But the silent woman did not look for solace18. She had a vehement19 pride which caused her to seek comfort only in her own heart; and when, against her will, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks, she shook her head impatiently. She drew a long breath and set herself resolutely20 to change her thoughts.
But they were too compelling, and she could not drive from her mind the memories that absorbed it. Her fancy, like a homing bird, hovered21 with light wings about another coast; and the sea she looked upon reminded her of another sea. The Solent. From her earliest years that sheet of water had seemed an essential part of her life, and the calmness at her feet brought back to her irresistibly22 the scenes she knew so well. But the rippling23 waves washed the shores of Hampshire with a persuasive24 charm that they had not elsewhere, and the broad expanse of it, lacking the illimitable majesty25 of the open sea, could be loved like a familiar thing. Yet there was in it, too, something of the salt freshness of the ocean, and, as the eye followed its course, the heart could exult26 with a sense of freedom. Sometimes, in the dusk of a winter afternoon, she remembered the Solent as desolate as the Kentish sea before her; but her imagination presented it to her more often with the ships, outward bound or homeward bound, that passed continually. She loved them all. She loved the great liners that sped across the ocean, unmindful of wind or weather, with their freight of passengers; and at night, when she recognised them only by the long row of lights, they fascinated her by the mystery of their thousand souls going out strangely into the unknown. She loved the little panting ferries that carried the good folk of the neighbourhood across the water to buy their goods in Southampton, or to sell the produce of their farms; she was intimate with their sturdy skippers, and she delighted in their airs of self-importance. She loved the fishing boats that went out in all weathers, and the neat yachts that fled across the bay with such a dainty grace. She loved the great barques and the brigantines that came in with a majestic27 ease, all their sails set to catch the remainder of the breeze; they were like wonderful, stately birds, and her soul rejoiced at the sight of them. But best of all she loved the tramps that plodded28 with a faithful, grim tenacity29 from port to port; often they were squat30 and ugly, battered31 by the tempest, dingy32 and ill-painted; but her heart went out to them. They touched her because their fate seemed so inglorious. No skipper, new to his craft, could ever admire the beauty of their lines, nor look up at the swelling33 canvas and exult he knew not why; no passengers would boast of their speed or praise their elegance34. They were honest merchantmen, laborious35, trustworthy, and of good courage, who took foul37 weather and peril38 in the day's journey and made no outcry. And with a sure instinct she saw the romance in the humble39 course of their existence and the beauty of an unboasting performance of their duty; and often, as she watched them, her fancy glowed with the thought of the varied40 merchandise they carried, and their long sojourning in foreign parts. There was a subtle charm in them because they went to Southern seas and white cities with tortuous41 streets, silent under the blue sky.
Striving still to free herself of a passionate42 regret, the lonely woman turned away and took a path that led across the marshes43. But her heart sank, for she seemed to recognise the flats, the shallow dykes45, the coastguard station, which she had known all her life. Sheep were grazing here and there, and two horses, put out to grass, looked at her listlessly as she passed. A cow heavily whisked its tail. To the indifferent, that line of Kentish coast, so level and monotonous46, might be merely dull, but to her it was beautiful. It reminded her of the home she would never see again.
And then her thoughts, which had wandered around the house in which she was born, ever touching47 the fringe as it were, but never quite settling with the full surrender of attention, gave themselves over to it entirely48.
Hamlyn's Purlieu had belonged to the Allertons for three hundred years, and the recumbent effigy49, in stone, of the founder50 of the family's fortunes, with his two wives in ruffs and stiff martingales, was to be seen in the chancel of the parish church. It was the work of an Italian sculptor51, lured52 to England in company of the craftsmen53 who made the lady-chapel of Westminster Abbey; and the renaissance54 delicacy55 of its work was very grateful in the homely56 English church. And for three hundred years the Allertons had been men of prudence57, courage, and worth, so that the walls of the church by now were filled with the lists of their virtues58 and their achievements. They had intermarried with the great families of the neighbourhood, and with the help of these marble tablets you might have made out a roll of all that was distinguished59 in Hampshire. The Maddens of Brise, the Fletchers of Horton Park, the Daunceys of Maiden60 Hall, the Garrods of Penda, had all, in the course of time, given daughters to the Allertons of Hamlyn's Purlieu; and the Allertons of Hamlyn's Purlieu had given in exchange richly dowered maidens61 to the Garrods of Penda, the Daunceys of Maiden Hall, the Fletchers of Horton Park, and the Maddens of Brise.
And with each generation the Allertons grew prouder. The peculiar62 situation of their lands distinguished them a little from their neighbours; for, whereas the Garrods, the Daunceys, and the Fletchers lived within walking distance of each other, and Madden of Brise, because of his rank and opulence63 the most distinguished person in the county, within six or seven miles, Hamlyn's Purlieu was near the sea and separated by forest land from other places. The seclusion64 in which its owners were thus forced to dwell differentiated65 their characters from those of the neighbouring gentlemen. They found much cause for self-esteem in the number of their acres, and, though many of these consisted of salt marshes, and more of wild heath, others were as good as any in Hampshire; and the grand total made a formidable array in works of reference. But they found greater reason still for self-congratulation in their culture. No pride is so great as the pride of intellect, and the Allertons never doubted that their neighbours were boors67 beside them. Whether it was due to the peculiar lie of the land on which they were born and bred, that led them to introspection, or whether it was due to some accident of inheritance, the Allertons had all an interest in the things of the mind, which had never troubled the Fletchers or the Garrods of Penda, the Daunceys or my lords Madden of Brise. They were as good sportsmen as the others, and hunted or shot with the best of them, but they read books as well, and had a subtlety68 of intelligence which was no less unexpected than pleasing. The fat squires69 of the county looked up to them as miracles of learning, and congratulated themselves over their port on possessing in their midst persons who combined, in such excellent proportions, gentle birth and a good seat in the saddle with adequate means and an encyclopedic knowledge. Everything conspired70 to give the Allertons a good opinion of themselves. They not only looked down from superior heights on the persons with whom they habitually71 came in contact—that is common enough—but these very persons without question looked up to them.
The Allertons made the grand tour in a style befitting their dignity; and the letters which each son of the house wrote in turn, describing Paris, Vienna, Dresden, Munich, and Rome, with the persons of consequence who entertained him, were preserved with scrupulous72 care among the family papers. They testified to an agreeable interest in the arts; and each of them had made a point of bringing back with him, according to the fashion of his day, beautiful things which he had purchased on his journey. Hamlyn's Purlieu, a fine stone house goodly to look upon, was thus filled with Italian pictures, French cabinets of delicate workmanship, bronzes of all kinds, tapestries73, and old Eastern carpets. The gardens had been tended with a loving care, and there grew in them trees and flowers which were unknown to other parts of England. Each Allerton in his time cherished the place with a passionate pride, looking upon it as his greatest privilege that he could add a little to its beauty and hand on to his successor a more magnificent heritage.
But at length Hamlyn's Purlieu came into the hands of Fred Allerton; and the gods, blind for so long to the prosperity of this house, determined74 now, it seemed, to wreak75 their malice76. Fred Allerton had many of the characteristics of his race, but in him they took a sudden turn which bore him swiftly to destruction. They had been marked always by good looks, a persuasive manner, and a singular liberality of mind; and he was perhaps the handsomest, and certainly the most charming of them all. But the freedom from prejudice which had prevented the others from giving way too much to their pride had in him degenerated77 into a singular unscrupulousness. His parents died when he was twenty, and a year later he found himself master of a great estate. The times were hard then for those who depended upon their land, and Fred Allerton was not so rich as his forebears. But he flung himself extravagantly78 into the pursuit of pleasure. He was the only member of his family who had failed to reside habitually at Hamlyn's Purlieu. He seemed to take no interest in it, and except now and then to shoot, never came near his native county. He lived much in Paris, which in the early years of the third republic had still something of the wanton gaiety of the Empire; and here he soon grew notorious for his prodigality80 and his adventures. He was an unlucky man, and everything he did led to disaster. But this never impaired81 his cheerfulness. He boasted that he had lost money in every gambling82 hell in Europe, and vowed83 that he would give up racing84 in disgust if ever a horse of his won a race. His charm of manner was irresistible85, and no one had more friends than he. His generosity86 was great, and he was willing to lend money to everyone who asked. But it is even more expensive to be a man whom everyone likes than to keep a stud, and Fred Allerton found himself in due course much in need of ready money. He did not hesitate to mortgage his lands, and till he came to the end of these resources also, continued gaily87 to lead a life of splendour.
At length he had raised on Hamlyn's Purlieu every penny that he could, and was crippled with debt besides; but he still rode a fine horse, lived in expensive chambers88, dressed better than any man in London, and gave admirable dinners to all and sundry89. He realised then that he could only retrieve90 his fortunes by a rich marriage. Fred Allerton was still a handsome man, and he knew from long experience how easy it was to say pleasant things to a woman. There was a peculiar light in his blue eyes which persuaded everyone of the goodness of his heart. He was amusing and full of spirits. He fixed91 upon a Miss Boulger, one of the two daughters of a Liverpool manufacturer, and succeeded after a surprisingly short time in assuring her of his passion. There was a convincing air of truth in all he said, and she returned his flame with readiness. It was clear to him that her sister was equally prepared to fall in love with him, and he regretted with diverting frankness to his more intimate friends that the laws of the land prevented him from marrying them both and acquiring two fortunes instead of one. He married the younger Miss Boulger, and on her dowry paid off the mortgages on Hamlyn's Purlieu, his own debts, and succeeded for several years in having an excellent time. The poor woman, happily blind to his defects, adored him with all her soul. She trusted him entirely with the management of her money and only regretted that the affairs connected with it kept him so much in town. With marriage and his new connection with commerce Fred Allerton had come to the conclusion that he had business abilities, and he occupied himself thenceforward with all manner of financial schemes. With unwearied enthusiasm he entered upon some new affair which was going to bring him untold92 wealth as soon as the last had finally sunk into the abyss of bankruptcy93. Hamlyn's Purlieu had never known such gaieties as during the fifteen years of Mrs. Allerton's married life. All kinds of people were brought down by Fred; and the dignified94 dining-room, which for centuries had witnessed discussions, learned or flippant, on the merits of Greek and Latin authors, or the excellencies of Italian masters, now heard strange talk of stocks and shares, companies, syndicates, options and holdings. When Mrs. Allerton died suddenly she was entirely unconscious that her husband had squandered95 every penny of the money which had been settled on her children, had mortgaged once more the broad fields of his ancestors, and was head over ears in debt. She expired with his name upon her lips, and blessed the day on which she had first seen him. She had one son and one daughter. Lucy was a girl of fifteen when her mother died, and George, the boy, was ten.
It was Lucy, now a woman of twenty-five, who turned her back upon the Kentish sea and slowly walked across the marsh44. And as she walked, the recollection of the ten years that had passed since then was placed before her as it were in a single Sash.
At first her father had seemed the most wonderful being in the world, and she had worshipped him with all her childish heart. The love that bound her to her mother was pale in comparison, for Lucy could not divide her affections, giving part here, part there; her father, with his wonderful gift of sympathy, his indescribable charm, conquered her entirely. It was her greatest delight to be with him. She was entertained and exhilarated by his society, and she hated the men of business who absorbed so much of his time.
When Mrs. Allerton died George was sent to school, but Lucy, in charge of a governess, remained year in, year out, at Hamlyn's Purlieu with her books, her dogs, and her horses. And gradually, she knew not how, it was borne in upon her that the father who had seemed such a paragon96 of chivalry97, was weak, unreliable, and shifty. She fought against the suspicions that poisoned her mind, charging herself bitterly with meanness of spirit, but one small incident after another brought the truth home to her. She recognised with a shiver of anguish98 that his standard of veracity99 was utterly different from hers. He was not very careful to keep his word. He was not scrupulous in money matters. With her, honesty, truthfulness100, exactness in all affairs, were not only instinctive101, but deliberate; for the pride of her birth was so great that she felt it incumbent102 upon her to be ten times more careful in these things than the ordinary run of men.
And then, from a word here and a word there, by horrified103 guesses and by a kind of instinctive surmise104, she realised presently the whole truth of her father's life. She found out that Hamlyn's Purlieu was mortgaged for every penny it was worth, she found out that there was a bill of sale on the furniture, that money had been raised on the pictures; and, at last, that her mother's money, left in her father's trust to her and George, had been spent. And still Fred Allerton lived with prodigal79 magnificence.
It was only very gradually that Lucy discovered these things. There was no one whom she could consult, and she had to devise some mode of conduct by herself. It was all a matter of supposition, and she knew almost nothing for certain. She made up her mind that she would probe no deeper. But since such knowledge as she had came to her only by degrees, she was able the better to adapt her behaviour to it. The pride which for so long had been a characteristic of the Allertons, but had unaccountably missed Fred, in her enjoyed all its force; and what she knew now served only to augment105 it. In the ruin of her ideals she had nothing but that to cling to, and she cherished it with an unreasoning passion. She had a cult66 for the ancestors whose portraits looked down upon her in one room after another of Hamlyn's Purlieu, and from their names and the look of them, which was all that remained, she made them in her fancy into personalities106 whose influence might somehow counteract107 the weakness of her father. In them there was so much uprightness, strength, and simple goodness; the sum total of it must prevail in the long run against the unruly instincts of one man. And she loved her old home, with all its exquisite108 contents, with its rich gardens, its broad, fertile fields, above all with its wild heath and flat sea-marshes, she loved it with a hungry devotion, saddened and yet more vehement because her hold on it was jeopardised. She set the whole strength of her will on preserving the place for her brother. Her greatest desire was to fill him with the determination to reclaim109 it from the foreign hands that had some hold upon it, and to restore it to its ancient freedom.
Upon George were set all Lucy's hopes. He could restore the fallen fortunes of their race, and her part must be to train him to the glorious task. He was growing up, and she made up her mind to keep from him all knowledge of her father's weakness. To George he must seem to the last an honest gentleman.
Lucy transferred to her brother all the love which she had lavished110 on her father. She watched his growth fondly, interesting herself in his affairs, and seeking to be to him not only a sister, but the mother he had lost and the father who was unworthy. When he was of a fit age she saw that he was sent to Winchester. She followed his career with passion and entered eagerly into all his interests.
But if Lucy had lost her old love for her father, its place had been taken by a pitying tenderness; and she did all she could to conceal111 from him the change in her feelings. It was easy when she was with him, for then it was impossible to resist his charm; and it was only afterwards, when he was no longer there to explain things away, that she could not crush the horror and resentment112 with which she regarded him. But of this no one knew anything; and she set herself deliberately113 not only to make such headway as she could in the tangle3 of their circumstances, but to conceal from everyone the actual state of things.
For presently Fred Allerton seemed no longer to have an inexhaustible supply of ready money, and Lucy had to resort to a very careful economy. She reduced expenses in every way she could, and when left alone in the house, lived with the utmost frugality114. She hated to ask her father for money, and since often he did not pay the allowance that was due to her, she was obliged to exercise a good deal of self-denial. As soon as she was old enough, Lucy had taken the household affairs into her own hands and had learned to conduct them in such a way as to hide from the world how difficult it was to make both ends meet. Now, feeling that things were approaching a crisis, she sold the horses and dismissed most of the servants. A great fear seized her that it would be impossible to keep Hamlyn's Purlieu, and she was stricken with panic. She was willing to make every sacrifice but that, and if she were only allowed to remain there, did not care how penuriously115 she lived.
But the struggle was growing harder. None knew what she had endured in her endeavour to keep their heads above water. And she had borne everything with perfect cheerfulness. Though she saw a good deal of the neighbouring gentry116, connected with her by blood or long friendship, not one of them divined her great anxiety. She felt vaguely117 that they knew how things were going, but she held her head high and gave no one an opportunity to pity her. Her father was now absent from home more frequently and seemed to avoid being alone with her. They had never discussed the state of their affairs, for he assumed with Lucy a determined flippancy118 which prevented any serious conversation. On her twenty-first birthday he had made some facetious119 observation about the money of which she was now mistress, but had treated the matter with such an airy charm that she had felt unable to proceed with it. Nor did she wish to, for if he had spent her money nothing could be done, and it was better not to know for certain. Notwithstanding settlements and wills, she felt that it was really his to do what he liked with, and she made up her mind that nothing in her behaviour should be construed120 as a reproach.
At length the crash came.
She received a telegram one day—she was nearly twenty-three then—from Richard Lomas, an old friend of her mother's, to say that he was coming down for luncheon121. She walked to the station to meet him. She was very fond of him, not only for his own sake, but because her mother had been fond of him, too; and the affection which had existed between them, drew her nearer to the mother whom she felt now she had a little neglected. Dick Lomas was a barrister, who, after contesting two seats unsuccessfully, had got into Parliament at the last general election and had made already a certain name for himself by the wittiness122 of his speeches and the bluntness of his common sense. He had neither the portentous123 gravity nor the dogmatic airs which afflicted124 most of his legal colleagues in the house. He was a man who had solved the difficulty of being sensible without tediousness and pointed125 without impertinence. He was wise enough not to speak too often, and if only he had not possessed126 a sense of humour—which his countrymen always regard with suspicion in an English politician—he might have looked forward to a brilliant future. He was a wiry little man, with a sharp, good-humoured face and sparkling eyes. He carried his seven and thirty years with gaiety.
But on this occasion he was unusually grave. Lucy, already surprised at his sudden visit, divined at once from the uneasiness of his pleasant, grey eyes that something was amiss. Her heart began to beat more quickly. He forced himself to smile as he took her hand, congratulating her on the healthiness of her appearance; and they walked slowly from the station. Dick spoke127 of indifferent things, while Lucy distractedly turned over in her mind all that could have happened. Luncheon was ready for them, and Dick sat down with apparent gusto, praising emphatically the good things she set before him; but he ate as little as she did. He seemed impatient for the meal to end, but unwilling128 to enter upon the subject which oppressed him. They drank their coffee.
'Shall we go for a turn in the garden?' he suggested.
'Certainly.'
After his last visit, Dick had sent down an old sundial which he had picked up in a shop in Westminster, and Lucy took him to the place which they had before decided129 needed just such an ornament130. They discussed it at some length, but then silence fell suddenly upon them, and they walked side by side without a word. Dick slipped his arm through hers with a caressing131 motion, and Lucy, unused to any tenderness, felt a sob132 rise to her throat. They went in once more and stood in the drawing-room. From the walls looked down the treasures of the house. There was a portrait by Reynolds, and another by Hoppner, and there was a beautiful picture of the Grand Canal by Guardi, and there was a portrait by Goya of a General Allerton who had fought in the Peninsular War. Dick gave them a glance, and his blood tingled133 with admiration134. He leaned against the fireplace.
'Your father asked me to come down and see you, Lucy. He was too worried to come himself.'
Lucy looked at him with grave eyes, but made no reply.
'He's had some very bad luck lately. Your father is a man who prides himself on his business ability, but he has no more knowledge of such matters than a child. He's an imaginative man, and when some scheme appeals to his feeling for romance, he loses all sense of proportion.'
'He's been gambling on the Stock Exchange, and he's been badly let down. He was bulling a number of South American railways, and there's been a panic in the market. He's lost enormously. I don't know if any settlement can be made with his creditors136, but if not he must go bankrupt. In any case, I'm afraid Hamlyn's Purlieu must be sold.'
Lucy walked to the window and looked out. But she could see nothing. Her eyes were blurred137 with tears. She breathed quickly, trying to control herself.
'I've been expecting it for a long time,' she said at last. 'I've refused to face it, and I put the thought away from me, but I knew really that it must come to that.'
'I'm very sorry,' said Dick helplessly.
She turned on him fiercely, and the colour rose to her cheeks. But she restrained herself and left unsaid the bitter words that had come to her tongue. She made a pitiful gesture of despair. He felt how poor were his words of consolation138, and how inadequate139 to her great grief, and he was silent.
'And what about George?' she asked.
George was then eighteen, and on the point of leaving Winchester. It had been arranged that he should go to Oxford140 at the beginning of the next term.
'Lady Kelsey has offered to pay his expenses at the 'Varsity,' answered Dick, 'and she wants you to go and stay with her for the present.'
'Do you mean to say we're penniless?' asked Lucy, desperately141.
'I think you cannot depend on your father for much regular assistance.'
Lucy was silent again.
Lady Kelsey was the elder sister of Mrs. Allerton, and some time after that lady's marriage had accepted a worthy36 merchant whose father had been in partnership142 with hers; and he, after a prosperous career crowned by surrendering his seat in Parliament to a defeated cabinet-minister—a patriotic143 act for which he was rewarded with a knighthood—had died, leaving her well off and childless. She had but one other nephew, Robert Boulger, her brother's only son, but he was rich with all the inherited wealth of the firm of Boulger & Kelsey; and her affections were placed chiefly upon the children of the man whom she had loved devotedly144 and who had married her sister.
'I was hoping you would come up to town with me now,' said Dick. 'Lady Kelsey is expecting you, and I cannot bear to think of you by yourself here.'
'I shall stay till the last moment.'
Dick hesitated again. He had wished to keep back the full brutality145 of the blow, but sooner or later it must be given.
'The place is already sold. Your father accepted an offer from Jarrett—you remember him, he has been down here; he is your father's broker146 and chief creditor—and everything else is to go to Christy's at once.'
'Then there is no more to be said.'
She gave Dick her hand.
'You won't mind if I don't come to the station with you?'
'Won't you come up to London?' he asked again.
She shook her head.
'My dear girl, it's very good of you to make sure that I don't miss my train,' he smiled drily.
'Good-bye and thank you.'
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shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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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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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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utterly
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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persuasive
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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32
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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33
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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34
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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36
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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37
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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38
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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39
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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40
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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41
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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42
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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43
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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44
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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45
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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46
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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47
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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48
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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49
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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50
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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51
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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52
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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54
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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55
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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56
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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57
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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58
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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59
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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60
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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61
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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62
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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63
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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64
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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65
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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66
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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67
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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68
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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69
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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70
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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71
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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72
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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73
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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76
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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77
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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79
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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80
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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81
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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83
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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84
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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85
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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86
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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87
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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88
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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89
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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90
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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91
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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92
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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93
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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94
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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95
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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97
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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98
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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99
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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100
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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101
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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102
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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103
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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104
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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105
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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106
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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107
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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108
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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109
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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110
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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112
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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113
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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114
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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115
penuriously
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| adv.penurious（吝啬的）的变形 | |
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116
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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117
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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118
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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119
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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120
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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121
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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122
wittiness
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| 机智，临机应变 | |
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123
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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124
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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126
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
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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128
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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129
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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130
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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131
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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132
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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133
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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135
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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136
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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137
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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138
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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139
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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140
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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141
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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142
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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143
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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144
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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145
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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146
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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147
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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