It was an off-day for the shooters, and so for a miracle there were men in the drawing-room at tea-time. The hostess for the time was an aunt of Lewis’s, a certain Mrs. Alderson, whose husband (the famous big-game hunter) had but recently returned from the jaws13 of a Zambesi lion. George’s sister, Lady Clanroyden, a tall, handsome girl in a white frock, was arranging flowers in a bowl, and on the sill of the open window two men were basking14 in the sun. From the inner drawing-room there came an echo of voices and laughter. The whole scene was sunny and cheerful, youth and age, gay frocks and pleasant faces amid the old tapestry15 and mahogany of a moorland house.
Mr. Andrews sat down solemnly to talk of the weather with the two men, who found him a little dismal16. One—he of the Zambesi lion episode—was grizzled, phlegmatic17, and patient, and in no way critical of his company. So soon he was embarked18 on extracts from his own experience to which Mr. Andrews, who had shares in some company in the neighbourhood, listened with flattering attention. Mrs. Alderson set herself to entertain Mr. Wishart, and being a kindly19, simple person, found the task easy. They were soon engaged in an earnest discussion of unsectarian charities.
Lady Clanroyden, with an unwilling sense of duty, devoted20 herself to Mrs. Andrews. That simpering matron fell into a vein21 of confidences and in five brief minutes had laid bare her heart. Then came the narrative22 of her recent visit to the Marshams, and the inevitable23 mention of the Hestons.
“Oh, you know the Hestons?” said Lady Clanroyden, brightening.
“Very well indeed.” The lady smiled, looking round to make sure that Lewis was not in the room.
“Julia is here, you know. Julia, come and speak to your friends.”
A dark girl in mourning came forward to meet the expansive smile of Mrs. Andrews. Earnestly the lady hoped that she remembered the single brief meeting on which she had built a fictitious24 acquaintance, and was reassured25 when the newcomer shook hands with her pleasantly. Truth to tell, Lady Julia had no remembrance of her face, but was too good-natured to be honest.
“And how is your dear mother? I was so sorry to hear from a mutual26 friend that she had been unwell.” How thankful she was that she read each week various papers which reported people’s doings!
A sense of bewilderment lurked27 in her heart. Who was this Lewis Haystoun who owned such a house and such a kindred? The hypothesis of money made in coal seemed insufficient28, and with much curiosity she set herself to solve the problem.
“Is Mr. Haystoun coming back to tea?” she asked by way of a preface.
“No, he has had to go to Gledsmuir. We are all idle this afternoon, but he has a landowner’s responsibilities.”
“Have his family been here long? I seem never to have heard the name.”
Lady Clanroyden looked a little surprised. “Yes, they have been rather a while. I forget how many centuries, but a good many. It was about this place, you know, that the old ballad29 of ‘The Riding of Etterick’ was made, and a Haystoun was the hero.”
“It is so sad his being beaten by Mr. Stocks,” she declared. “Of course an old county family should provide the members for a district. They have the hearts of the people with them.”
“Then the hearts of the people have a funny way of revealing themselves,” Lady Clanroyden laughed. “I’m not at all sorry that Lewie was beaten. He is the best man in the world, but one wants to shake him up. His motto is ‘Thole,’ and he gets too few opportunities of ’tholing.’”
“You all call him ‘Lewie,’” commented the lady. “How popular he must be!”
Mabel Clanroyden laughed. “I have known him ever since I was a small girl in a short frock and straight-brushed hair. He was never anything else than Lewie to his friends. Oh, here is my wandering brother and my only son returned,” and she rose to catch up a small, self-possessed boy of some six years, who led the flushed and reluctant George in tow.
The small boy was very dirty, ruddy and cheerful. He had torn his blouse, and scratched his brow, and the crown of his straw hat had parted company with the brim.
“George,” said his sister severely31, “have you been corrupting32 the manners of my son? Where have you been?”
The boy—he rejoiced in the sounding name of Archibald—slapped a small leg with a miniature whip, and counterfeited33 with great skill the pose of the stable-yard. He slowly unclenched a smutty fist and revealed three separate shillings.
“I won um myself,” he explained.
“Is it highway robbery?” asked his mother with horrified34 eyes. “Archibald, have you stopped a coach, or held up a bus or anything of the kind?”
The child unclenched his hand again, beamed on his prize, smiled knowingly at the world, and shut it.
“What has the dreadful boy been after? Oh, tell me, George, please. I will try to bear it.”
“We fell in with a Sunday-school picnic along in the glen, and Archie made me take him there. And he had tea—I hope the little chap won’t be ill, by the by. And he made a speech or a recitation or something of the sort. Nobody understood it, but it went down like anything.”
“And do you mean to say that the people gave him money, and you allowed him to take it?” asked an outraged35 mother.
“He won it,” said George. “Won it in fair fight. He was second in the race under twelve, and first in the race under ten. They gave him a decent handicap, and he simply romped36 home. That chap can run, Mabel. He tried the sack race, too, but the first time he slipped altogether inside the thing and had to be taken out, yelling. But he stuck to it like a Trojan, and at the second shot he got started all right, and would have won it if he hadn’t lost his head and rolled down a bank. He isn’t scratched much, considering he fell among whins. That also explains the state of his hat.”
“George, you shall never, never, as long as I live, take my son out with you again. It is a wonder the poor child escaped with his life. You have not a scrap37 of feeling. I must take the boy away or he will shame me before everybody. Come and talk to Mrs. Andrews, George. May I introduce my brother, Mr. Winterham?”
George, who wanted to smoke, sat down unwillingly38 in the chair which his sister had left. The lady, whose airs and graces were all for men, put on her most bewitching manner.
“Your sister and I have just been talking about this exquisite39 place, Mr. Winterham. It must be delightful40 to live in such a centre of old romance. That lovely ‘Riding of Etterick’ has been running in my head all the way up.”
George privately41 wondered at the confession42. The peculiarly tragic43 and ghastly fragments which made up “The Riding of Etterick,” seemed scarcely suited to haunt a lady’s memory.
“Had you a long drive?” he asked in despair for a topic.
“Only from Glenavelin.”
He awoke to interest. “Are you staying at Glenavelin just now? The Wisharts are in it, are they not? We were a great deal about the place when the Manorwaters were there.”
“Oh yes. I have heard about Lady Manorwater from Alice Wishart. She must be a charming woman; Alice cannot speak enough about her.”
“And as you are a great friend of hers I think I may tell you a great secret,” and the lady patted him playfully. “Our pretty Alice is going to be married.”
George was thoroughly45 roused to attention. “Who is the man?” he asked sharply.
“I think I may tell you,” said Mrs. Andrews, enjoying her sense of importance. “It is Mr. Stocks, the new member.”
George restrained with difficulty a very natural oath. Then he looked at his informant and saw in her face only silliness and truth. For the good woman had indeed persuaded herself of the verity46 of her fancy. Mr. Stocks had told her that he had her father’s consent and good wishes, and misinterpreting the girl’s manner she had considered the affair settled.
It was unfortunate that Mr. Wishart at this moment showed such obvious signs of restlessness that the lady rose to take her leave, otherwise George might have learned the truth. After the Glenavelin party had gone he wandered out to the lawn, pulling his moustache in vast perplexity and cursing the twisted world. He had no guess at Lewis’s manner of wooing; to him it had seemed the simple, straightforward47 love which he thought beyond resistance. And now, when he learned of this melancholy48 issue, he was sore at heart for his friend.
He was awakened49 from his reverie by Lewis himself, who, having ridden straight to the stables, was now sauntering towards the house. A trim man looks at his best in riding clothes, and Lewis was no exception. He was flushed with sun and motion, his spirits were high, for all the journey he had been dreaming of a coming meeting with Alice, and the hope which had suddenly increased a thousand-fold. George marked his mood, and with a regret at his new role caught him by the arm and checked him.
“I say, old man, don’t go in just yet. I want to tell you something, and I think you had better hear it now.”
Lewis turned obediently, amazed by the gravity of his friend’s face.
“Some people came up from Glenavelin this afternoon and among them a Mrs. Andrews, whom I had a talk to. She told me that Al—Miss Wishart is engaged to that fellow Stocks.”
Lewis’s face whitened and he turned away his eyes. He could not credit it. Two days ago she had been free; he could swear it; he remembered her eyes at parting. Then came the thought of his blindness, and in a great horror of self-mistrust he seemed to see throughout it all his criminal folly50. He, poor fool, had been pleasing himself with dreams of a meeting, when all the while the other man had been the real lover. She had despised him, spared not a thought for him save as a pleasing idler; and he—that he should ever have ventured for one second to hope! Curiously51 enough, for the first time he thought of Stocks with respect; to have won the girl seemed in itself the proof of dignity and worth.
“Thanks very much for telling me. I am glad I know. No, I don’t think I’ll go into the house yet.”
The days passed and Alice waited with anxious heart for the coming of the very laggard52 Lewis. To-day he will come, she said each morning; and evening found her—poor heart!—still expectant. She told herself a thousand times that it was sheer folly. He meant nothing, it was a mere53 fashion of speech; and then her heart would revolt and bid common sense be silent. He came indeed with some of the Etterick party on a formal call, but this was clearly not the fulfilment of his promise. So the girl waited and despaired, while the truant54 at Etterick was breaking his heart for the unattainable.
Mr. Stocks, having won the official consent, conducted his suit with commendable55 discretion56. Suit is the word for the performance, so full was it of elaborate punctilios. He never intruded57 upon her unhappiness. A studied courtesy, a distant thoughtfulness were his only compliments. But when he found her gayer, then would he strive with subtle delicacies58 of manner to make clear the part he desired to play.
The girl saw his kindness and was grateful. In the revulsion against the Andrews he seemed a link with the more pleasant sides of life, and soon in her despair and anger his modest merits took heroic proportions in her eyes. She forgot her past dislike; she thought only of this, the simple good man, contrasted with the showy and fickle-hearted—true metal against glittering tinsel. His very weaknesses seemed homely59 and venial60. He was of her own world, akin1 to the things which deep down in her soul she knew she must love to the last. It is to the credit of the man’s insight that he saw the mood and took pains to foster it.
Twice he asked her to marry him. The first time her heart was still sore with disappointment and she refused—yet half-heartedly.
He waited his time and when the natural cheerfulness of her temper was beginning to rise, he again tried his fortune.
“I cannot,” she cried. “I cannot. I like you very much, but oh, it is too much to ask me to marry you.”
“But I love you with all my heart, Alice.” And the honesty of his tone and the distant thought of a very different hope brought the tears to her eyes.
He had forgotten all pompous61 dreams and the stilted62 prospects63 with which he had aforetime hoped to beguile64 his wife. The man was plain and simple now, a being very much on fire with an honest passion. He may have left her love-cold, but he touched the sympathy which in a true woman is love’s nearest neighbour. Before she knew herself she had promised, and had been kissed respectfully and tenderly by her delighted lover. For a moment she felt something like joy, and then, with a dreadful thought of the baselessness of her pleasure, walked slowly homewards by his side.
The next morning Alice rose with a dreary65 sense of the irrevocable. A door seemed to have closed behind her, and the future stretched before her in a straight dusty path with few nooks and shadows. This was not the blithe66 morning of betrothal67 she had looked for. The rapturous outlook on life which she had dreamed of was replaced by a cold and business-like calculation of profits. The rose garden of the “god unconquered in battle” was exchanged for a very shoddy and huckstering paradise.
Mrs. Andrews claimed her company all the morning, and with the pertinacity68 of her kind soon guessed the very obvious secret. Her gushing69 congratulations drove the girl distracted. She praised the good Stocks, and Alice drank in the comfort of such words with greedy ears. From one young man she passed to another, and hung lovingly over the perfections of Mr. Haystoun. “He has the real distinction, dear,” she cried, “which you can never mistake. It only belongs to old blood and it is quite inimitable. His friends are so charming, too, and you can always tell a man by his people. It is so pleasant to fall in with old acquaintances again. That dear Lady Clanroyden promised to come over soon. I quite long to see her, for I feel as if I had known her for ages.”
After lunch Alice fled the house and sought her old refuge—the hills. There she would find the deep solitude70 for thought. She was not broken-hearted, though she grieved now and again with a blind longing71 of regret. But she was confused and shaken; the landmarks72 of her vision seemed to have been removed, and she had to face the grim narrowing-down of hopes which is the sternest trial for poor mortality.
Autumn’s hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps73 of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odours of wood smoke seemed to flit over the moor7, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn74 as with a graving-tool against the sky. She resolved to go to the Midburn and climb up the cleft75, for the place was still a centre of memory. So she kept for a mile to the Etterick road, till she came in view of the little stone bridge where the highway spans the moorland waters.
There had been intruders in Paradise before her. Broken bottles and scraps76 of paper were defacing the hill turf, and when she turned to get to the water’s edge she found the rushy coverts77 trampled78 on every side. From somewhere among the trees came the sound of singing—a silly music-hall catch. It was a sharp surprise, and the girl, in horror at the profanation79, was turning in all haste to leave.
But the Fates had prepared an adventure. Three half-tipsy men came swinging down the slope, their arms linked together, and bowlers80 set rakishly on the backs of their heads. They kept up the chorus of the song which was being sung elsewhere, and they suited their rolling gait to the measure.
“For it ain’t Maria,” came the tender melody; and the reassuring81 phrase was repeated a dozen times. Then by ill-luck they caught sight of the astonished Alice, and dropping their musical efforts they hailed her familiarly. Clearly they were the stragglers of some picnic from the town, the engaging type of gentleman who on such occasions is drunk by midday. They were dressed in ill-fitting Sunday clothes, great flowers beamed from their button-holes, and after the fashion of their kind their waistcoats were unbuttoned for comfort. The girl tried to go back by the way she had come, but to her horror she found that she was intercepted82. The three gentlemen commanded her retreat.
They seemed comparatively sober, so she tried entreaty84. “Please, let me pass,” she said pleasantly. “I find I have taken the wrong road.”
“No, you haven’t, dearie,” said one of the men, who from a superior neatness of apparel might have been a clerk. “You’ve come the right road, for you’ve met us. And now you’re not going away.” And he came forward with a protecting arm.
Alice, genuinely frightened, tried to cross the stream and escape by the other side. But the crossing was difficult, and she slipped at the outset and wet her ankles. One of the three lurched into the water after her, and withdrew with sundry85 oaths.
The poor girl was in sad perplexity. Before was an ugly rush of water and a leap beyond her strength; behind, three drunken men, their mouths full of endearment86 and scurrility87. She looked despairingly to the level white road for the Perseus who should deliver her.
And to her joy the deliverer was not wanting. In the thick of the idiot shouting of the trio there came the clink-clank of a horse’s feet and a young man came over the bridge. He saw the picture at a glance and its meaning; and it took him short time to be on his feet and then over the broken stone wall to the waterside. Suddenly to the girl’s delight there appeared at the back of the roughs the inquiring, sunburnt face of Lewis.
The men turned and stared with hanging jaws. “Now, what the dickens is this?” he cried, and catching88 two of their necks he pulled their heads together and then flung them apart.
The three seemed sobered by the apparition89. “And what the h-ll is your business?” they cried conjointly; and one, a dark-browed fellow, doubled his fists and advanced.
Lewis stood regarding them with a smiling face and very bright, cross eyes. “Are you by way of insulting this lady? If you weren’t drunk, I’d teach you manners. Get out of this in case I forget myself.”
For answer the foremost of the men hit out. A glance convinced Lewis that there was enough sobriety to make a fight of it. “Miss Wishart ... Alice,” he cried, “come back and go down to the road and see to my horse, please. I’ll be down in a second.”
The girl obeyed, and so it fell out that there was no witness to that burn-side encounter. It was a complex fight and it lasted for more than a second. Two of the men had the grace to feel ashamed of themselves half-way through, and retired90 from the contest with shaky limbs and aching faces. The third had to be assisted to his feet in the end by his antagonist91. It was not a good fight, for the three were pasty-faced, overgrown young men, in no training and stupid with liquor. But they pressed hard on Lewis for a little, till he was compelled in self-defence to treat them as fair opponents.
He came down the road in a quarter of an hour with a huge rent in his coat-sleeve and a small cut on his forehead. He was warm and breathless, still righteously indignant at the event, and half-ashamed of so degrading an encounter. He found the girl standing92 statue-like, holding the bridle-rein, and looking into the distance with vacant eyes.
“Are you going back to Glenavelin, Miss Wishart?” he asked. “I think I had better go with you if you will allow me.”
Alice mutely assented93 and walked beside him while he led his horse. He could think of nothing to say. The whole world lay between them now, and there was no single word which either could speak without showing some trace of the tragic separation.
It was the girl who first broke the silence.
“I want to thank you with all my heart,” she stammered94. And then by an awkward intuition she looked in his face and saw written there all the hopelessness and longing which he was striving to conceal95. For one moment she saw clearly, and then the crooked96 perplexities of the world seemed to stare cruelly in her eyes. A sob83 caught her voice, and before she was conscious of her action she laid a hand on Lewis’s arm and burst into tears.
The sight was so unexpected that it deprived him of all power of action. Then came the fatally easy solution that it was but reaction of over-strained nerves. Always ill at ease in a woman’s presence, a woman’s tears reduced him to despair. He stroked her hair gently as he would have quieted a favourite horse.
And all the while his heart was crying out to him to clasp her in his arms, and the words which trembled on his tongue were the passionate98 consolations99 of a lover.
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1 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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2 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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3 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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4 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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5 chattered | |
(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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6 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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7 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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8 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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9 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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10 prattle | |
n.闲谈;v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话;发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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11 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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12 fatuity | |
n.愚蠢,愚昧 | |
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13 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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14 basking | |
v.晒太阳,取暖( bask的现在分词 );对…感到乐趣;因他人的功绩而出名;仰仗…的余泽 | |
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15 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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16 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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17 phlegmatic | |
adj.冷静的,冷淡的,冷漠的,无活力的 | |
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18 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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19 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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20 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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21 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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22 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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23 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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24 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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25 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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26 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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27 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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28 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
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29 ballad | |
n.歌谣,民谣,流行爱情歌曲 | |
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30 ballads | |
民歌,民谣,特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 ); 讴 | |
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31 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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32 corrupting | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的现在分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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33 counterfeited | |
v.仿制,造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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34 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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35 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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36 romped | |
v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 );(尤指在赛跑或竞选等中)轻易获胜 | |
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37 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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38 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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39 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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40 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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41 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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42 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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43 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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44 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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45 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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46 verity | |
n.真实性 | |
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47 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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48 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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49 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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50 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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51 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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52 laggard | |
n.落后者;adj.缓慢的,落后的 | |
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53 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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54 truant | |
n.懒惰鬼,旷课者;adj.偷懒的,旷课的,游荡的;v.偷懒,旷课 | |
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55 commendable | |
adj.值得称赞的 | |
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56 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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57 intruded | |
n.侵入的,推进的v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 );把…强加于 | |
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58 delicacies | |
n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 );精致;精美的食物;周到 | |
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59 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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60 venial | |
adj.可宽恕的;轻微的 | |
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61 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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62 stilted | |
adj.虚饰的;夸张的 | |
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63 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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64 beguile | |
vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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65 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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66 blithe | |
adj.快乐的,无忧无虑的 | |
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67 betrothal | |
n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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68 pertinacity | |
n.执拗,顽固 | |
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69 gushing | |
adj.迸出的;涌出的;喷出的;过分热情的v.喷,涌( gush的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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70 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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71 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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72 landmarks | |
n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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73 clumps | |
n.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的名词复数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声v.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声 | |
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74 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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75 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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76 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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77 coverts | |
n.隐蔽的,不公开的,秘密的( covert的名词复数 );复羽 | |
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78 trampled | |
踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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79 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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80 bowlers | |
n.(板球)投球手( bowler的名词复数 );圆顶高帽 | |
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81 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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82 intercepted | |
拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 ); 截住; 截击; 拦阻 | |
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83 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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84 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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85 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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86 endearment | |
n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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87 scurrility | |
n.粗俗下流;辱骂的言语 | |
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88 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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89 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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90 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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91 antagonist | |
n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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92 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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93 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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96 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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97 brutes | |
兽( brute的名词复数 ); 畜生; 残酷无情的人; 兽性 | |
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98 passionate | |
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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99 consolations | |
n.安慰,慰问( consolation的名词复数 );起安慰作用的人(或事物) | |
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