He looked thinner, paler and more frail7 than was his habit, which is not wonderful, considering that he had been four weeks abed while his wound was mending. He was dressed, again by the hands of the incomparable Leduc, in a deshabille of some artistry. A dark-blue dressing-gown of flowered satin fell open at the waist; disclosing sky-blue breeches and pearl-colored stockings, elegant shoes of Spanish leather with red heels and diamond buckles8. His chestnut9 hair had been dressed with as great care as though he were attending a levee, and Leduc had insisted upon placing a small round patch under his left eye, that it might—said Leduc—impart vivacity10 to a countenance11 that looked over-wan from his long confinement12.
He reclined there, and, as I have said, was almost happy.
The creature of sunshine that was himself at heart, had broken through the heavy clouds that had been obscuring him. An oppressive burden was lifted from his mind and conscience. That sword-thrust through the back a month ago had been guided, he opined, by the hand of a befriending Providence13; for although he had, as you see, survived it, it had none the less solved for him that hateful problem he could never have solved for himself, that problem whose solution,—no matter which alternative he had adopted—must have brought him untold14 misery15 afterwards.
As it was, during the weeks that he had lain helpless, his life attached to him by but the merest thread, the chance of betraying Lord Ostermore was gone, nor—the circumstances being such as they were—could Sir Richard Everard blame him that he had let it pass.
Thus he knew peace; knew it as only those know it who have sustained unrest and can appreciate relief from it.
Nature had made him a voluptuary, and reclining there in an ease which the languor16 born of his long illness rendered the more delicious, inhaling17 the tepid18 summer air that came to him laden19 with a most sweet attar from the flowering rose-garden, he realized that with all its cares life may be sweet to live in youth and in the month of June.
He sighed, and smiled pensively20 at the water-lilies; nor was his happiness entirely21 and solely22 the essence of his material ease. This was his third morning out of doors, and on each of the two mornings that were gone Hortensia had borne him company, coming with the charitable intent of lightening his tedium23 by reading to him, but remaining to talk instead.
The most perfect friendliness24 had prevailed between them; a camaraderie25 which Mr. Caryll had been careful not to dispel26 by any return to such speeches as those which had originally offended but which seemed now mercifully forgotten.
He was awaiting her, and his expectancy28 heightened for him the glory of the morning, increased the meed of happiness that was his. But there was more besides. Leduc, who stood slightly behind him, fussily29, busy about a little table on which were books and cordials, flowers and comfits, a pipe and a tobacco-jar, had just informed him for the first time that during the more dangerous period of his illness Mistress Winthrop had watched by his bedside for many hours together upon many occasions, and once—on the day after he had been wounded, and while his fever was at its height—Leduc, entering suddenly and quietly, had surprised her in tears.
All this was most sweet news to Mr. Caryll. He found that between himself and his half-brother there lay an even deeper debt than he had at first supposed, and already acknowledged. In the delicious contemplation of Hortensia in tears beside him stricken all but to the point of death, he forgot entirely his erstwhile scruples30 that being nameless he had no name to offer her. In imagination he conjured31 up the scene. It made, he found, a very pretty picture. He would smoke upon it.
“Leduc, if you were to fill me a pipe of Spanish—”
“Monsieur has smoked one pipe already,” Leduc reminded him.
“You are inconsequent, Leduc. It is a sign of advancing age. Repress it. The pipe!” And he flicked32 impatient fingers.
“Monsieur is forgetting that the doctor—”
“The devil take the doctor,” said Mr. Caryll with finality.
“Parfaitement!” answered the smooth Leduc. “Over the bridge we laugh at the saint. Now that we are cured, the devil take the doctor by all means.”
A ripple33 of laughter came to applaud Leduc's excursion into irony34. The arbor had another, narrower entrance, on the left. Hortensia had approached this, all unheard on the soft turf, and stood there now, a heavenly apparition35 in white flimsy garments, head slightly a-tilt, eyes mocking, lips laughing, a heavy curl of her dark hair falling caressingly36 into the hollow where white neck sprang from whiter shoulder.
“You make too rapid a recovery, sir,” said she.
“It comes of learning how well I have been nursed,” he answered, making shift to rise, and he laughed inwardly to see the red flush of confusion spread over the milk-white skin, the reproachful shaft37 her eyes let loose upon Leduc.
She came forward swiftly to check his rising; but he was already on his feet, proud of his return to strength, vain to display it. “Nay,” she reproved him. “If you are so headstrong, I shall leave you.”
“If you do, ma'am. I vow38 here, as I am, I hope, a gentleman, that I shall go home to-day, and on foot.”
“You would kill yourself,” she told him.
She looked her despair of him. “What must I do to make you reasonable?”
“Set me the example by being reasonable yourself, and let there be no more of this wild talk of leaving me the very moment you are come. Leduc, a chair for Mistress Winthrop!” he commanded, as though chairs abounded40 in a garden nook. But Leduc, the diplomat41, had effaced42 himself.
She laughed at his grand air, and, herself, drew forward the stool that had been Leduc's, and sat down. Satisfied, Mr. Caryll made her a bow, and seated himself sideways on his long chair, so that he faced her. She begged that he would dispose himself more comfortably; but he scorned the very notion.
“Unaided I walked here from the house,” he informed her with a boastful air. “I had need to begin to feel my feet again. You are pampering44 me here, and to pamper43 an invalid45 is bad; it keeps him an invalid. Now I am an invalid no longer.”
“But the doctor—” she began.
“The doctor, ma'am, is disposed of already,” he assured her. “Very definitely disposed of. Ask Leduc. He will tell you.”
“Not a doubt of that,” she answered. “Leduc talks too much.”
“You have a spite against him for the information he gave me on the score of how and by whom I was nursed. So have I. Because he did not tell me before, and because when he told me he would not tell me enough. He has no eyes, this Leduc. He is a dolt46, who only sees the half of what happens, and only remembers the half of what he has seen.”
“I am sure of it,” said she.
He looked surprised an instant. Then he laughed. “I am glad that we agree.”
“But you have yet to learn the cause. Had this Leduc used his eyes or his ears to better purpose, he had been able to tell you something of the extent to which I am in your debt.”
“Ah?” said he, mystified. Then: “The news will be none the less welcome from your lips, ma'am,” said he. “Is it that you are interested in the ravings of delirium47, and welcomed the opportunity of observing them at first hand? I hope I raved48 engagingly, if so be that I did rave49. Would it, perchance, be of a lady that I talked in my fevered wanderings?—of a lady pale as a lenten rose, with soft brown eyes, and lips that—”
“Your guesses are all wild,” she checked him. “My debt is of a more real kind. It concerns my—my reputation.”
“Fan me, ye winds!” he ejaculated.
“Those fine ladies and gentlemen of the town had made my name a by-word,” she explained in a low, tense voice, her eyelids50 lowered. “My foolishness in running off with my Lord Rotherby—that I might at all cost escape the tyranny of my Lady Ostermore” (Mr. Caryll's eyelids flickered51 suddenly at that explanation)—“had made me a butt52 and a jest and an object for slander53. You remember, yourself, sir, the sneers54 and oglings, the starings and simperings in the park that day when you made your first attempt to champion my cause, inducing the Lady Mary Deller to come and speak to me.”
“Nay, nay—think of these things no more. Gnats55 will sting; 'tis in their nature. I admit 'tis very vexing56 at the time; but it soon wears off if the flesh they have stung be healthy. So think no more on't.”
“But you do not know what follows. Her ladyship insisted that I should drive with her a week after your hurt, when the doctor first proclaimed you out of danger, and while the town was still all agog57 with the affair. No doubt her ladyship thought to put a fresh and greater humiliation58 upon me; you would not be present to blunt the edge of the insult of those creatures' glances. She carried me to Vauxhall, where a fuller scope might be given to the pursuit of my shame and mortification59. Instead, what think you happened?”
“Her ladyship, I trust, was disappointed.”
“The word is too poor to describe her condition. She broke a fan, beat her black boy and dismissed a footman, that she might vent60 some of the spleen it moved in her. Never was such respect, never such homage61 shown to any woman as was shown to me that evening. We were all but mobbed by the very people who had earlier slighted me.
“'Twas all so mysterious that I must seek the explanation of it. And I had it, at length, from his Grace of Wharton, who was at my side for most of the time we walked in the gardens. I asked him frankly62 to what was this change owing. And he told me, sir.”
She looked at him as though no more need be said. But his brows were knit. “He told you, ma'am?” he questioned. “He told you what?”
“What you had done at White's. How to all present and to my Lord Rotherby's own face you had related the true story of what befell at Maidstone—how I had gone thither63, an innocent, foolish maid, to be married to a villain64, whom, like the silly child I was, I thought I loved; how that villain, taking advantage of my innocence65 and ignorance, intended to hoodwink me with a mock-marriage.
“That was the story that was on every lip; it had gone round the town like fire; and it says much for the town that what between that and the foul66 business of the duel67, my Lord Rotherby was receiving on every hand the condemnation68 he deserves, while for me there was once more—and with heavy interest for the lapse69 from it—the respect which my indiscretion had forfeited70, and which would have continued to be denied me but for your noble championing of my cause.
“That, sir, is the extent to which. I am in your debt. Do you think it small? It is so great that I have no words in which to attempt to express my thanks.”
Mr. Caryll looked at her a moment with eyes that were very bright. Then he broke into a soft laugh that had a note of slyness.
“In my time,” said he, “I have seen many attempts to change an inconvenient71 topic. Some have been artful; others artless; others utterly72 clumsy. But this, I think, is the clumsiest of them all. Mistress Winthrop, 'tis not worthy73 in you.”
“Mistress Winthrop,” he resumed, with an entire change of voice. “To speak of this trifle is but a subterfuge75 of yours to prevent me from expressing my deep gratitude76 for your care of me.”
“Indeed, no—” she began.
“Indeed, yes,” said he. “How can this compare with what you have done for me? For I have learnt how greatly it is to you, yourself, that I owe my recovery—the saving of my life.”
“Ah, but that is not true. It—”
“Let me think so, whether it be true or not,” he implored77 her, eyes between tenderness and whimsicality intent upon her face. “Let me believe it, for the belief has brought me happiness—the greatest happiness, I think, that I have ever known. I can know but one greater, and that—”
He broke off suddenly, and she observed that the hand he had stretched out trembled a moment ere it was abruptly78 lowered again. It was as a man who had reached forth79 to grasp something that he craves80, and checked his desire upon a sudden thought.
She felt oddly stirred, despite herself, and oddly constrained81. It may have been to disguise this that she half turned to the table, saying: “You were about to smoke when I came.” And she took up his pipe and tobacco—jar to offer them.
“Ah, but since you've come, I would not dream,” he said.
She looked at him. The complete change of topic permitted it. “If I desired you so to do?” she inquired, and added: “I love the fragrance82 of it.”
He raised his brows. “Fragrance?” quoth he. “My Lady Ostermore has another word for it.” He took the pipe and jar from her. “'Tis no humoring, this, of a man you imagine sick—no silly chivalry83 of yours?” he questioned doubtfully. “Did I think that, I'd never smoke another pipe again.”
She shook her head, and laughed at his solemnity. “I love the fragrance,” she repeated.
“Ah! Why, then, I'll pleasure you,” said he, with the air of one conferring favors, and filled his pipe. Presently he spoke84 again in a musing85 tone. “In a week or so, I shall be well enough to travel.”
“'Tis your intent to travel?” she inquired.
He set down the jar, and reached for the tinderbox. “It is time I was returning home,” he explained.
“Ah, yes. Your home is in France.”
“At Maligny; the sweetest nook in Normandy. 'Twas my mother's birthplace, and 'twas there she died.”
“You have felt the loss of her, I make no doubt.”
“That might have been the case if I had known her,” answered he. “But as it is, I never did. I was but two years old—she, herself, but twenty—when she died.”
He pulled at his pipe in silence a moment or two, his face overcast86 and thoughtful. A shallower woman would have broken in with expressions of regret; Hortensia offered him the nobler sympathy of silence. Moreover, she had felt from his tone that there was more to come; that what he had said was but the preface to some story that he desired her to be acquainted with. And presently, as she expected, he continued.
“She died, Mistress Winthrop, of a broken heart. My father had abandoned her two years and more before she died. In those years of repining—ay, and worse, of actual want—her health was broken so that, poor soul, she died.”
“O pitiful!” cried Hortensia, pain in her face.
“Pitiful, indeed—the more pitiful that her death was a source of some slight happiness to those who loved her; the only happiness they could have in her was to know that she was at rest.”
“And—and your father?”
“I am coming to him. My mother had a friend—a very noble, lofty-minded gentleman who had loved her with a great and honest love before the profligate87 who was my father came forward as a suitor. Recognizing in the latter—as he thought in his honest heart—a man in better case to make her happy, this gentleman I speak of went his ways. He came upon her afterwards, broken and abandoned, and he gathered up the poor shards88 of her shattered life, and sought with tender but unavailing hands to piece them together again. And when she died he vowed89 to stand my friend and to make up to me for the want I had of parents. 'Tis by his bounty90 that to-day I am lord of Maligny that was for generations the property of my mother's people. 'Tis by his bounty and loving care that I am what I am, and not what so easily I might have become had the seed sown by my father been allowed to put out shoots.”
He paused, as if bethinking himself, and looked at her with a wistful, inquiring smile. “But why plague you,” he cried, “with this poor tale of yesterday that will be forgot to-morrow?”
“Nay—ah, nay,” she begged, and put out a hand in impulsive91 sympathy to touch his own, so transparent92 now in its emaciation93. “Tell me; tell me!”
His smile softened94. He sighed gently and continued. “This gentleman who adopted me lived for one single purpose, with one single aim in view—to avenge95 my mother, whom he had loved, upon the man whom she had loved and who had so ill repaid her. He reared me for that purpose, as much, I think, as out of any other feeling. Thirty years have sped, and still the hand of the avenger96 has not fallen upon my father. It should have fallen a month ago; but I was weak; I hesitated; and then this sword-thrust put me out of all case of doing what I had crossed from France to do.”
She looked at him with something of horror in her face. “Were you—were you to have been the instrument?” she inquired. “Were you to have avenged97 this thing upon your own father?”
He nodded slowly. “'Twas to that end that I was reared,” he answered, and put aside his pipe, which had gone out. “The spirit of revenge was educated into me until I came to look upon revenge as the best and holiest of emotions; until I believed that if I failed to wreak98 it I must be a craven and a dastard99. All this seemed so until the moment came to set my hand to the task. And then—” He shrugged100.
“And then?” she questioned.
“I couldn't. The full horror of it burst upon me. I saw the thing in its true and hideous101 proportions, and it revolted me.”
“It must have been so,” she approved him.
“I told my foster-father; but I met with neither sympathy nor understanding. He renewed his old-time arguments, and again he seemed to prove to me that did I fail I should be false to my duty and to my mother's memory—a weakling, a thing of shame.”
“The monster! Oh, the monster! He is an evil man for all that you have said of him.”
“Not so. There is no nobler gentleman in all the world. I who know him, know that. It is through the very nobility of it that this warp102 has come into his nature. Sane103 in all things else, he is—I see it now, I understand it at last—insane on this one subject. Much brooding has made him mad upon this matter—a fanatic104 whose gospel is Vengeance105, and, like all fanatics106, he is harsh and intolerant when resisted on the point of his fanaticism107. This is something I have come to realize in these past days, when I lay with naught108 else to do but ponder.
“In all things else he sees as deep and clear as any man; in this his vision is distorted. He has looked at nothing else for thirty years; can you wonder that his sight is blurred109?”
“He is to be pitied then,” she said, “deeply to be pitied.”
“True. And because I pitied him, because I valued his regard-however mistaken he might be—above all else, I was hesitating again—this time between my duty to myself and my duty to him. I was so hesitating—though I scarce can doubt which had prevailed in the end—when came this sword-thrust so very opportunely110 to put me out of case of doing one thing or the other.”
“But now that you are well again?” she asked.
“Now that I am well again—I thank Heaven that it will be too late. The opportunity that was ours is lost. His—my father should now be beyond our power.”
There ensued a spell of silence. He sat with eyes averted111 from her face—those eyes which she had never known other than whimsical and mocking, now full of gloom and pain—riveted upon the glare of sunshine on the pond out yonder. A great sympathy welled up from her heart for this man whom she was still far from understanding, and who, nevertheless—because of it, perhaps, for there is much fascination112 in that which puzzles—was already growing very dear to her. The story he had told her drew her infinitely113 closer to him, softening114 her heart for him even more perhaps than it had already been softened when she had seen him—as she had thought—upon the point of dying. A wonder flitted through her mind as to why he had told her; then another question surged. She gave it tongue.
“You have told me so much, Mr. Caryll,” she said, “that I am emboldened115 to ask something more.” His eyes invited her to put her question. “Your—your father? Was he related to Lord Ostermore?”
Not a muscle of his face moved. “Why that?” he asked.
“Because your name is Caryll,” said she.
“My name?” he laughed softly and bitterly. “My name?” He reached for an ebony cane116 that stood beside his chair. “I had thought you understood.” He heaved himself to his feet, and she forgot to caution him against exertion117. “I have no right to any name,” he told her. “My father was a man too full of worldly affairs to think of trifles. And so it befell that before he went his ways he forgot to marry the poor lady who was my mother. I might take what name I chose. I chose Caryll. But you will understand, Mistress Winthrop,” and he looked her fully27 in the face, attempting in vain to dissemble the agony in his eyes—he who a little while ago had been almost happy—“that if ever it should happen that I should come to love a woman who is worthy of being loved, I who am nameless have no name to offer her.”
Revelation illumined her mind as in a flash. She looked at him.
“Was—was that what you meant, that day we thought you dying, when you said to me—for it was to me you spoke, to me alone—that it was better so?”
He inclined his head. “That is what I meant,” he answered.
Her lids drooped118; her cheeks were very white, and he remarked the swift, agitated119 surge of her bosom120, the fingers that were plucking at one another in her lap. Without looking up, she spoke again. “If you had the love to offer, what would the rest matter? What is a name that it should weigh so much?”
“Heyday!” He sighed, and smiled very wistfully. “You are young, child. In time you will understand what place the world assigns to such men as I. It is a place I could ask no woman to share. Such as I am, could I speak of love to any woman?”
“Yet you spoke of love once to me,” she reminded him, scarcely above her breath, and stabbed him with the recollection.
“In an hour of moonshine, an hour of madness, when I was a reckless fool that must give tongue to every impulse. You reproved me then in just the terms my case deserved. Hortensia,” he bent121 towards her, leaning on his cane, “'tis very sweet and merciful in you to recall it without reproach. Recall it no more, save to think with scorn of the fleering coxcomb122 who was so lost to the respect that is due to so sweet a lady. I have told you so much of myself to-day that you may.”
“Decidedly,” came a shrill123, ironical124 voice from the arbor's entrance, “I may congratulate you, sir, upon the prodigious125 strides of your recovery.”
Mr. Caryll straightened himself from his stooping posture126, turned and made Lady Ostermore a bow, his whole manner changed again to that which was habitual127 to him. “And no less decidedly, my lady,” said he with a tight-lipped smile, “may I congratulate your ladyship's son upon that happy circumstance, which is—as I have learned—so greatly due to the steps your ladyship took—for which I shall be ever grateful—to ensure that I should be made whole again.”
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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languor
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inhaling
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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pensively
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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solely
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tedium
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friendliness
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camaraderie
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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36
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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37
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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38
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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39
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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40
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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42
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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43
pamper
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| v.纵容，过分关怀 | |
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44
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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45
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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46
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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47
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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48
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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49
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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50
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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51
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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53
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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54
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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55
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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56
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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57
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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58
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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59
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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60
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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61
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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62
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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63
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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64
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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65
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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66
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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67
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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68
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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69
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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70
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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76
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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77
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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79
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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81
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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82
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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83
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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84
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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85
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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86
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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87
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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88
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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89
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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91
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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92
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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93
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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94
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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95
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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96
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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97
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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98
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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99
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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100
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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102
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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103
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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104
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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105
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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106
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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107
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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108
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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109
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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110
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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111
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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112
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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113
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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114
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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115
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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117
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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118
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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120
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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121
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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122
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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123
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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124
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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125
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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126
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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127
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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