was that Sarah achieved a daily demi-liberty.
The next debit item was this: “May not always be present with visitors.” Here Mrs. Poulteney found herself in a really intolerable dilemma111. She most certainly wanted her charity to be seen, which meant that Sarah had to be seen. But that face had the most harmful effect on company. Its sadness reproached; its very rare interventions112 in conversation— invariably prompted by some previous question that had to be answered (the more intelligent frequent visitors soon learned to make their polite turns towards the companion-secretary clearly rhetorical in nature and intent)—had a disquietingly decisive character about them, not through any desire on Sarah’s part to kill the subject but simply because of the innocent imposition of simplicity113 or common sense on some matter that thrived on the opposite qualities. To Mrs. Poulteney she seemed in this context only too much like one of the figures on a gibbet she dimly remembered from her youth.
Once again Sarah showed her diplomacy114. With certain old-established visitors, she remained; with others she either withdrew in the first few minutes or discreetly116 left when they were announced and before they were ushered117 in. This latter reason was why Ernestina had never met her at Marlborough House. It at least allowed Mrs. Poulteney to expatiate118 on the cross she had to carry, though the cross’s withdrawal119 or absence implied a certain failure in her skill in carrying it, which was most tiresome120. Yet Sarah herself could hardly be faulted.
But I have left the worst matter to the end. It was this: “Still shows signs of attachment121 to her seducer122.”
Mrs. Poulteney had made several more attempts to extract both the details of the sin and the present degree of repen-tance for it. No mother superior could have wished more to hear the confession123 of an erring124 member of her flock. But Sarah was as sensitive as a sea anemone125 on the matter; however obliquely126 Mrs. Poulteney approached the subject, the sinner guessed what was coming; and her answers to direct questions were always the same in content, if not in actual words, as the one she had given at her first interroga-tion.
Now Mrs. Poulteney seldom went out, and never on foot, and in her barouche only to the houses of her equals, so that she had to rely on other eyes for news of Sarah’s activities outside her house. Fortunately for her such a pair of eyes existed; even better, the mind behind those eyes was directed by malice127 and resentment128, and was therefore happy to bring frequent reports to the thwarted129 mistress. This spy, of course, was none other than Mrs. Fairley. Though she had found no pleasure in reading, it offended her that she had been demoted; and although Miss Sarah was scrupulously130 polite to her and took care not to seem to be usurping131 the housekeeper132’s functions, there was inevitably133 some conflict. It did not please Mrs. Fairley that she had a little less work, since that meant also a little less influence. Sarah’s saving of Millie—and other more discreet115 interventions—made her popular and respected downstairs; and perhaps Mrs. Fairley’s deepest rage was that she could not speak ill of the secretary-companion to her underlings. She was a tetchy woman; a woman whose only pleasures were knowing the worst or fearing the worst; thus she developed for Sarah a hatred134 that slowly grew almost vitriolic135 in its intensity136.
She was too shrewd a weasel not to hide this from Mrs. Poulteney. Indeed she made a pretense137 of being very sorry for “poor Miss Woodruff” and her reports were plentifully138 seasoned with “I fear” and “I am afraid.” But she had excellent opportunities to do her spying, for not only was she frequently in the town herself in connection with her duties, but she had also a wide network of relations and acquaint-ances at her command. To these latter she hinted that Mrs. Poulteney was concerned—of course for the best and most Christian139 of reasons—to be informed of Miss Woodruff’s behavior outside the tall stone walls of the gardens of Marlborough House. The result, Lyme Regis being then as now as riddled140 with gossip as a drum of Blue Vinny with maggots, was that Sarah’s every movement and expression— darkly exaggerated and abundantly glossed—in her free hours was soon known to Mrs. Fairley.
The pattern of her exterior141 movements—when she was spared the tracts—was very simple; she always went for the same afternoon walk, down steep Pound Street into steep Broad Street and thence to the Cobb Gate, which is a square terrace overlooking the sea and has nothing to do with the Cobb. There she would stand at the wall and look out to sea, but generally not for long—no longer than the careful ap-praisal a ship’s captain gives when he comes out on the bridge—before turning either down Cockmoil or going in the other direction, westwards, along the half-mile path that runs round a gentle bay to the Cobb proper. If she went down Cockmoil she would most often turn into the parish church, and pray for a few minutes (a fact that Mrs. Fairley never considered worth mentioning) before she took the alley93 be-side the church that gave on to the greensward of Church Cliffs. The turf there climbed towards the broken walls of Black Ven. Up this grassland142 she might be seen walking, with frequent turns towards the sea, to where the path joined the old road to Charmouth, now long eroded143 into the Ven, whence she would return to Lyme. This walk she would do when the Cobb seemed crowded; but when weather or cir-cumstance made it deserted144, she would more often turn that way and end by standing91 where Charles had first seen her; there, it was supposed, she felt herself nearest to France.
All this, suitably distorted and draped in black, came back to Mrs. Poulteney. But she was then in the first possessive pleasure of her new toy, and as sympathetically disposed as it was in her sour and suspicious old nature to be. She did not, however, hesitate to take the toy to task.
“I am told, Miss Woodruff, that you are always to be seen in the same places when you go out.” Sarah looked down before the accusing eyes. “You look to sea.” Still Sarah was silent. “I am satisfied that you are in a state of repentance. Indeed I cannot believe that you should be anything else in your present circumstances.”
Sarah took her cue. “I am grateful to you, ma’m.”
“I am not concerned with your gratitude145 to me. There is One Above who has a prior claim.”
The girl murmured, “How should I not know it?”
“To the ignorant it may seem that you are persevering146 in your sin.”
“If they know my story, ma’m, they cannot think that.”
“But they do think that. I am told they say you are looking for Satan’s sails.”
Sarah rose then and went to the window. It was early summer, and scent43 of syringa and lilac mingled147 with the blackbirds’ songs. She gazed for a moment out over that sea she was asked to deny herself, then turned back to the old lady, who sat as implacably in her armchair as the Queen on her throne.
“Do you wish me to leave, ma’m?”
Mrs. Poulteney was inwardly shocked. Once again Sarah’s simplicity took all the wind from her swelling148 spite. The voice, the other charms, to which she had become so addict-ed! Far worse, she might throw away the interest accruing149 to her on those heavenly ledgers150. She moderated her tone.
“I wish you to show that this ... person is expunged151 from your heart. I know that he is. But you must show it.”
“How am I to show it?”
“By walking elsewhere. By not exhibiting your shame. If for no other reason, because I request it.”
Sarah stood with bowed head, and there was a silence. But then she looked Mrs. Poulteney in the eyes and for the first time since her arrival, she gave the faintest smile.
“I will do as you wish, ma’m.”
It was, in chess terms, a shrewd sacrifice, since Mrs. Poulteney graciously went on to say that she did not want to deny her completely the benefits of the sea air and that she might on occasion walk by the sea; but not always by the sea—“and pray do not stand and stare so.” It was, in short, a bargain struck between two obsessions152. Sarah’s offer to leave had let both women see the truth, in their different ways.
Sarah kept her side of the bargain, or at least that part of it that concerned the itinerary153 of her walks. She now went very rarely to the Cobb, though when she did, she still sometimes allowed herself to stand and stare, as on the day we have described. After all, the countryside around Lyme abounds154 in walks; and few of them do not give a view of the sea. If that had been all Sarah craved155 she had but to walk over the lawns of Marlborough House.
Mrs. Fairley, then, had a poor time of it for many months. No occasion on which the stopping and staring took place was omitted; but they were not frequent, and Sarah had by this time acquired a kind of ascendancy156 of suffering over Mrs. Poulteney that saved her from any serious criticism. And after all, as the spy and the mistress often reminded each other, poor “Tragedy” was mad.
You will no doubt have guessed the truth: that she was far less mad than she seemed ... or at least not mad in the way that was generally supposed. Her exhibition of her shame had a kind of purpose; and people with purposes know when they have been sufficiently157 attained158 and can be allowed to rest in abeyance159 for a while.
But one day, not a fortnight before the beginning of my story, Mrs. Fairley had come to Mrs. Poulteney with her creaking stays and the face of one about to announce the death of a close friend.
“I have something unhappy to communicate, ma’m.”
This phrase had become as familiar to Mrs. Poulteney as a storm cone160 to a fisherman; but she observed convention.
“It cannot concern Miss Woodruff?”
“Would that it did not, ma’m.” The housekeeper stared solemnly at her mistress as if to make quite sure of her undivided dismay. “But I fear it is my duty to tell you.”
“We must never fear what is our duty.”
“No, ma’m.”
Still the mouth remained clamped shut; and a third party might well have wondered what horror could be coming. Nothing less than dancing naked on the altar of the parish church would have seemed adequate.
“She has taken to walking, ma’m, on Ware4 Commons.”
Such an anticlimax161! Yet Mrs. Poulteney seemed not to think so. Indeed her mouth did something extraordinary. It fell open.
收听单词发音 |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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milieux
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| n.（周围）环境( milieu的名词复数 ) | |
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perspicacious
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| adj.聪颖的，敏锐的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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vivacity
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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26
biased
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| a.有偏见的 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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29
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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30
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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31
fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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32
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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33
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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34
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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35
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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36
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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38
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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39
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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40
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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41
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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42
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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43
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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44
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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45
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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46
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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47
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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48
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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49
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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50
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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51
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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52
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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53
flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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54
peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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55
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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56
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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57
perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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58
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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59
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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60
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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61
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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62
astounding
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|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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63
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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64
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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65
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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66
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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67
twigged
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| 有细枝的，有嫩枝的 | |
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68
adept
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|
| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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69
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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70
defective
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|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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71
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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72
mandatory
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|
| adj.命令的；强制的；义务的；n.受托者 | |
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73
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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74
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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75
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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76
meekness
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|
| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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77
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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78
abashed
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|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
attentive
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|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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80
positively
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|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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81
pouched
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|
| adj.袋形的，有袋的 | |
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82
invincible
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|
| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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83
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
alienation
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|
| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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85
faltered
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|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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86
redeem
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|
| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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87
redeemed
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|
| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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88
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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89
drooping
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|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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90
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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91
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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92
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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93
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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94
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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95
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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96
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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97
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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98
recipients
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|
| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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99
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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100
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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101
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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102
debit
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| n.借方，借项，记人借方的款项 | |
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103
initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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104
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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106
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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107
irritation
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|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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108
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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109
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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110
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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111
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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112
interventions
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| n.介入，干涉，干预( intervention的名词复数 ) | |
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113
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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114
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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115
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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116
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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117
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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119
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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120
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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121
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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122
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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123
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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124
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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125
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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126
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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127
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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128
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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129
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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130
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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131
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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132
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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133
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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134
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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135
vitriolic
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| adj.硫酸的，尖刻的 | |
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136
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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137
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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138
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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139
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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140
riddled
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|
| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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141
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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142
grassland
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| n.牧场，草地，草原 | |
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143
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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144
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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145
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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146
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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147
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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148
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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149
accruing
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|
| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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150
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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151
expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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152
obsessions
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| n.使人痴迷的人（或物）( obsession的名词复数 )；着魔；困扰 | |
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153
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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154
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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155
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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156
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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157
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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158
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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159
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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160
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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161
anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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