As he glanced around on entering, he met the smiling and enticing2 gaze of Mrs. Vere. There was a vacant seat beside her, but he did not choose to take it. His mind, since last night’s episode, had been full of memories and anticipations3 with which the very thought of Mrs. Vere was discordant5. So he merely raised his hat, in answer to her greeting, and seated himself at some distance from her, near the door, turning his face to the window. But, as the car went on toward the suburbs, the passengers gradually departed, and he presently became aware of the fact that only Mrs. Vere and himself remained. Even then his aversion to an interview with her, in his present mood, was so strong that he kept his place, choosing to ignore the fact of their being left alone together. In a very few minutes, however, Mrs. Vere crossed to his side, saying, with an airy little laugh:
“As the mountain won’t come to Mahomet——”
Louis, of course, turned at once and resigned himself to the inevitable6 interview.
“To what fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of Mrs. Vere’s society, so far outside the pale of civilization?” he said, adopting the bantering7 tone he usually made use of in talking to Mrs. Vere, in order to veil his real feeling.
“I am going out to see the Temples,” she replied; “I shall have to walk from the terminus. It’s such a nuisance having no carriage, and I’m sure I think I deserve one—don’t you? But what brings you out so far during business hours?”
“Business,” answered Gaston. “I am going to spy out the land for a new building enterprise.”
“What sort of building enterprise? I should say a charming cottage, suitable for a pair of domestic neophytes, designed by the architect for his own occupancy, if it were not that a dishevelled young Southerner, with an eccentric tailor and a beautiful voice, stands in the way of that idea! I’m afraid Miss Trevennon, for all her gentleness, must be rather cruel; for, judging by superficial evidences, she has beguiled8 the wary9 Mr. Gaston to the point of a futile10 hankering after Mr. Somers’ place. I suppose she has had the conscience to tell you she’s engaged.”
“Miss Trevennon?” said Louis, meeting her searching gaze without flinching11, though his heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. “She has not made me her confidant as to her matrimonial intentions; but if what you say is true, young Somers is a man I well might envy, whether I do or not.”
He hated the idea of seeming to discuss Margaret with this woman, and yet he was burning to hear more. He asked no questions, feeling sure that he could become possessed12 of whatever information Mrs. Vere had, without that concession13 on his part.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about its being true,” went on Mrs. Vere. “I happen to know the Welfords, the people Mr. Somers stayed with, very well. Mrs. Welford told me all about it. It seems this young fellow is troubled with a certain degree of impecuniosity14, and he had received an offer from some people in South America to come out and join them in some business enterprise, and so he came on at once to consult Miss Trevennon; and it was agreed between them that he should go. The plan is that he is to return a millionnaire and marry her. I wonder she hasn’t told you.”
“Why should she? Ladies are apt to be reserved about such matters, however garrulous16 a man may think proper to be, and Mr. Somers, for one, seems to have been sufficiently17 communicative.”
“Oh, I suppose he only told Mrs. Welford, and she only told me. You must consider it confidential18.”
“Certainly,” replied Louis; “but here is the terminus, and we must abandon our equipage.”
He walked with her as far as the Temples’ place, which was a very short distance off, and then he bowed and left her with unbroken serenity19.
Mrs. Vere was a woman who, in point of fact, was by no means incapable20 of deep duplicity, but in the present instance she had been guilty only of stating as facts what Mrs. Welford had told her more in the form of conjectures21. She had happened to meet Somers at this friend’s house one evening, and had introduced the topic of Miss Trevennon, adroitly22 plying23 the young man with questions, and had satisfied herself that he was certainly in love with and probably engaged to her. On this basis she and Mrs. Welford had constructed the story which she told with such confidence to Gaston.
As for Louis, he made but little headway with his estimates and prospecting24 that morning. His first impulse had been to disbelieve this story, and the remembrance of Margaret’s looks and tones as he had talked with her last night made it seem almost incredible. But then, as he looked back into the past, he recalled the incident of the pressed flower, and the emotion Margaret had shown on hearing Mr. Somers sing that Christmas night, and the long interview that followed next morning, and, more than all, the traces of tears he had afterward25 detected; and, as he thought of all these things, his heart grew very heavy.
He soon resolved that he would go at once to Margaret, and learn the truth from her own lips.
When he reached the house, he found Thomas engaged in polishing the brasses26 of the front door, which stood partly open. Being informed by him that Miss Trevennon was in the drawing-room alone, he stepped softly over the carpeted hall and entered the library. From there he could see Margaret, seated on a low ottoman before the fire, her hands clasped around her knees, and her eyes fixed27 meditatively28 upon the glowing coals. How his young blood leaped at the sight of her! How lovely and gentle she looked! Was she not the very joy of his heart, and delight of his eyes? Where was another like her?
He stood a moment silently observing her, and then he cautiously drew nearer, treading with great care, and shielding himself behind a large screen that stood at one side of the fire-place. In this way he was able to come very near without having his approach suspected. He meant to get very close and then to speak her name, and see if he could call up again the sweet, almost tender regard with which she had looked at him last night. Somehow, he felt sure that he should see that look again. He had half forgotten Charley Somers and Mrs. Vere. He kept his position in silence a moment. It was a joy just to feel himself near her, and to know that by just putting out his hand he might touch her. His eager gaze was fixed upon her fair, sweet profile, and sought the lovely eyes which were still gazing into the fire. He could see their musing29, wistful look, and, as he began to wonder what it meant, those gentle eyes became suffused30 with tears. He saw them rise and fill and overflow31 the trembling lids, and fall upon a letter in her lap. At sight of that letter his heart contracted, and a sudden pallor over-spread his face. He had been so uncontrollably drawn32 to her that, in another moment, the burning words of love must have been spoken, and the eager arms outstretched to clasp her to his heart. But this letter was in a man’s handwriting, and his keen eyes detected the South American stamp on the envelope. His blood seemed to congeal34 within him, and his face grew hard and cold.
He stepped backward, with an effort to escape, but his wits seemed to have deserted35 him; he stumbled against a chair, and, at the sound, Margaret looked up. Oh, why were his eyes so blindly turned away from her? Why did he not see that ardent36, happy look with which she recognized him? Surely it was all and more than memory pictured it! Surely then he must have known, beyond a doubt, that her whole heart bade him welcome!
But he would not look at her. He turned to make his way out, as he had come, pausing merely to ask, with resolutely37 averted39 eyes:
“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Eugenia is?”
“In her dressing-room, I think,” said Margaret, in a voice that, in spite of her, was husky.
“I want to speak to her,” he said, and, without another word or look, he walked away.
Poor Margaret! Her heart was sore and troubled at the sad words of Charley Somers’ note. In her own state of happiness and hope, they struck her as a thousand times more touching40. She felt restless and uneasy, and she would have given much for some slight sign of protecting care and tenderness from Louis. She was ready to relinquish41 everything for him. She knew that he could make up to her for the loss of all else; but although he must have seen that she was troubled, he could bear to leave her with that air of cold composure! A dreadful doubt and uncertainty42 seized upon her, and she went to her room feeling lonely and dispirited.
There was to be a large ball that night, and it was not until Margaret came down to dinner, and observed that Mr. Gaston’s place was vacant, that she learned from Cousin Eugenia that he had excused himself from both dinner and the ball. She did not ask for any explanation, and Mrs. Gaston only said that she supposed he had work to finish. No one took any special heed43 of his absence, but Margaret remembered that it was her last dinner with them, and felt hurt that he should have absented himself; the ball was suddenly bereft44 of all its delight. She knew there was something wrong, and her heart sank at the thought that there might be no opportunity for explanation between them. But then she remembered the unfinished sentence that General Gaston’s entrance had interrupted the night before, and she felt sure that all must come right in the end.
Animated45 by this strong conviction, and remembering that she would not leave until late in the afternoon of the next day, she dressed for the ball in a beautiful toilet of Cousin Eugenia’s contriving46, composed of white silk and swan’s-down, resolved to throw off these fancied doubts and misgivings47 as far as possible. In spite of all, however—though Cousin Eugenia went into ecstacies over her appearance, and she had more suitors for her notice than she could have remembered afterward—the evening was long and wearisome to her, and she was glad when Cousin Eugenia came to carry her off rather early, in anticipation4 of the fatigues48 of the next day.
When they reached home there was a bright light in the library, and Louis was sitting at the table writing.
“Is that you, Louis?” said Mrs. Gaston, calling to him from the hall: “Margaret must give you an account of the ball, for I am too utterly49 worn out. Go, Margaret—and lest you should not mention it, I’ll preface your account by saying that Miss Trevennon was, by all odds50, the beauty and belle51 of the occasion.”
With these words she vanished up the staircase, whither her husband had preceded her.
Half glad and half timid, Margaret advanced toward the centre of the room, and when Louis stood up to receive her, she could not help observing how careworn52 and grave he looked. There was a troubled expression in his face that touched her very much. Something had happened since last night. She felt more than ever sure of it; and it was something that had stirred him deeply.
“I am glad the last ball was such a successful one,” he said, placing a chair for her, and then, going over to the mantel, he stood and faced her.
“Mirrors? Oh yes; there were plenty of mirrors.”
“And did you make use of them, I wonder, Miss Trevennon? Do you know just how you look, in that beautiful soft gown, with the lovely white fur around your neck and arms? I should fancy it might tempt55 one to the mermaid56 fashion of carrying a mirror at the girdle.”
“What have you been doing, all this time?” she asked, wishing to lead the conversation away from herself.
“Working,” he answered; “writing letters—doing sums—drawing plans.”
“How you love your work!” she said.
“Yes, I love my work, thank God!” he answered, in a fervid57 tone. “It has been my best friend all my life, and all my dreams for the future are in it now.”
“You love it almost too much, I think. It takes you away from everything else. Do you mean to work in this way always? Have you no other visions of the future?”
“Oh, I have had visions!” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his sack-coat, and bracing58 himself against the end of the mantel, while he looked at her steadily as he spoke. “I have had visions—plenty of them! They mostly took the form of very simple, quiet dreams of life; for I have already told you, Miss Trevennon, by what a very demon59 of domesticity I am haunted. The sweetest of all thoughts to me is that of home—a quiet life, with a dear companion—that would be my happiness. Exterior60 things would be very unimportant.”
He seemed to rouse himself, as if from some sort of lethargy which he dreaded61, and, standing62 upright, he folded his arms across his breast, and went on:
“But if I had this vision once, I have put it from me now, and only the old routine remains—business and reading and a half-hearted interest in society. There is music, but that I mistrust; it brings the old visions back, and shows me the loneliness of a life in which they can have no part. So it is no wonder, is it, that I call my work my best friend?”
Poor, poor Margaret! Her heart sank lower and lower, and when he finished with this calmly uttered question, a little shudder63 ran through her.
“I am cold,” she said, rising; “I must go.”
He went and brought her white wrap from where she had thrown it on a chair, and with one of his peculiarly protecting motions he threw it around her. Then, gathering64 the soft folds in his hands on each side, he drew them close across her breast, and held them so a moment, as he said:
“Yes, Margaret, you must go. And it is not for the night, nor for the season, nor even for the year; it is forever. What would you say to me, if you knew we were never to see each other again?”
“Most likely we never shall,” she said, speaking in a cold, vacant way.
“And what will you say to me? What will you give me to remember?”
“I can only say good-bye,” she answered in the same dull tone.
“Good-bye, then, Margaret. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye; and may God Almighty65 bless you,” he said, and she felt the hands that rested against hers trembling. He looked long and searchingly into her face, with a scrutinizing66 steady gaze, as if he would photograph upon his mind its every line and feature. And then the light folds of her wrap were loosened, his hands fell heavily to his side, and he stepped back from her.
Like a woman walking in her sleep she passed him, her long draperies trailing heavily after her as she crossed the hall and began to ascend67 the stairs. Her step was heavy and she moved slowly, and Louis, watching her from below with eyes that were wild with longing68 and lips that were stern with repression69, held his breath in passionate70 expectation that, as she turned at the bend of the stairs, she might give him one last look. But her eyes, as the sweet profile came in view, were looking straight before her, and the tall white-clad figure was almost out of sight when, without willing it, without meaning it, absolutely without knowing it, he arrested her by a hurried, half-articulate call.
“Margaret!” he cried, in a voice that seemed not to be his own, so strange and altered was it.
The weary figure paused, and she turned and looked down at him. A little glimmer71 of the bright joy, which had been so lately smothered72 out of life, shot up in her heart as she heard him call her name, but when she looked at him, it died. He was standing with his arms folded tightly together, and a look of the most rigid73 self-control in his whole aspect. A man that loved her could never look at her like that, she thought, and she felt at that instant, more than ever, that she had deceived herself. Complete weariness seemed to master her. Her chief feeling was that she was tired to death. What was the use of going back?
“I have something to say to you,” said Louis, in a voice that was colder than it had been yet. “Come back, for a moment only.”
She was very weak, and it seemed easier to comply than to refuse; so, very silently and slowly, Margaret retraced74 her steps.
As the beautiful white vision drew nearer, step by step, the young man’s whole heart and soul went out to meet her, but at the same moment his physical frame retreated, and he withdrew into the room before her, conscious only that he still held possession of himself, and that the spirit within him was still master of the body. Long habit had accustomed him to frequent renunciation. All these years he had been resisting and overcoming, in smaller things, with the conscious knowledge that he was thereby75 acquiring power which would enable him to conquer when greater temptations should come. And now he knew that his mightiest76 temptation was hard upon him.
He pressed his arms tighter together across his breast, set his lips and held his breath, as his temptation, clad in a wondrous77 long white garment, wafting78 a sweet fragrance79 and waking a murmuring silken sound, came near to him, and passed him by.
When Margaret had actually moved away from him, and thrown herself weakly into a low, deep chair, and he realized that his arms were still folded, his lips still set, he drew in his breath, with a long respiration80 that seemed to draw into his heart a mortal pain; and he knew that his practice had stood him in good stead, and that his strength had proved sufficient in his hour of need.
It would have been only for a moment. All he wanted was to take her in his arms an instant, and kiss her just once, and then he could have let her go forever, and counted himself a happy man to have lived that moment’s life. That was all; but that he felt himself in honor bound to renounce81, because he believed her to be pledged to another man. And he had accomplished82 the renunciation; but now that this was so, he felt an impatient rebellion against further discipline. The resistless torrent83 of his love and despair rushed over him, and nothing should keep him from speaking! Words could do her no harm, and there were words that burnt upon his lips, whose utterance84 alone, it seemed to him, could keep his brain from bursting.
He opened his lips to speak, but the words refused to come. There was a spell in the silence that he felt powerless to break. The room was absolutely free from either sound or motion. Margaret had dropped her weary body sideways in the cushioned chair, with her long white robe sweeping85 behind her, and her face turned from him, so that only her profile was in view.
The young man stood and looked at her, possessed by the sense of her nearness, enthralled86 by the spell of her beauty. He could see the rise and fall of her bosom87 under its covering of silk and fur, and there was a dejectedness in her attitude that made a passionate appeal to his tenderness. She was very pale, and her lowered lids and a little drooping88 at the corners of her mouth gave her lovely face a most plaintive89 look. She was tired too; the inertness90 of the pliant91 figure, with the motionless bare arms and relaxed, half-open hands, showed that plainly enough. Fragile and slight and weary as she was, how could she endure the battle of life alone, and who, of all men in the world, could strive and struggle for her as he could? The thought of her woman’s weakness was a keen delight to him at that moment. He had never felt himself so strong. With a quick motion that emphasized his thought, without interrupting the stillness, he threw out his right arm and clinched92 his hand with a conscious pleasure in his strength. Nerves and veins93 and muscles seemed to tingle94 with sentient95 animal force.
All these excited thoughts passed through his brain with lightning-like swiftness, but now, at last, the silence was broken by a sound. It was a very gentle one—a short, faint sigh from Margaret; but its effect was powerful. It roused the young man from his absorption and recalled him to reality.
He sat down a little space away from her, and with his fervid eyes fixed on her pale profile and lowered lids, began to speak.
“It was an impulse, not a deliberate purpose, that made me call you back,” he said. “I should perhaps have done better to let you go, but I did not, and now you are here, and I am here, and we are alone in the stillness together, Margaret, and you will have to listen to what I have to say. I think you must know what it is. My efforts to keep the truth out of my eyes when I looked at you, and out of my voice when I spoke to you, have seemed to me miserable96 failures many a time, and I dare say you have known it all along.”
He paused a moment, still looking at her. There was not a quiver in the still face pressed against the cushions, but at his last words the beautiful arm was uplifted and laid against her cheek, hiding her face from view, as the slim hand closed upon the top of the chair, above her head. It was an attitude full of grace. The white wrap had fallen back, leaving bare the lovely arms and shoulders, and revealing perfectly97 the symmetry of the rounded figure. Although the face was hidden, he could see every exquisite line and tint98 of it, in his mind’s eye, almost as plainly as he saw, with his actual vision, the soft masses of hair drawn back from the little shell-like ear, and the portion of white cheek and throat which her screening arm did not conceal99.
In spite of strong repression, the hot blood overflowed100 the young man’s bounding heart and sent a glow of dark color surging over his face. Something—a little fluttered movement of the breast—revealed to his confused consciousness that Margaret herself was not unmoved. He rose and advanced toward her.
“You know it,” he said; “but let me put into words the sweet, despairing truth. I love you, Margaret. Oh, good and beautiful and true and sweet, how could I choose but love you!”
He dropped upon his knees before her, and in this low position he could see her lovely, tremulous lips. At something in their expression a sudden little flame of hope shot up in his heart.
“Margaret,” he said, in a deep, commanding tone that was almost stern, while all the time his hands were clinched together, so that he touched not so much as the hem15 of her dress—“Margaret, look at me. Let me see straight into your eyes.”
There was no disobeying that tone, which he now used to her for the first time. She felt herself mastered by it, and, lowering her arm, she showed to him her loving eyes, her trembling lips, her entranced and radiant face. Instantly his arms were around her, his lips to hers, in an embrace so tender, a kiss so sweet, as can come only in that rare union of freshness and completeness for which all the past lives of these two young souls had been a preparation.
“You were wrong. I did not know,” she said, presently, breaking the long silence and murmuring the words very softly in his ear.
“Then you have been dull and blind and deaf, my darling, my darling, my darling!” he said, lingering caressingly101 upon the repetition of the poor little word, which is the best we have to convey the tenderest message of our hearts. “Do you know it now, or do you need to have it proved to you still further? Let me look at you.”
But she would not lift her head from its safe and happy resting-place, and her eyes refused to meet his until he said again:
“Margaret,” in that stern, sweet voice which thrilled and conquered her; and then she lifted up her eyes, and fixed them with a fervent102 gaze on his.
“God help me to deserve you, Margaret, my saint,” he murmured, as he met that look of lovely exaltation. “It hurts me that you have to stoop so far.”
“I do not stoop,” she answered. “You have pointed103 me to heights I never dreamed of. We will try to reach them together.”
Later, when their long talk, including the short explanation of their misunderstanding, was over, and they were parting for the night, with the blessed consciousness that they would meet to-morrow in the same sweet companionship—with the thought in the mind of each that the future was to be always together, never apart, Louis went with her into the hall, to watch her again as she ascended104 the stairs.
When she had gone but a few steps, she paused, leaning over the banister:
“Doesn’t it seem funny,” she said, the serious happiness her face had worn giving place to a merry smile, “such a Yankee and such a Rebel, as you and I! Let us set an example of letting by-gones be by-gones, and shake hands across the bloody105 chasm106!”
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1
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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7
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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8
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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impecuniosity
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| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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congeal
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| v.凝结，凝固 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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37
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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38
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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39
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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40
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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41
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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42
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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43
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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44
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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46
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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47
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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48
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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51
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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52
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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56
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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57
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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67
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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68
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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83
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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84
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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85
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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86
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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87
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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88
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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89
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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90
inertness
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| n.不活泼，没有生气；惰性；惯量 | |
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91
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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92
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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95
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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96
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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99
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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100
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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101
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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102
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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103
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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104
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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106
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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