“Ah,” you say, “but ‘pluck’ is one thing, endurance another. A man who doesn’t reel on receipt of his death-warrant may yet break down when he has had time to think it over. How did the Duke acquit2 himself when he came to the end of his cigarette? And by the way, how was it that after he had read the telegram you didn’t give him again an hour’s grace?”
In a way, you have a perfect right to ask both those questions. But their very pertinence3 shows that you think I might omit things that matter. Please don’t interrupt me again. Am I writing this history, or are you?
Though the news that he must die was a yet sharper douche, as you have suggested, than the douche inflicted4 by Zuleika, it did at least leave unscathed the Duke’s pride. The gods can make a man ridiculous through a woman, but they cannot make him ridiculous when they deal him a blow direct. The very greatness of their power makes them, in that respect, impotent. They had decreed that the Duke should die, and they had told him so. There was nothing to demean him in that. True, he had just measured himself against them. But there was no shame in being gravelled. The peripety was according to the best rules of tragic6 art. The whole thing was in the grand manner.
Thus I felt that there were no indelicacy, this time, in watching him. Just as “pluck” comes of breeding, so is endurance especially an attribute of the artist. Because he can stand outside himself, and (if there be nothing ignoble8 in them) take a pleasure in his own sufferings, the artist has a huge advantage over you and me. The Duke, so soon as Zuleika’s spell was broken, had become himself again—a highly self-conscious artist in life. And now, standing9 pensive10 on the doorstep, he was almost enviable in his great affliction.
Through the wreaths of smoke which, as they came from his lips, hung in the sultry air as they would have hung in a closed room, he gazed up at the steadfast11 thunder-clouds. How nobly they had been massed for him! One of them, a particularly large and dark one, might with advantage, he thought, have been placed a little further to the left. He made a gesture to that effect. Instantly the cloud rolled into position. The gods were painfully anxious, now, to humour him in trifles. His behaviour in the great emergency had so impressed them at a distance that they rather dreaded13 meeting him anon at close quarters. They rather wished they had not uncaged, last night, the two black owls15. Too late. What they had done they had done.
That faint monotonous16 sound in the stillness of the night—the Duke remembered it now. What he had thought to be only his fancy had been his death-knell, wafted17 to him along uncharted waves of ether, from the battlements of Tankerton. It had ceased at daybreak. He wondered now that he had not guessed its meaning. And he was glad that he had not. He was thankful for the peace that had been granted to him, the joyous18 arrogance19 in which he had gone to bed and got up for breakfast. He valued these mercies the more for the great tragic irony20 that came of them. Aye, and he was inclined to blame the gods for not having kept him still longer in the dark and so made the irony still more awful. Why had they not caused the telegram to be delayed in transmission? They ought to have let him go and riddle21 Zuleika with his scorn and his indifference22. They ought to have let him hurl23 through her his defiance24 of them. Art aside, they need not have grudged25 him that excursion.
He could not, he told himself, face Zuleika now. As artist, he saw that there was irony enough left over to make the meeting a fine one. As theologian, he did not hold her responsible for his destiny. But as a man, after what she had done to him last night, and before what he had to do for her to-day, he would not go out of his way to meet her. Of course, he would not actually avoid her. To seem to run away from her were beneath his dignity. But, if he did meet her, what in heaven’s name should he say to her? He remembered his promise to lunch with The MacQuern, and shuddered26. She would be there. Death, as he had said, cancelled all engagements. A very simple way out of the difficulty would be to go straight to the river. No, that would be like running away. It couldn’t be done.
Hardly had he rejected the notion when he had a glimpse of a female figure coming quickly round the corner—a glimpse that sent him walking quickly away, across the road, towards Turl Street, blushing violently. Had she seen him? he asked himself. And had she seen that he saw her? He heard her running after him. He did not look round, he quickened his pace. She was gaining on him. Involuntarily, he ran—ran like a hare, and, at the corner of Turl Street, rose like a trout27, saw the pavement rise at him, and fell, with a bang, prone28.
Let it be said at once that in this matter the gods were absolutely blameless. It is true they had decreed that a piece of orange-peel should be thrown down this morning at the corner of Turl Street. But the Master of Balliol, not the Duke, was the person they had destined29 to slip on it. You must not imagine that they think out and appoint everything that is to befall us, down to the smallest detail. Generally, they just draw a sort of broad outline, and leave us to fill it in according to our taste. Thus, in the matters of which this book is record, it was they who made the Warden30 invite his grand-daughter to Oxford31, and invite the Duke to meet her on the evening of her arrival. And it was they who prompted the Duke to die for her on the following (Tuesday) afternoon. They had intended that he should execute his resolve after, or before, the boat-race of that evening. But an oversight32 upset this plan. They had forgotten on Monday night to uncage the two black owls; and so it was necessary that the Duke’s death should be postponed34. They accordingly prompted Zuleika to save him. For the rest, they let the tragedy run its own course—merely putting in a felicitous35 touch here and there, or vetoing a superfluity, such as that Katie should open Zuleika’s letter. It was no part of their scheme that the Duke should mistake Melisande for her mistress, or that he should run away from her, and they were genuinely sorry when he, instead of the Master of Balliol, came to grief over the orange-peel.
Them, however, the Duke cursed as he fell; them again as he raised himself on one elbow, giddy and sore; and when he found that the woman bending over him was not she whom he dreaded, but her innocent maid, it was against them that he almost foamed36 at the mouth.
“Monsieur le Duc has done himself harm—no?” panted Melisande. “Here is a letter from Miss Dobson’s part. She say to me ‘Give it him with your own hand.’”
The Duke received the letter and, sitting upright, tore it to shreds37, thus confirming a suspicion which Melisande had conceived at the moment when he took to his heels, that all English noblemen are mad, but mad, and of a madness.
“Tell her—” the Duke choked back a phrase of which the memory would have shamed his last hours. “Tell her,” he substituted, “that you have seen Marius sitting among the ruins of Carthage,” and limped quickly away down the Turl.
Both his hands had been abraded39 by the fall. He tended them angrily with his handkerchief. Mr. Druce, the chemist, had anon the privilege of bathing and plastering them, also of balming and binding40 the right knee and the left shin. “Might have been a very nasty accident, your Grace,” he said. “It was,” said the Duke. Mr. Druce concurred41.
Nevertheless, Mr. Druce’s remark sank deep. The Duke thought it quite likely that the gods had intended the accident to be fatal, and that only by his own skill and lightness in falling had he escaped the ignominy of dying in full flight from a lady’s-maid. He had not, you see, lost all sense of free-will. While Mr. Druce put the finishing touches to his shin, “I am utterly42 purposed,” he said to himself, “that for this death of mine I will choose my own manner and my own—well, not ‘time’ exactly, but whatever moment within my brief span of life shall seem aptest to me. Unberufen,” he added, lightly tapping Mr. Druce’s counter.
The sight of some bottles of Cold Mixture on that hospitable43 board reminded him of a painful fact. In the clash of the morning’s excitements, he had hardly felt the gross ailment44 that was on him. He became fully12 conscious of it now, and there leapt in him a hideous45 doubt: had he escaped a violent death only to succumb46 to “natural causes”? He had never hitherto had anything the matter with him, and thus he belonged to the worst, the most apprehensive47, class of patients. He knew that a cold, were it neglected, might turn malignant48; and he had a vision of himself gripped suddenly in the street by internal agonies—a sympathetic crowd, an ambulance, his darkened bedroom; local doctor making hopelessly wrong diagnosis49; eminent50 specialists served up hot by special train, commending local doctor’s treatment, but shaking their heads and refusing to say more than “He has youth on his side”; a slight rally at sunset; the end. All this flashed through his mind. He quailed51. There was not a moment to lose. He frankly52 confessed to Mr. Druce that he had a cold.
Mr. Druce, trying to insinuate53 by his manner that this fact had not been obvious, suggested the Mixture—a teaspoonful54 every two hours. “Give me some now, please, at once,” said the Duke.
He felt magically better for the draught55. He handled the little glass lovingly, and eyed the bottle. “Why not two teaspoonfuls every hour?” he suggested, with an eagerness almost dipsomaniacal. But Mr. Druce was respectfully firm against that. The Duke yielded. He fancied, indeed, that the gods had meant him to die of an overdose.
Still, he had a craving56 for more. Few though his hours were, he hoped the next two would pass quickly. And, though he knew Mr. Druce could be trusted to send the bottle round to his rooms immediately, he preferred to carry it away with him. He slipped it into the breast-pocket of his coat, almost heedless of the slight extrusion57 it made there.
Just as he was about to cross the High again, on his way home, a butcher’s cart dashed down the slope, recklessly driven. He stepped well back on the pavement, and smiled a sardonic58 smile. He looked to right and to left, carefully gauging59 the traffic. Some time elapsed before he deemed the road clear enough for transit60.
Safely across, he encountered a figure that seemed to loom61 up out of the dim past. Oover! Was it but yesternight that Oover dined with him? With the sensation of a man groping among archives, he began to apologise to the Rhodes Scholar for having left him so abruptly62 at the Junta63. Then, presto64!—as though those musty archives were changed to a crisp morning paper agog65 with terrific head-lines—he remembered the awful resolve of Oover, and of all young Oxford.
“Of course,” he asked, with a lightness that hardly hid his dread14 of the answer, “you have dismissed the notion you were toying with when I left you?”
Oover’s face, like his nature, was as sensitive as it was massive, and it instantly expressed his pain at the doubt cast on his high seriousness. “Duke,” he asked, “d’you take me for a skunk66?”
“Without pretending to be quite sure what a skunk is,” said the Duke, “I take you to be all that it isn’t. And the high esteem67 in which I hold you is the measure for me of the loss that your death would be to America and to Oxford.”
Oover blushed. “Duke” he said “that’s a bully68 testimonial. But don’t worry. America can turn out millions just like me, and Oxford can have as many of them as she can hold. On the other hand, how many of YOU can be turned out, as per sample, in England? Yet you choose to destroy yourself. You avail yourself of the Unwritten Law. And you’re right, Sir. Love transcends69 all.”
“But does it? What if I told you I had changed my mind?”
“Then, Duke,” said Oover, slowly, “I should believe that all those yarns70 I used to hear about the British aristocracy were true, after all. I should aver71 that you were not a white man. Leading us on like that, and then—Say, Duke! Are you going to die to-day, or not?”
“As a matter of fact, I am, but—”
“Shake!”
“But—”
“Sorry, unable. It’s just turning eleven o’clock, and I’ve a lecture. While life lasts, I’m bound to respect Rhodes’ intentions.” The conscientious74 Scholar hurried away.
The Duke wandered down the High, taking counsel with himself. He was ashamed of having so utterly forgotten the mischief75 he had wrought76 at large. At dawn he had vowed77 to undo78 it. Undo it he must. But the task was not a simple one now. If he could say “Behold, I take back my word. I spurn79 Miss Dobson, and embrace life,” it was possible that his example would suffice. But now that he could only say “Behold, I spurn Miss Dobson, and will not die for her, but I am going to commit suicide, all the same,” it was clear that his words would carry very little force. Also, he saw with pain that they placed him in a somewhat ludicrous position. His end, as designed yesterday, had a large and simple grandeur80. So had his recantation of it. But this new compromise between the two things had a fumbled81, a feeble, an ignoble look. It seemed to combine all the disadvantages of both courses. It stained his honour without prolonging his life. Surely, this was a high price to pay for snubbing Zuleika... Yes, he must revert82 without more ado to his first scheme. He must die in the manner that he had blazoned83 forth84. And he must do it with a good grace, none knowing he was not glad; else the action lost all dignity. True, this was no way to be a saviour85. But only by not dying at all could he have set a really potent5 example.... He remembered the look that had come into Oover’s eyes just now at the notion of his unfaith. Perhaps he would have been the mock, not the saviour, of Oxford. Better dishonour86 than death, maybe. But, since die he must, he must die not belittling87 or tarnishing88 the name of Tanville-Tankerton.
Within these bounds, however, he must put forth his full might to avert89 the general catastrophe—and to punish Zuleika nearly well enough, after all, by intercepting90 that vast nosegay from her outstretched hands and her distended91 nostrils92. There was no time to be lost, then. But he wondered, as he paced the grand curve between St. Mary’s and Magdalen Bridge, just how was he to begin?
Down the flight of steps from Queen’s came lounging an average undergraduate.
“Mr. Smith,” said the Duke, “a word with you.”
“But my name is not Smith,” said the young man.
“Generically it is,” replied the Duke. “You are Smith to all intents and purposes. That, indeed, is why I address you. In making your acquaintance, I make a thousand acquaintances. You are a short cut to knowledge. Tell me, do you seriously think of drowning yourself this afternoon?”
“Rather,” said the undergraduate.
“A meiosis in common use, equivalent to ‘Yes, assuredly,’” murmured the Duke. “And why,” he then asked, “do you mean to do this?”
“Why? How can you ask? Why are YOU going to do it?”
“The Socratic manner is not a game at which two can play. Please answer my question, to the best of your ability.”
“Well, because I can’t live without her. Because I want to prove my love for her. Because—”
“One reason at a time please,” said the Duke, holding up his hand. “You can’t live without her? Then I am to assume that you look forward to dying?”
“Rather.”
“Yes. Rather.”
“Now, suppose I showed you two pieces of equally fine amber—a big one and a little one. Which of these would you rather possess?”
“The big one, I suppose.”
“And this because it is better to have more than to have less of a good thing?”
“Just so.”
“Do you consider happiness a good thing or a bad one?”
“A good one.”
“So that a man would rather have more than less of happiness?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But I have just said I can’t live without her.”
“You have still more recently declared yourself truly happy.”
“Yes, but—”
“Now, be careful, Mr. Smith. Remember, this is a matter of life and death. Try to do yourself justice. I have asked you—”
But the undergraduate was walking away, not without a certain dignity.
The Duke felt that he had not handled his man skilfully94. He remembered that even Socrates, for all the popular charm of his mock-modesty and his true geniality95, had ceased after a while to be tolerable. Without such a manner to grace his method, Socrates would have had a very brief time indeed. The Duke recoiled96 from what he took to be another pitfall97. He almost smelt98 hemlock99.
A party of four undergraduates abreast100 was approaching. How should he address them? His choice wavered between the evangelic wistfulness of “Are you saved?” and the breeziness of the recruiting sergeant’s “Come, you’re fine upstanding young fellows. Isn’t it a pity,” etc. Meanwhile, the quartet had passed by.
Two other undergraduates approached. The Duke asked them simply as a personal favour to himself not to throw away their lives. They said they were very sorry, but in this particular matter they must please themselves. In vain he pled. They admitted that but for his example they would never have thought of dying. They wished they could show him their gratitude101 in any way but the one which would rob them of it.
The Duke drifted further down the High, bespeaking102 every undergraduate he met, leaving untried no argument, no inducement. For one man, whose name he happened to know, he invented an urgent personal message from Miss Dobson imploring103 him not to die on her account. On another man he offered to settle by hasty codicil104 a sum of money sufficient to yield an annual income of two thousand pounds—three thousand—any sum within reason. With another he offered to walk, arm in arm, to Carfax and back again. All to no avail.
He found himself in the precincts of Magdalen, preaching from the little open-air pulpit there an impassioned sermon on the sacredness of human life, and referring to Zuleika in terms which John Knox would have hesitated to utter. As he piled up the invective105, he noticed an ominous106 restiveness107 in the congregation—murmurs, clenching108 of hands, dark looks. He saw the pulpit as yet another trap laid for him by the gods. He had walked straight into it: another moment, and he might be dragged down, overwhelmed by numbers, torn limb from limb. All that was in him of quelling109 power he put hastily into his eyes, and manoeuvred his tongue to gentler discourse110, deprecating his right to judge “this lady,” and merely pointing the marvel111, the awful though noble folly112, of his resolve. He ended on a note of quiet pathos113. “To-night I shall be among the shades. There be not you, my brothers.”
Good though the sermon was in style and sentiment, the flaw in its reasoning was too patent for any converts to be made. As he walked out of the quadrangle, the Duke felt the hopelessness of his cause. Still he battled bravely for it up the High, waylaying115, cajoling, commanding, offering vast bribes116. He carried his crusade into the Loder, and thence into Vincent’s, and out into the street again, eager, untiring, unavailing: everywhere he found his precept117 checkmated by his example.
The sight of The MacQuern coming out top-speed from the Market, with a large but inexpensive bunch of flowers, reminded him of the luncheon118 that was to be. Never to throw over an engagement was for him, as we have seen, a point of honour. But this particular engagement—hateful, when he accepted it, by reason of his love—was now impossible for the reason which had made him take so ignominiously119 to his heels this morning. He curtly120 told the Scot not to expect him.
“Oh,” said the Duke, turning on his heel, “she doesn’t know that I shan’t be there. You may count on her.” This he took to be the very truth, and he was glad to have made of it a thrust at the man who had so uncouthly122 asserted himself last night. He could not help smiling, though, at this little resentment123 erect124 after the cataclysm125 that had swept away all else. Then he smiled to think how uneasy Zuleika would be at his absence. What agonies of suspense126 she must have had all this morning! He imagined her silent at the luncheon, with a vacant gaze at the door, eating nothing at all. And he became aware that he was rather hungry. He had done all he could to save young Oxford. Now for some sandwiches! He went into the Junta.
As he rang the dining-room bell, his eyes rested on the miniature of Nellie O’Mora. And the eyes of Nellie O’Mora seemed to meet his in reproach. Just as she may have gazed at Greddon when he cast her off, so now did she gaze at him who a few hours ago had refused to honour her memory.
Yes, and many other eyes than hers rebuked127 him. It was around the walls of this room that hung those presentments of the Junta as focussed, year after year, in a certain corner of Tom Quad114, by Messrs. Hills and Saunders. All around, the members of the little hierarchy128, a hierarchy ever changing in all but youth and a certain sternness of aspect that comes at the moment of being immortalised, were gazing forth now with a sternness beyond their wont129. Not one of them but had in his day handed on loyally the praise of Nellie O’Mora, in the form their Founder130 had ordained131. And the Duke’s revolt last night had so incensed132 them that they would, if they could, have come down from their frames and walked straight out of the club, in chronological133 order—first, the men of the ‘sixties, almost as near in time to Greddon as to the Duke, all so gloriously be-whiskered and cravated, but how faded now, alas134, by exposure; and last of all in the procession and angrier perhaps than any of them, the Duke himself—the Duke of a year ago, President and sole Member.
But, as he gazed into the eyes of Nellie O’Mora now, Dorset needed not for penitence135 the reproaches of his past self or of his forerunners136. “Sweet girl,” he murmured, “forgive me. I was mad. I was under the sway of a deplorable infatuation. It is past. See,” he murmured with a delicacy7 of feeling that justified137 the untruth, “I am come here for the express purpose of undoing138 my impiety139.” And, turning to the club-waiter who at this moment answered the bell, he said “Bring me a glass of port, please, Barrett.” Of sandwiches he said nothing.
At the word “See” he had stretched one hand towards Nellie; the other he had laid on his heart, where it seemed to encounter some sort of hard obstruction140. This he vaguely141 fingered, wondering what it might be, while he gave his order to Barrett. With a sudden cry he dipped his hand into his breast-pocket and drew forth the bottle he had borne away from Mr. Druce’s. He snatched out his watch: one o’clock!—fifteen minutes overdue142. Wildly he called the waiter back. “A tea-spoon, quick! No port. A wine-glass and a tea-spoon. And—for I don’t mind telling you, Barrett, that your mission is of an urgency beyond conjecture—take lightning for your model. Go!”
Agitation143 mastered him. He tried vainly to feel his pulse, well knowing that if he found it he could deduce nothing from its action. He saw himself haggard in the looking-glass. Would Barrett never come? “Every two hours”—the directions were explicit144. Had he delivered himself into the gods’ hands? The eyes of Nellie O’Mora were on him compassionately145; and all the eyes of his forerunners were on him in austere146 scorn: “See,” they seemed to be saying, “the chastisement147 of last night’s blasphemy148.” Violently, insistently149, he rang the bell.
In rushed Barrett at last. From the tea-spoon into the wine-glass the Duke poured the draught of salvation150, and then, raising it aloft, he looked around at his fore-runners and in a firm voice cried “Gentlemen, I give you Nellie O’Mora, the fairest witch that ever was or will be.” He drained his glass, heaved the deep sigh of a double satisfaction, dismissed with a glance the wondering Barrett, and sat down.
He was glad to be able to face Nellie with a clear conscience. Her eyes were not less sad now, but it seemed to him that their sadness came of a knowledge that she would never see him again. She seemed to be saying to him “Had you lived in my day, it is you that I would have loved, not Greddon.” And he made silent answer, “Had you lived in my day, I should have been Dobson-proof.” He realised, however, that to Zuleika he owed the tenderness he now felt for Miss O’Mora. It was Zuleika that had cured him of his aseity. She it was that had made his heart a warm and negotiable thing. Yes, and that was the final cruelty. To love and be loved—this, he had come to know, was all that mattered. Yesterday, to love and die had seemed felicity enough. Now he knew that the secret, the open secret, of happiness was in mutual151 love—a state that needed not the fillip of death. And he had to die without having ever lived. Admiration152, homage153, fear, he had sown broadcast. The one woman who had loved him had turned to stone because he loved her. Death would lose much of its sting for him if there were somewhere in the world just one woman, however lowly, whose heart would be broken by his dying. What a pity Nellie O’Mora was not really extant!
Suddenly he recalled certain words lightly spoken yesterday by Zuleika. She had told him he was loved by the girl who waited on him—the daughter of his landlady154. Was this so? He had seen no sign of it, had received no token of it. But, after all, how should he have seen a sign of anything in one whom he had never consciously visualised? That she had never thrust herself on his notice might mean merely that she had been well brought-up. What likelier than that the daughter of Mrs. Batch155, that worthy156 soul, had been well brought up?
Here, at any rate, was the chance of a new element in his life, or rather in his death. Here, possibly, was a maiden157 to mourn him. He would lunch in his rooms.
With a farewell look at Nellie’s miniature, he took the medicine-bottle from the table, and went quickly out. The heavens had grown steadily158 darker and darker, the air more sulphurous and baleful. And the High had a strangely woebegone look, being all forsaken159 by youth, in this hour of luncheon. Even so would its look be all to-morrow, thought the Duke, and for many morrows. Well he had done what he could. He was free now to brighten a little his own last hours. He hastened on, eager to see the landlady’s daughter. He wondered what she was like, and whether she really loved him.
As he threw open the door of his sitting-room160, he was aware of a rustle161, a rush, a cry. In another instant, he was aware of Zuleika Dobson at his feet, at his knees, clasping him to her, sobbing162, laughing, sobbing.
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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pertinence
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| n.中肯 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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ignoble
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standing
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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owls
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monotonous
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyous
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arrogance
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irony
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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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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23
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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24
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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25
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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27
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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28
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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29
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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30
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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31
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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32
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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33
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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34
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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35
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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36
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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37
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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38
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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39
abraded
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| adj.[医]刮擦的v.刮擦( abrade的过去式和过去分词 )；（在精神方面）折磨（人）；消磨（意志、精神等）；使精疲力尽 | |
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40
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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41
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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43
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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44
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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45
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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46
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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47
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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48
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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49
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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50
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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51
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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53
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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54
teaspoonful
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|
| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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55
draught
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|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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56
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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57
extrusion
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| n.挤出；推出；喷出；赶出 | |
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58
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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59
gauging
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| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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60
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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61
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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62
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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63
junta
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| n.团体；政务审议会 | |
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64
presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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65
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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66
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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67
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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68
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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69
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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70
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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71
aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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72
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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73
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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74
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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75
mischief
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|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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76
wrought
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|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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77
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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78
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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79
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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80
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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81
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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82
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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83
blazoned
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|
| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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84
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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85
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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86
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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87
belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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88
tarnishing
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| （印花）白地沾色 | |
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89
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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90
intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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91
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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93
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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94
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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95
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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96
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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97
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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98
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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99
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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100
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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101
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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102
bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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103
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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104
codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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105
invective
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|
| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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106
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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107
restiveness
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| n.倔强，难以驾御 | |
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108
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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109
quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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110
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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111
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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112
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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113
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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114
quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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115
waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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116
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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117
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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118
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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119
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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120
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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121
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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122
uncouthly
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123
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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124
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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125
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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126
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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127
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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129
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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130
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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131
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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132
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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133
chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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134
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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135
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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136
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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137
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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138
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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139
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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140
obstruction
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|
| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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141
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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142
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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143
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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144
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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145
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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146
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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147
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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148
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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149
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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150
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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151
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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152
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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153
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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154
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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155
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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156
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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157
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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158
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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159
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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160
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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161
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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162
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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