Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid1 and mean, And myself so languid and base.
—Tennyson, Maud (1855)
Never, believe me, I knew of the feelings between men and women, Till in some village fields in holidays now getting stupid, One day sauntering “long and listless,” as Tennyson has it, Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbadiboyhood, Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless, bonnetless maiden2 . . .
—A. H. Clough, The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich (1848)
Five uneventful days passed after the last I have described. For Charles, no opportunities to continue his exploration of the Undercliff presented themselves. On one day there was a long excursion to Sidmouth; the mornings of the others were taken up by visits or other more agreeable diversions, such as archery, then a minor4 rage among the young ladies of En-gland—the dark green de rigueur was so becoming, and so delightful5 the tamed gentlemen walking to fetch the arrows from the butts6 (where the myopic7 Ernestina’s seldom landed, I am afraid) and returning with pretty jokes about Cupid and hearts and Maid Marian.
As for the afternoons, Ernestina usually persuaded him to stay at Aunt Tranter’s; there were very serious domestic matters to discuss, since the Kensington house was far too small and the lease of the Belgravia house, into which they would eventually move, did not revert8 into Charles’s hands for another two years. The little contretemps seemed to have changed Ernestina; she was very deferential9 to Charles, so dutiful-wifely that he complained he was beginning to feel like a Turkish pasha—and unoriginally begged her to contra-dict him about something lest he forget theirs was to be a Christian10 marriage.
Charles suffered this sudden access of respect for his every wish with good humor. He was shrewd enough to realize that Ernestina had been taken by surprise; until the little disagree-ment she had perhaps been more in love with marriage than with her husband-to-be; now she had recognized the man, as well as the state. Charles, it must be confessed, found this transposition from dryness to moistness just a shade cloying11 at times; he was happy to be adulated12, fussed over, consulted, deferred13 to. What man is not? But he had had years of very free bachelorhood, and in his fashion was also a horrid14, spoiled child. It was still strange to him to find that his mornings were not his own; that the plans of an afternoon might have to be sacrificed to some whim15 of Tina’s. Of course he had duty to back him up; husbands were expected to do such things, therefore he must do them—just as he must wear heavy flannel16 and nailed boots to go walking in the country.
And the evenings! Those gaslit hours that had to be filled, and without benefit of cinema or television! For those who had a living to earn this was hardly a great problem: when you have worked a twelve-hour day, the problem of what to do after your supper is easily solved. But pity the unfortunate rich; for whatever license17 was given them to be solitary18 before the evening hours, convention demanded that then they must be bored in company. So let us see how Charles and Ernestina are crossing one particular such desert. Aunt Tranter, at least, they are spared, as the good lady has gone to take tea with an invalid19 spinster neighbor; an exact facsim-ile, in everything but looks and history, of herself.
Charles is gracefully20 sprawled21 across the sofa, two fingers up his cheek, two others and the thumb under his chin, his elbow on the sofa’s arm, and staring gravely across the Axminster carpet at Tina, who is reading, a small red moroc-co volume in her left hand and her right hand holding her fireshield (an object rather like a long-paddled Ping-Pong bat, covered in embroidered22 satin and maroon-braided round the edges, whose purpose is to prevent the heat from the crackling coals daring to redden that chastely23 pale complex-ion), which she beats, a little irregularly, to the very regular beat of the narrative24 poem she is reading.
It is a best seller of the 1860s: the Honorable Mrs. Caroline Norton’s The Lady of La Garaye, of which The Edinburgh Review, no less, has pronounced: “The poem is a pure, tender, touching25 tale of pain, sorrow, love, duty, piety26 and death”—surely as pretty a string of key mid-Victorian adjectives and nouns as one could ever hope to light on (and much too good for me to invent, let me add). You may think that Mrs. Norton was a mere27 insipid28 poetastrix of the age. Insipid her verse is, as you will see in a minute; but she was a far from insipid person. She was Sheridan’s granddaughter for one thing; she had been, so it was rumored29, Melbourne’s mistress—her husband had certainly believed the rumor30 strongly enough to bring an unsuccessful crim. con3. action against the great statesman; and she was an ardent31 feminist— what we would call today a liberal.
The lady of the title is a sprightly32 French lord’s sprightly wife who has a crippling accident out hunting and devotes the rest of her excessively somber33 life to good works—more useful ones than Lady Cotton’s, since she founds a hospital. Though set in the seventeenth century it is transparently34 a eulogy35 of Florence Nightingale. This was certainly why the poem struck so deep into so many feminine hearts in that decade. We who live afterwards think of great reformers as triumphing over great opposition36 or great apathy37. Opposition and apathy the real Lady of the Lamp had certainly had to contend with; but there is an element in sympathy, as I have pointed38 out elsewhere, that can be almost as harmful. It was very far from the first time that Ernestina had read the poem; she knew some of it almost by heart. Each time she read it (she was overtly39 reading it again now because it was Lent) she felt elevated and purified, a better young woman. I need only add here that she had never set foot in a hospital, or nursed a sick cottager, in her life. Her parents would not have allowed her to, of course; but she had never even thought of doing such a thing.
Ah, you say, but women were chained to their role at that time. But remember the date of this evening: April 6th, 1867. At Westminster only one week before John Stuart Mill had seized an opportunity in one of the early debates on the Reform Bill to argue that now was the time to give women equal rights at the ballot40 box. His brave attempt (the motion was defeated by 196 to 73, Disraeli, the old fox, abstaining) was greeted with smiles from the average man, guffaws41 from Punch (one joke showed a group of gentlemen besieging42 a female Cabinet minister, haw haw haw), and disapproving43 frowns from a sad majority of educated women, who maintained that their influence was best exerted from the home. Nonetheless, March 30th, 1867, is the point from which we can date the beginning of feminine emancipation44 in England; and Ernestina, who had giggled45 at the previous week’s Punch when Charles showed it to her, cannot be completely exonerated46.
But we started off on the Victorian home evening. Let us return to it. Listen. Charles stares, a faint opacity47 in his suitably solemn eyes, at Ernestina’s grave face.
“Shall I continue?”
“You read most beautifully.”
She clears her throat delicately, raises the book again. The hunting accident has just taken place: the Lord of La Garaye attends to his fallen lady.
“He parts the masses of her golden hair,
He lifts her, helpless, with a shuddering48 care,
He looks into her face with awestruck eyes;—
She dies—the darling of his soul—she dies!”
Ernestina’s eyes flick49 gravely at Charles. His eyes are shut, as if he is picturing to himself the tragic50 scene. He nods solemnly; he is all ears.
Ernestina resumes.
“You might have heard, through that thought’s fearful shock, The beating of his heart like some huge clock;
And then the strong pulse falter51 and stand still,
When lifted from that fear with sudden thrill,
Which from those blanched52 lips low and trembling came:
‘Oh! Claud!’ she said: no more—but never yet
Through all the loving days since first they met,
Leaped his heart’s blood with such a yearning53 vow55
That she was all in all to him, as now.”
She has read the last line most significantly. Again she glanced up at Charles. His eyes are still closed, but he is clearly too moved even to nod. She takes a little breath, her eyes still on her gravely reclined fiance, and goes on.
“’Oh! Claud—the pain!’ ‘Oh!
Gertrude, my beloved!’
Then faintly o’er her lips a wan56 smile moved,
Which dumbly spoke57 of comfort from his tone—
You’ve gone to sleep, you hateful mutton-bone!”
A silence. Charles’s face is like that of a man at a funeral. Another breath and fierce glance from the reader.
“Ah! happy they who in their grief or pain
Yearn54 not for some familiar face in vain—
CHARLES!”
The poem suddenly becomes a missile, which strikes Charles a glancing blow on the shoulder and lands on the floor behind the sofa.
“Yes?” He sees Ernestina on her feet, her hands on her hips58, in a very untypical way. He sits up and murmurs59, “Oh dear.”
“You are caught, sir. You have no excuse.”
But sufficient excuses or penance60 Charles must have made, for the very next lunchtime he had the courage to complain when Ernestina proposed for the nineteenth time to discuss the furnishings of his study in the as yet unfound house. Leaving his very comfortable little establishment in Kensing-ton was not the least of Charles’s impending61 sacrifices; and he could bear only just so much reminding of it. Aunt Tranter backed him up, and he was accordingly granted an afternoon for his “wretched grubbing” among the stones.
He knew at once where he wished to go. He had had no thought except for the French Lieutenant’s Woman when he found her on that wild cliff meadow; but he had just had enough time to notice, at the foot of the little bluff62 whose flat top was the meadow, considerable piles of fallen flint. It was certainly this which made him walk that afternoon to the place. The new warmth, the intensification63 of love between Ernestina and himself had driven all thought, or all but the most fleeting64, casual thought, of Mrs. Poulteney’s secretary from his conscious mind.
When he came to where he had to scramble65 up through the brambles she certainly did come sharply to mind again; he recalled very vividly66 how she had lain that day. But when he crossed the grass and looked down at her ledge67, it was empty; and very soon he had forgotten her. He found a way down to the foot of the bluff and began to search among the scree for his tests. It was a colder day than when he had been there before. Sun and clouds rapidly succeeded each other in proper April fashion, but the wind was out of the north. At the foot of the south-facing bluff, therefore, it was agreeably warm; and an additional warmth soon came to Charles when he saw an excellent test, seemingly not long broken from its flint matrix, lying at his feet.
Forty minutes later, however, he had to resign himself to the fact that he was to have no further luck, at least among
the flints below the bluff. He regained68 the turf above and walked towards the path that led back into the woods. And there, a dark movement!
She was halfway69 up the steep little path, too occupied in disengaging her coat from a recalcitrant70 bramble to hear Charles’s turf-silenced approach. As soon as he saw her he stopped. The path was narrow and she had the right of way. But then she saw him. They stood some fifteen feet apart, both clearly embarrassed, though with very different expres-sions. Charles was smiling; and Sarah stared at him with profound suspicion.
“Miss Woodruff!”
She gave him an imperceptible nod, and seemed to hesi-tate, as if she would have turned back if she could. But then she realized he was standing71 to one side for her and made hurriedly to pass him. Thus it was that she slipped on a treacherous72 angle of the muddied path and fell to her knees. He sprang forward and helped her up; now she was totally like a wild animal, unable to look at him, trembling, dumb.
Very gently, with his hand on her elbow, he urged her forward on to the level turf above the sea. She wore the same black coat, the same indigo73 dress with the white collar. But whether it was because she had slipped, or he held her arm, or the colder air, I do not know, but her skin had a vigor74, a pink bloom, that suited admirably the wild shyness of her demeanor75. The wind had blown her hair a little loose; and she had a faint touch of a boy caught stealing apples from an orchard76 ... a guilt77, yet a mutinous78 guilt. Suddenly she looked at Charles, a swift sideways and upward glance from those almost exophthalmic dark-brown eyes with their clear whites: a look both timid and forbidding. It made him drop her arm.
“I dread79 to think, Miss Woodruff, what would happen if you should one day turn your ankle in a place like this.”
“It does not matter.”
“But it would most certainly matter, my dear young lady. From your request to me last week I presume you don’t wish Mrs. Poulteney to know you come here. Heaven forbid that I should ask for your reasons. But I must point out that if you were in some way disabled I am the only person in Lyme who could lead your rescuers to you. Am I not?”
“She knows. She would guess.”
“She knows you come here—to this very place?”
She stared at the turf, as if she would answer no more questions; begged him to go. But there was something in that face, which Charles examined closely in profile, that made him determine not to go. All in it had been sacrificed, he now realized, to the eyes. They could not conceal80 an intelligence, an independence of spirit; there was also a silent contradiction of any sympathy; a determination to be what she was. Deli-cate, fragile, arched eyebrows81 were then the fashion, but Sarah’s were strong, or at least unusually dark, almost the color of her hair, which made them seem strong, and gave her a faintly tomboyish air on occasion. I do not mean that she had one of those masculine, handsome, heavy-chinned faces popular in the Edwardian Age—the Gibson Girl type of beauty. Her face was well modeled, and completely femi-nine; and the suppressed intensity82 of her eyes was matched by the suppressed sensuality of her mouth, which was wide—and once again did not correspond with current taste, which veered83 between pretty little almost lipless mouths and childish cupid’s bows. Charles, like most men of his time, was still faintly under the influence of Lavater’s Physiognomy. He noted84 that mouth, and was not deceived by the fact that it was pressed unnaturally85 tight.
Echoes, that one flashed glance from those dark eyes had certainly roused in Charles’s mind; but they were not English ones. He associated such faces with foreign women—to be frank (much franker than he would have been to himself) with foreign beds. This marked a new stage of his awareness87 of Sarah. He had realized she was more intelligent and independent than she seemed; he now guessed darker quali-ties.
To most Englishmen of his age such an intuition of Sarah’s real nature would have been repellent; and it did very faintly repel—or at least shock—Charles. He shared enough of his contemporaries’ prejudices to suspect sensuality in any form; but whereas they would, by one of those terrible equations that take place at the behest of the superego, have made Sarah vaguely88 responsible for being born as she was, he did not. For that we can thank his scientific hobbies. Darwinism, as its shrewder opponents realized, let open the floodgates to something far more serious than the undermining of the Biblical account of the origins of man; its deepest implications lay in the direction of determinism and behaviorism, that is, towards philosophies that reduce morality to a hypocrisy89 and duty to a straw hut in a hurricane. I do not mean that Charles completely exonerated Sarah; but he was far less inclined to blame her than she might have imagined.
Partly then, his scientific hobbies ... but Charles had also the advantage of having read—very much in private, for the book had been prosecuted90 for obscenity—a novel that had appeared in France some ten years before; a novel profound-ly deterministic in its assumptions, the celebrated91 Madame Bovary. And as he looked down at the face beside him, it was suddenly, out of nowhere, that Emma Bovary’s name sprang into his mind. Such allusions92 are comprehensions; and temptations. That is why, finally, he did not bow and with-draw.
At last she spoke.
“I did not know you were here.”
“How should you?”
“I must return.”
And she turned. But he spoke quickly.
“Will you permit me to say something first? Something I have perhaps, as a stranger to you and your circumstances, no right to say.” She stood with bowed head, her back to him. “May I proceed?”
She was silent. He hesitated a moment, then spoke.
“Miss Woodruff, I cannot pretend that your circumstances have not been discussed in front of me ... by Mrs. Tranter. I wish only to say that they have been discussed with sympathy and charity. She believes you are not happy in your present situation, which I am given to understand you took from force of circumstance rather than from a more congenial reason. I have known Mrs. Tranter only a very short time. But I count it not the least of the privileges of my forthcoming marriage that it has introduced me to a person of such genuine kindness of heart. I will come to the point. I am confident—“
He broke off as she looked quickly round at the trees behind them. Her sharper ears had heard a sound, a branch broken underfoot. But before he could ask her what was wrong, he too heard men’s low voices. But by then she had already acted; gathering93 up her skirt she walked swiftly over the grass to the east, some forty yards; and there disappeared behind a thicket94 of gorse that had crept out a little over the turf. Charles stood dumbfounded, a mute party to her guilt.
The men’s voices sounded louder. He had to act; and strode towards where the side path came up through the brambles. It was fortunate that he did, for just as the lower path came into his sight, so also did two faces, looking up; and both sharply surprised. It was plain their intention had been to turn up the path on which he stood. Charles opened his mouth to bid them good day; but the faces disappeared with astonishing quickness. He heard a hissed95 voice—“Run for ‘un, Jem!”— and the sound of racing96 footsteps. A few moments later there was an urgent low whistle, and the excited whimper of a dog. Then silence.
He waited a minute, until he was certain they had gone, then he walked round to the gorse. She stood pressed sideways against the sharp needles, her face turned away.
“They have gone. Two poachers, I fancy.”
She nodded, but continued to avoid his eyes. The gorse was in full bloom, the cadmium-yellow flowers so dense97 they almost hid the green. The air was full of their honeyed musk98.
He said, “I think that was not necessary.”
“No gentleman who cares for his good name can be seen with the scarlet99 woman of Lyme.”
And that too was a step; for there was a bitterness in her voice. He smiled at her averted100 face.
“I think the only truly scarlet things about you are your cheeks.”
Her eyes flashed round at him then, as if he were torturing some animal at bay. Then she turned away again.
Charles said gently, “Do not misunderstand me. I deplore101 your unfortunate situation. As I appreciate your delicacy102 in respect of my reputation. But it is indifferent to the esteem103 of such as Mrs. Poulteney.”
She did not move. He continued smiling, at ease in all his travel, his reading, his knowledge of a larger world.
“My dear Miss Woodruff, I have seen a good deal of life. And I have a long nose for bigots ... whatever show of solemn piety they present to the world. Now will you please leave your hiding place? There is no impropriety in our meeting in this chance way. And you must allow me to finish what I was about to say.”
He stepped aside and she walked out again onto the cropped turf. He saw that her eyelashes were wet. He did not force his presence on her, but spoke from some yards behind her back.
“Mrs. Tranter would like—is most anxious to help you, if you wish to change your situation.”
Her only answer was to shake her head.
“No one is beyond help ... who inspires sympathy in others.” He paused. The sharp wind took a wisp of her hair and blew it forward. She nervously104 smoothed it back into place. “I am merely saying what I know Mrs. Tranter would wish to say herself.”
Charles was not exaggerating; for during the gay lunch that followed the reconciliation105, Mrs. Poulteney and Sarah had been discussed. Charles had been but a brief victim of the old lady’s power; and it was natural that they should think of her who was a permanent one. Charles determined106, now that he had rushed in so far where less metropolitan107 angels might have feared to tread, to tell Sarah their conclusion that day.
“You should leave Lyme . . . this district. I understand you have excellent qualifications. I am sure a much happier use could be found for them elsewhere.” Sarah made no response. “I know Miss Freeman and her mother would be most happy to make inquiries108 in London.”
She walked away from him then, to the edge of the cliff meadow; and stared out to sea a long moment; then turned to look at him still standing by the gorse: a strange, glistening109 look, so direct that he smiled: one of those smiles the smiler knows are weak, but cannot end.
She lowered her eyes. “I thank you. But I cannot leave this place.”
He gave the smallest shrug110. He felt baffled, obscurely wronged. “Then once again I have to apologize for intruding111 on your privacy. I shall not do so again.”
He bowed and turned to walk away. But he had not gone two steps before she spoke.
“I... I know Mrs. Tranter wishes to be kind.”
“Then permit her to have her wish.”
She looked at the turf between them.
“To be spoken to again as if ... as if I am not whom I am ... I am most grateful. But such kindness ...”
“Such kindness?”
“Such kindness is crueler to me than—“
She did not finish the sentence, but turned to the sea. Charles felt a great desire to reach out and take her shoul-ders and shake her; tragedy is all very well on the stage, but it can seem mere perversity112 in ordinary life. And that, in much less harsh terms, is what he then said.
“What you call my obstinacy113 is my only succor114.”
“Miss Woodruff, let me be frank. I have heard it said that you are . . . not altogether of sound mind. I think that is very far from true. I believe you simply to have too severely115 judged yourself for your past conduct. Now why in heaven’s name must you always walk alone? Have you not punished yourself enough? You are young. You are able to gain your living. You have no family ties, I believe, that confine you to Dorset.”
“I have ties.”
“To this French gentleman?” She turned away, as if that subject was banned. “Permit me to insist—these matters are like wounds. If no one dares speak of them, they fester. If he does not return, he was not worthy116 of you. If he returns, I cannot believe that he will be so easily put off, should he not find you in Lyme Regis, as not to discover where you are and follow you there. Now is that not common sense?”
There was a long silence. He moved, though still several feet away, so that he could see the side of her face. Her expression was strange, almost calm, as if what he had said had confirmed some deep knowledge in her heart.
She remained looking out to sea, where a russet-sailed and westward-headed brig could be seen in a patch of sunlight some five miles out. She spoke quietly, as if to the distant ship.
“He will never return.”
“You fear he will never return?”
“I know he will never return.”
“I do not take your meaning.”
She turned then and looked at Charles’s puzzled and solici-tous face. For a long moment she seemed almost to enjoy his bewilderment. Then she looked away.
“I have long since received a letter. The gentleman is ...” and again she was silent, as if she wished she had not revealed so much. Suddenly she was walking, almost running, across the turf towards the path.
“Miss Woodruff!”
She took a step or two more, then turned; and again those eyes both repelled117 and lanced him. Her voice had a pent-up harshness, yet as much implosive118 as directed at Charles.
“He is married!”
“Miss Woodruff!”
But she took no notice. He was left standing there. His amazement119 was natural. What was unnatural86 was his now quite distinct sense of guilt. It was as if he had shown a callous120 lack of sympathy, when he was quite sure he had done his best. He stared after her several moments after she had disappeared. Then he turned and looked at the distant brig, as if that might provide an answer to this enigma121. But it did not.
收听单词发音 |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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myopic
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| adj.目光短浅的，缺乏远见的 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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adulated
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| v.谄媚，奉承( adulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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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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32
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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33
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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34
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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35
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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36
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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37
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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38
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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39
overtly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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40
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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41
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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43
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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44
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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45
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
opacity
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| n.不透明；难懂 | |
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48
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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49
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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50
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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51
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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52
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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53
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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54
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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55
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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56
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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57
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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58
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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59
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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60
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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61
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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62
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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63
intensification
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| n.激烈化，增强明暗度；加厚 | |
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64
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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65
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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66
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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67
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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68
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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69
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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70
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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71
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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72
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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73
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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74
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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75
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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76
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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77
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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78
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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79
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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80
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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81
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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82
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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83
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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84
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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85
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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86
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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87
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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88
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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89
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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90
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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91
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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92
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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93
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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94
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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95
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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96
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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97
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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98
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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99
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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100
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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101
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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102
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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103
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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104
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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105
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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106
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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107
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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108
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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109
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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110
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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111
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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112
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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113
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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114
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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115
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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116
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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117
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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118
implosive
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| n.内破发音adj.内破裂形成的，闭塞的 | |
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119
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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120
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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121
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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