I would wish to say, in the first place, gentlemen of the jury, that, owing to the generosity8 of my brother officers—for my own means are limited—I might have been defended to-day by the first talent of the Bar. The reason I have declined their assistance and have determined to fight my own case is not that I have any confidence in my own abilities or eloquence9, but it is because I am convinced that a plain, straightforward10 tale, coming direct from the man who has been the tragic11 actor in this dreadful affair, will impress you more than any indirect statement could do. If I had felt that I were guilty I should have asked for help. Since, in my own heart, I believe that I am innocent, I am pleading my own cause, feeling that my plain words of truth and reason will have more weight with you than the most learned and eloquent12 advocate. By the indulgence of the Court I have been permitted to put my remarks upon paper, so that I may reproduce certain conversations and be assured of saying neither more nor less than I mean.
It will be remembered that at the trial at the police-court two months ago I refused to defend myself. This has been referred to to-day as a proof of my guilt6. I said that it would be some days before I could open my mouth. This was taken at the time as a subterfuge13. Well, the days are over, and I am now able to make clear to you not only what took place, but also why it was impossible for me to give any explanation. I will tell you now exactly what I did and why it was that I did it. If you, my fellow-countrymen, think that I did wrong, I will make no complaint, but will suffer in silence any penalty which you may impose upon me.
I am a soldier of fifteen years’ standing14, a captain in the Second Breconshire Battalion15. I have served in the South African Campaign and was mentioned in despatches after the battle of Diamond Hill. When the war broke out with Germany I was seconded from my regiment16, and I was appointed as adjutant to the First Scottish Scouts18, newly raised. The regiment was quartered at Radchurch, in Essex, where the men were placed partly in huts and were partly billeted upon the inhabitants. All the officers were billeted out, and my quarters were with Mr. Murreyfield, the local squire19. It was there that I first met Miss Ena Garnier.
It may not seem proper at such a time and place as this that I should describe that lady. And yet her personality is the very essence of my case. Let me only say that I cannot believe that Nature ever put into female form a more exquisite20 combination of beauty and intelligence. She was twenty-five years of age, blonde and tall, with a peculiar21 delicacy22 of features and of expression. I have read of people falling in love at first sight, and had always looked upon it as an expression of the novelist. And yet from the moment that I saw Ena Garnier life held for me but the one ambition—that she should be mine. I had never dreamed before of the possibilities of passion that were within me. I will not enlarge upon the subject, but to make you understand my action—for I wish you to comprehend it, however much you may condemn23 it—you must realize that I was in the grip of a frantic24 elementary passion which made, for a time, the world and all that was in it seem a small thing if I could but gain the love of this one girl. And yet, in justice to myself, I will say that there was always one thing which I placed above her. That was my honour as a soldier and a gentleman. You will find it hard to believe this when I tell you what occurred, p. 188and yet—though for one moment I forgot myself—my whole legal offence consists in my desperate endeavour to retrieve25 what I had done.
I soon found that the lady was not insensible to the advances which I made to her. Her position in the household was a curious one. She had come a year before from Montpellier, in the South of France, in answer to an advertisement from the Murreyfields in order to teach French to their three young children. She was, however, unpaid26, so that she was rather a friendly guest than an employée. She had always, as I gathered, been fond of the English and desirous to live in England, but the outbreak of the war had quickened her feelings into passionate27 attachment28, for the ruling emotion of her soul was her hatred29 of the Germans. Her grandfather, as she told me, had been killed under very tragic circumstances in the campaign of 1870, and her two brothers were both in the French army. Her voice vibrated with passion when she spoke30 of the infamies31 of Belgium, and more than once I have seen her kissing my sword and my revolver because she hoped they would be used upon the enemy. With such feelings in her heart it can be imagined that my wooing was not a difficult one. I should have been glad to marry her at once, but to this she would not consent. Everything was to come after the war, for it was necessary, she said, that I should go to Montpellier and meet her people, so that the French proprieties32 should be properly observed.
She had one accomplishment33 which was rare for a lady; she was a skilled motor-cyclist. She had been fond of long, solitary34 rides, but after our engagement I was occasionally allowed to accompany her. She was a woman, however, of strange moods and fancies, which added in my feelings to the charm of her character. She could be tenderness itself, and she could be aloof35 and even harsh in her manner. More than once she had refused my company with no reason given, and with a quick, angry flash of her eyes when I asked for one. Then, perhaps, her mood would change and she would make up for this unkindness by some exquisite attention which would in an instant soothe36 all my ruffled37 feelings. It was the same in the house. My military duties were so exacting38 that it was only in the evenings that I could hope to see her, and yet very often she remained in the little study which was used during the day for the children’s lessons, and would tell me plainly that she wished to be alone. Then, when she saw that I was hurt by her caprice, she would laugh and apologize so sweetly for her rudeness that I was more her slave than ever.
Mention has been made of my jealous disposition39, and it has been asserted at the trial p. 190that there were scenes owing to my jealousy, and that once Mrs. Murreyfield had to interfere40. I admit that I was jealous. When a man loves with the whole strength of his soul it is impossible, I think, that he should be clear of jealousy. The girl was of a very independent spirit. I found that she knew many officers at Chelmsford and Colchester. She would disappear for hours together upon her motor-cycle. There were questions about her past life which she would only answer with a smile unless they were closely pressed. Then the smile would become a frown. Is it any wonder that I, with my whole nature vibrating with passionate, whole-hearted love, was often torn by jealousy when I came upon those closed doors of her life which she was so determined not to open? Reason came at times and whispered how foolish it was that I should stake my whole life and soul upon one of whom I really knew nothing. Then came a wave of passion once more and reason was submerged.
I have spoken of the closed doors of her life. I was aware that a young, unmarried Frenchwoman has usually less liberty than her English sister. And yet in the case of this lady it continually came out in her conversation that she had seen and known much of the world. It was the more distressing41 to me as whenever she had made an observation which pointed17 to this she would afterwards, as I could plainly p. 191see, be annoyed by her own indiscretion, and endeavour to remove the impression by every means in her power. We had several small quarrels on this account, when I asked questions to which I could get no answers, but they have been exaggerated in the address for the prosecution42. Too much has been made also of the intervention43 of Mrs. Murreyfield, though I admit that the quarrel was more serious upon that occasion. It arose from my finding the photograph of a man upon her table, and her evident confusion when I asked her for some particulars about him. The name “H. Vardin” was written underneath44—evidently an autograph. I was worried by the fact that this photograph had the frayed45 appearance of one which has been carried secretly about, as a girl might conceal46 the picture of her lover in her dress. She absolutely refused to give me any information about him, save to make a statement which I found incredible, that it was a man whom she had never seen in her life. It was then that I forgot myself. I raised my voice and declared that I should know more about her life or that I should break with her, even if my own heart should be broken in the parting. I was not violent, but Mrs. Murreyfield heard me from the passage, and came into the room to remonstrate47. She was a kind, motherly person who took a sympathetic interest in our romance, and I remember that on this occasion she reproved me for my jealousy and finally persuaded me that I had been unreasonable48, so that we became reconciled once more. Ena was so madly fascinating and I so hopelessly her slave that she could always draw me back, however much prudence49 and reason warned me to escape from her control. I tried again and again to find out about this man Vardin, but was always met by the same assurance, which she repeated with every kind of solemn oath, that she had never seen the man in her life. Why she should carry about the photograph of a man—a young, somewhat sinister50 man, for I had observed him closely before she snatched the picture from my hand—was what she either could not, or would not, explain.
Then came the time for my leaving Radchurch. I had been appointed to a junior but very responsible post at the War Office, which, of course, entailed51 my living in London. Even my week-ends found me engrossed52 with my work, but at last I had a few days’ leave of absence. It is those few days which have ruined my life, which have brought me the most horrible experience that ever a man had to undergo, and have finally placed me here in the dock, pleading as I plead to-day for my life and my honour.
It is nearly five miles from the station to p. 193Radchurch. She was there to meet me. It was the first time that we had been reunited since I had put all my heart and my soul upon her. I cannot enlarge upon these matters, gentlemen. You will either be able to sympathize with and understand the emotions which overbalance a man at such a time, or you will not. If you have imagination, you will. If you have not, I can never hope to make you see more than the bare fact. That bare fact, placed in the baldest language, is that during this drive from Radchurch Junction53 to the village I was led into the greatest indiscretion—the greatest dishonour54, if you will—of my life. I told the woman a secret, an enormously important secret, which might affect the fate of the war and the lives of many thousands of men.
It was done before I knew it—before I grasped the way in which her quick brain could place various scattered55 hints together and weave them into one idea. She was wailing56, almost weeping, over the fact that the allied57 armies were held up by the iron line of the Germans. I explained that it was more correct to say that our iron line was holding them up, since they were the invaders58. “But is France, is Belgium, never to be rid of them?” she cried. “Are we simply to sit in front of their trenches59 and be content to let them do what they will with ten provinces of France? Oh, Jack60, Jack, p. 194for God’s sake, say something to bring a little hope to my heart, for sometimes I think that it is breaking! You English are stolid61. You can bear these things. But we others, we have more nerve, more soul! It is death to us. Tell me! Do tell me that there is hope! And yet it is foolish of me to ask, for, of course, you are only a subordinate at the War Office, and how should you know what is in the mind of your chiefs?”
“Well, as it happens, I know a good deal,” I answered. “Don’t fret62, for we shall certainly get a move on soon.”
“Soon! Next year may seem soon to some people.”
“It’s not next year.”
“Must we wait another month?”
“Not even that.”
She squeezed my hand in hers. “Oh, my darling boy, you have brought such joy to my heart! What suspense63 I shall live in now! I think a week of it would kill me.”
“Well, perhaps it won’t even be a week.”
“And tell me,” she went on, in her coaxing64 voice, “tell me just one thing, Jack. Just one, and I will trouble you no more. Is it our brave French soldiers who advance? Or is it your splendid Tommies? With whom will the honour lie?”
“With both.”
p. 195“Glorious!” she cried. “I see it all. The attack will be at the point where the French and British lines join. Together they will rush forward in one glorious advance.”
“No,” I said. “They will not be together.”
“But I understood you to say—of course, women know nothing of such matters, but I understood you to say that it would be a joint65 advance.”
“Well, if the French advanced, we will say, at Verdun, and the British advanced at Ypres, even if they were hundreds of miles apart it would still be a joint advance.”
“Ah, I see,” she cried, clapping her hands with delight. “They would advance at both ends of the line, so that the Boches would not know which way to send their reserves.”
“That is exactly the idea—a real advance at Verdun, and an enormous feint at Ypres.”
Then suddenly a chill of doubt seized me. I can remember how I sprang back from her and looked hard into her face. “I’ve told you too much!” I cried. “Can I trust you? I have been mad to say so much.”
She was bitterly hurt by my words. That I should for a moment doubt her was more than she could bear. “I would cut my tongue out, Jack, before I would tell any human being one word of what you have said.” So earnest was she that my fears died away. I felt that I could p. 196trust her utterly66. Before we had reached Radchurch I had put the matter from my mind, and we were lost in our joy of the present and in our plans for the future.
I had a business message to deliver to Colonel Worral, who commanded a small camp at Pedley-Woodrow. I went there and was away for about two hours. When I returned I inquired for Miss Garnier, and was told by the maid that she had gone to her bedroom, and that she had asked the groom67 to bring her motor-bicycle to the door. It seemed to me strange that she should arrange to go out alone when my visit was such a short one. I had gone into her little study to seek her, and here it was that I waited, for it opened on to the hall passage, and she could not pass without my seeing her.
There was a small table in the window of this room at which she used to write. I had seated myself beside this when my eyes fell upon a name written in her large, bold hand-writing. It was a reversed impression upon the blotting-paper which she had used, but there could be no difficulty in reading it. The name was Hubert Vardin. Apparently68 it was part of the address of an envelope, for underneath I was able to distinguish the initials S.W., referring to a postal69 division of London, though the actual name of the street had not been clearly reproduced.
Then I knew for the first time that she was p. 197actually corresponding with this man whose vile70, voluptuous71 face I had seen in the photograph with the frayed edges. She had clearly lied to me, too, for was it conceivable that she should correspond with a man whom she had never seen? I don’t desire to condone72 my conduct. Put yourself in my place. Imagine that you had my desperately73 fervid74 and jealous nature. You would have done what I did, for you could have done nothing else. A wave of fury passed over me. I laid my hands upon the wooden writing-desk. If it had been an iron safe I should have opened it. As it was, it literally75 flew to pieces before me. There lay the letter itself, placed under lock and key for safety, while the writer prepared to take it from the house. I had no hesitation76 or scruple77, I tore it open. Dishonourable, you will say, but when a man is frenzied78 with jealousy he hardly knows what he does. This woman, for whom I was ready to give everything, was either faithful to me or she was not. At any cost I would know which.
A thrill of joy passed through me as my eyes fell upon the first words. I had wronged her. “Cher Monsieur Vardin.” So the letter began. It was clearly a business letter, nothing else. I was about to replace it in the envelope with a thousand regrets in my mind for my want of faith when a single word at the bottom of the p. 198page caught my eyes, and I started as if I had been stung by an adder79. “Verdun”—that was the word. I looked again. “Ypres” was immediately below it. I sat down, horror-stricken, by the broken desk, and I read this letter, a translation of which I have in my hand:—
Murreyfield House, Radchurch.
Dear M. Vardin,—Stringer has told me that he has kept you sufficiently80 informed as to Chelmsford and Colchester, so I have not troubled to write. They have moved the Midland Territorial81 Brigade and the heavy guns towards the coast near Cromer, but only for a time. It is for training, not embarkation82.
And now for my great news, which I have straight from the War Office itself. Within a week there is to be a very severe attack from Verdun, which is to be supported by a holding attack at Ypres. It is all on a very large scale, and you must send off a special Dutch messenger to Von Starmer by the first boat. I hope to get the exact date and some further particulars from my informant to-night, but meanwhile you must act with energy.
I dare not post this here—you know what village postmasters are, so I am taking it into Colchester, where Stringer will include it with his own report which goes by hand.—Yours faithfully, Sophia Heffner.
I was stunned83 at first as I read this letter, and then a kind of cold, concentrated rage came over me. So this woman was a German and a p. 199spy! I thought of her hypocrisy84 and her treachery towards me, but, above all, I thought of the danger to the Army and the State. A great defeat, the death of thousands of men, might spring from my misplaced confidence. There was still time, by judgment85 and energy, to stop this frightful86 evil. I heard her step upon the stairs outside, and an instant later she had come through the doorway87. She started, and her face was bloodless as she saw me seated there with the open letter in my hand.
I said nothing. I simply sat and looked at her and pondered what I should do. She suddenly sprang forward and tried to snatch the letter. I caught her wrist and pushed her down on to the sofa, where she lay, collapsed89. Then I rang the bell, and told the maid that I must see Mr. Murreyfield at once.
He was a genial90, elderly man, who had treated this woman with as much kindness as if she were his daughter. He was horrified91 at what I said. I could not show him the letter on account of the secret that it contained, but I made him understand that it was of desperate importance.
“What are we to do?” he asked. “I never could have imagined anything so dreadful. What would you advise us to do?”
“There is only one thing that we can do,” p. 200I answered. “This woman must be arrested, and in the meanwhile we must so arrange matters that she cannot possibly communicate with any one. For all we know, she has confederates in this very village. Can you undertake to hold her securely while I go to Colonel Worral at Pedley and get a warrant and a guard?”
“We can lock her in her bedroom.”
“You need not trouble,” said she. “I give you my word that I will stay where I am. I advise you to be careful, Captain Fowler. You’ve shown once before that you are liable to do things before you have thought of the consequence. If I am arrested all the world will know that you have given away the secrets that were confided92 to you. There is an end of your career, my friend. You can punish me, no doubt. What about yourself?”
“I think,” said I, “you had best take her to her bedroom.”
“Very good, if you wish it,” said she, and followed us to the door. When we reached the hall she suddenly broke away, dashed through the entrance, and made for her motor-bicycle, which was standing there. Before she could start we had both seized her. She stooped and made her teeth meet in Murreyfield’s hand. With flashing eyes and tearing fingers she was as fierce as a wild cat at bay. It was with some difficulty that we mastered her, and dragged her—almost carried her—up the stairs. We thrust her into her room and turned the key, while she screamed out abuse and beat upon the door inside.
“It’s a forty-foot drop into the garden,” said Murreyfield, tying up his bleeding hand. “I’ll wait here till you come back. I think we have the lady fairly safe.”
“I have a revolver here,” said I. “You should be armed.” I slipped a couple of cartridges93 into it and held it out to him. “We can’t afford to take chances. How do you know what friends she may have?”
“Thank you,” said he. “I have a stick here, and the gardener is within call. Do you hurry off for the guard, and I will answer for the prisoner.”
Having taken, as it seemed to me, every possible precaution, I ran to give the alarm. It was two miles to Pedley, and the colonel was out, which occasioned some delay. Then there were formalities and a magistrate’s signature to be obtained. A policeman was to serve the warrant, but a military escort was to be sent in to bring back the prisoner. I was so filled with anxiety and impatience94 that I could not wait, but I hurried back alone with the promise that they would follow.
The Pedley-Woodrow Road opens into the high-road to Colchester at a point about half a mile from the village of Radchurch. It was evening now and the light was such that one could not see more than twenty or thirty yards ahead. I had proceeded only a very short way from the point of junction when I heard, coming towards me, the roar of a motor-cycle being ridden at a furious pace. It was without lights, and close upon me. I sprang aside in order to avoid being ridden down, and in that instant, as the machine flashed by, I saw clearly the face of the rider. It was she—the woman whom I had loved. She was hatless, her hair streaming in the wind, her face glimmering95 white in the twilight96, flying through the night like one of the Valkyries of her native land. She was past me like a flash and tore on down the Colchester Road. In that instant I saw all that it would mean if she could reach the town. If she once was allowed to see her agent we might arrest him or her, but it would be too late. The news would have been passed on. The victory of the Allies and the lives of thousands of our soldiers were at stake. Next instant I had pulled out the loaded revolver and fired two shots after the vanishing figure, already only a dark blur97 in the dusk. I heard a scream, the crashing of the breaking cycle, and all was still.
I need not tell you more, gentlemen. You know the rest. When I ran forward I found her lying in the ditch. Both of my bullets had struck her. One of them had penetrated98 her brain. I was still standing beside her body when Murreyfield arrived, running breathlessly down the road. She had, it seemed, with great courage and activity scrambled99 down the ivy100 of the wall; only when he heard the whirr of the cycle did he realize what had occurred. He was explaining it to my dazed brain when the police and soldiers arrived to arrest her. By the irony101 of fate it was me whom they arrested instead.
It was urged at the trial in the police-court that jealousy was the cause of the crime. I did not deny it, nor did I put forward any witnesses to deny it. It was my desire that they should believe it. The hour of the French advance had not yet come, and I could not defend myself without producing the letter which would reveal it. But now it is over—gloriously over—and so my lips are unsealed at last. I confess my fault—my very grievous fault. But it is not that for which you are trying me. It is for murder. I should have thought myself the murderer of my own countrymen if I had let the woman pass. These are the facts, gentlemen. I leave my future in your hands. If you should absolve102 me I may say that I have hopes of serving my country in a fashion which will atone103 for this one great indiscretion, and will also, as I hope, end for ever those terrible recollections which weigh me down. If you condemn me, I am ready to face whatever you may think fit to inflict104.
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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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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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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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peculiar
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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unpaid
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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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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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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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infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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proprieties
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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solitary
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aloof
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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38
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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39
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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40
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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41
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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42
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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43
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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44
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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45
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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47
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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48
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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49
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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52
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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53
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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54
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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56
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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57
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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58
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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60
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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62
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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65
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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67
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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76
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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77
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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78
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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79
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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81
territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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82
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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83
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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84
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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85
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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86
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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87
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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88
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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89
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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90
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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91
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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92
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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93
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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94
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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95
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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96
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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97
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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98
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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99
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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100
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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101
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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102
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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103
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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104
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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