"I remember," said Miss Leaf, as they rumbled2 for the last time through the empty morning streets of poor old Stowbury: "I remember my grandmother telling me that when my grandfather was courting her, and she out of coquetry refused him, he set off on horseback to London, and she was so wretched to think of all the dangers he ran on the journey, and in London itself, that she never rested till she got him back, and then immediately married him."
"No such catastrophe3 is likely to happen to any of us, except, perhaps, to Elizabeth," said Miss Hilary, trying to get up, a little feeble mirth, any thing to pass away the time and lessen4 the pain of parting, which was almost too much for Johanna. "What do you say? Do you mean to get married in London, Elizabeth?"
But Elizabeth could make no answer, even to kind Miss Hilary. They had not imagined she felt the leaving her native place so much. She had watched intently the last glimpse of Stowbury church tower, and now sat with reddened eyes, staring blankly out of the carriage window,
"Silent as a stone."
Once or twice a large slow tear gathered on each of her eyes, but it was shaken off angrily from the high check bones, and never settled into absolute crying. They thought it best to take no notice of her. Only, when reaching the new small station, where the "resonant5 steam eagles" were, for the first time, beheld6 by the innocent Stowbury ladies, there arose a discussion as to the manner of traveling. Miss Leaf said, decidedly "Second class; and then we can keep Elizabeth with us." Upon which Elizabeth's mouth melted into something between a quiver and a smile.
Soon it was all over, and the little house-hold was compressed into the humble8 second class carriage, cheerless and cushionless, whirling through indefinite England in a way that confounded all their geography and topography. Gradually as the day darkened into heavy, chilly9 July rain, the scarcely kept up spirits of the four passengers began to sink. Johanna grew very white and worn, Selina became, to use Ascott's phrase, "as cross as two sticks," and even Hilary, turning her eyes from the gray sodden10 looking landscape without, could find no spot of comfort to rest on within the carriage, except that round rosy11 face of Elizabeth Hand's.
Whether it was from the spirit of contradiction existing in most such natures, which, especially in youth, are more strong than sweet, or from a better feeling, the fact was noticeable, that when every one else's spirits went down Elizabeth's went up. Nothing could bring her out of a "grumpy" fit so satisfactorily as her mistresses falling into one. When Miss Selina now began to fidget hither and thither12, each tone of her fretful voice seeming to go through her eldest13 sister's every nerve, till even Hilary said, impatiently, "Oh, Selina, can't you be quiet?" then Elizabeth rose from the depth of her gloomy discontent up to the surface immediately.
She was only a servant; but Nature bestows14 that strange vague thing that we term "force of character" independently of position. Hilary often remembered afterward15, how much more comfortable the end of the journey was than she had expected—how Johanna lay at ease, with her feet in Elizabeth's lap, wrapped in Elizabeth's best woolen16 shawl; and how, when Selina's whole attention was turned to an ingenious contrivance with a towel and fork and Elizabeth's basket, for stopping the rain out of the carriage roof—she became far less disagreeable, and even a little proud of her own cleverness. And so there was a temporary lull17 in Hilary's cares, and she could sit quiet, with her eyes fixed18 on the rainy landscape, which she did not see, and her thoughts wandering toward that unknown place and unknown life into which they were sweeping19, as we all sweep, ignorantly, unresistingly, almost unconsciously, into new destinies. Hilary, for the first time, began to doubt of theirs. Anxious as she had been to go to London, and wise as the proceeding20 appeared, now that the die was cast and the cable cut, the old simple, peaceful life at Stowbury grew strangely dear.
"I wonder if we shall ever go back again, or what is to happen to us before we do go back," she thought, and turned, with a half defined fear, toward her eldest sister, who looked so old and fragile beside that sturdy, healthful servant girl. "Elizabeth!" Elizabeth, rubbing Miss Leaf's feet, started at the unwonted sharpness of Miss Hilary's tone.
"There; I'll do that for my sister. Go and look out of the window at
London."
For the great smoky cloud which began to rise in the rainy horizon was indeed London. Soon through the thickening nebula21 of houses they converged22 to what was then the nucleus23 of all railway traveling, the Euston Terminus, and were hustled24 on to the platform, and jostled helplessly to and fro these poor country ladies! Anxiously they scanned the crowd of strange faces for the one only face they knew in the great metropolis—which did not appear.
"It is very strange; very wrong of Ascott. Hilary, you surely told him the hour correctly. For once, at least, he might have been in time"
So chafed25 Miss Selina, while Elizabeth, who by some miraculous26 effort of intuitive genius, had succeeded in collecting the luggage, was now engaged in defending it from all comers, especially porters, and making of it a comfort able seat for Miss Leaf.
Hilary."
And Johanna sat down, with her sweet, calm, long suffering face turned upward to that younger one, which was, as youth is apt to be, hot, and worried, and angry. And so they waited till the terminus was almost deserted28, and the last cab had driven off, when, suddenly, dashing up the station yard out of another, came Ascott.
He was so sorry, so very sorry, downright grieved, at having kept his aunts waiting. But his watch was wrong—some fellows at dinner detained him—the train was before its time surely. In fact, his aunts never quite made out what the excuse was; but they looked into his bright handsome face, and their wrath29 melted like clouds before the sun. He was so gentlemanly, so well dressed—much better dressed than even at Stowbury—and he seemed so unfeignedly glad to see them. He handed them all into the cab—even Elizabeth. though whispering meanwhile to his Aunt Hilary, "What on earth did you bring her for?" and their was just going to leap on to the box himself, when he stopped to ask "Where he should tell cabby to drive to?"
"Where to?" repeated his aunts in undisguised astonishment30. They had never thought of any thing but of being taken home at once by their boy.
"You see," Ascott said, in a little confusion, "you wouldn't be comfortable with me. A young fellow's lodgings31 are not like a house of one's own, and, besides—"
"Besides, when a young fellow is ashamed of his old aunts, he can easily find reasons."
"Hush33, Selina!" interposed Miss Leaf. "My dear boy, your old aunts would never let you inconvenience yourself for them. Take us to an inn for the night, and to morrow we will find lodgings for ourselves."
Ascott looked greatly relieved.
"And you are not vexed34 with me, Aunt Johanna?" said he, with something of his old childish tone of compunction, as he saw—he could not help seeing—the utter weariness which Johanna tried so hard to hide.
"No, my dear, not vexed. Only I wish we had known this a little sooner that we might have made arrangements. Now, where shall we go?"
Ascott mentioned a dozen hotels, but they found he only knew them by name. At last Miss Leaf remembered one, which her father used to go to, on his frequent journeys to London, and whence, indeed, he had been brought home to die. And though all the recollections about it were sad enough, still it felt less strange than the rest, in this dreariness35 of London. So she proposed going to the "Old Bell," Holborn.
"A capital place!" exclaimed Ascott, eagerly. "And I'll take and settle you there: and we'll order supper, and make a jolly night of it. All right. Drive on, cabby."
He jumped on the box, and then looked in mischievously36, flourishing his lit cigar and shaking his long hair—his Aunt Selina's two great abominations—right in her indignant face: but withal looking so merry and good tempered that she shortly softened37 into a smile.
"How handsome the boy is growing!"
"Yes," said Johanna, with a slight sigh; "and did you notice? how exceedingly like his—"
The sentence was left unfinished. Alas38! if every young man, who believes his faults and follies39 injure himself alone, could feel what it must be, years afterward, to have his nearest kindred shrink from saying as the saddest, most ominous40 thing they could say of his son, that the lad is growing "so like his father!"
It might have been—they assured each other that it was—only the incessant41 roll, roll of the street sounds below their windows, which kept the Misses Leaf awake half the night of this their first night in London. And when they sat down to breakfast—having waited an hour vainly for their nephew—it might have been only the gloom of the little parlor42 which cast a slight shadow over them all. Still the shadow was there.
It deepened despite the sunshiny morning into which the last night's rain had brightened till Holborn Bars looked cheerful, and Holborn pavement actually clean, so that, as Elizabeth said, "you might eat your dinner off it;" which was the one only thing she condescended43 to approve in London. She had sat all evening mute in her corner, for Miss Leaf would not send her away into the terra incognita of a London hotel. Ascott, at first considerably44 annoyed at the presence of what he called a "skeleton at the feast," had afterward got over it; and run on with a mixture of childish glee and mannish pomposity45 about his plans and intentions—how he meant to take a house, he thought, in one of the squares, or a street leading out of them: how he would put up the biggest of brass46 plates, with "Mr. Leaf, surgeon." and soon get an extensive practice, and have all his aunts to live with him. And his aunts had smiled and listened, forgetting all about the silent figure in the corner, who perhaps had gone to sleep, or had also listened.
"Elizabeth, come and look out at London."
So she and Miss Hilary whiled away another heavy three quarters of an hour in watching and commenting on the incessantly47 shifting crowd which swept past Holborn Bars. Miss Selina sometimes looked out too, but more often sat fidgeting and wondering why Ascott did not come; while Miss Leaf, who never fidgeted, became gradually more and more silent. Her eyes were fixed on the door, with an expression which, if Hilary could have remembered so far back, would have been to her something not painfully new, but still more painfully old—a look branded into her face by many an anxious hour's listening for the footstep that never came, or only came to bring distress48. It was the ineffaceable token of that long, long struggle between affection and conscience, pity and scarcely repressible contempt, which, for more than one generation, had been the appointed burden of this family—at least the women of it—till sometimes it seemed to hang over them almost like a fate.
About noon Miss Leaf proposed calling for the hotel bill. Its length so alarmed the country ladies that Hilary suggested not staying to dine, but going immediately in search of lodgings.
"What, without a gentleman! Impossible! I always understood ladies could go nowhere in London without a gentleman!"
"We shall come very ill off then, Selina. But any how I mean to try. You know the region where, we have heard, lodgings are cheapest and best—that is, best for us. It can not be far from here. Suppose I start at once?"
"What, alone?" cried Johanna, anxiously.
"No, dear, I'll take the map with me, and Elizabeth. She is not afraid."
Elizabeth smiled, and rose, with that air of dogged devotedness49 with which she would have prepared to follow Miss Hilary to the North Pole, if necessary. So, after a few minutes of arguing with Selina, who did not press her point overmuch, since she herself had not to commit the impropriety of the expedition. After a few minutes more of hopeless lingering about—till even Miss Leaf said they had better wait no longer—mistress and maid took a farewell nearly as pathetic as if they had been really Arctic voyagers, and plunged50 right into the dusty glare and hurrying crowd of the "sunny side" of Holborn in July.
A strange sensation, and yet there was something exhilarating in it. The intense solitude51 that there is in a London crowd these country girls—for Miss Hilary herself was no more than a girl—could not as yet realize. They only felt the life of it; stirring, active, incessantly moving life; even though it was of a kind that they knew as little of it as the crowd did of them. Nothing struck Hilary more than the self-absorbed look of passers-by: each so busy on his own affairs, that, in spite of Selina's alarm, for all notice taken of them, they might as well be walking among the cows and horses in Stowbury field.
Poor old Stowbury! They felt how far away they were from it when a ragged52, dirty, vicious looking girl offered them a moss53 rose bud for "one penny, only one penny;" which Elizabeth, lagging behind, bought, and found it only a broken off bud stuck on to a bit of wire.
"That's London ways, I suppose," said she, severely54, and became so misanthropic55 that she would hardly vouchsafe56 a glance to the hand some square they turned into, and merely observed of the tall houses, taller than any Hilary had ever seen, that she "wouldn't fancy running up and down them stairs."
But Hilary was cheerful in spite of all. She was glad to be in this region, which, theoretically, she knew by heart—glad to find herself in the body, where in the spirit she had come so many a time. The mere57 consciousness of this seemed to refresh her. She thought she would be much happier in London; that in the long years to come that must be borne, it would be good for her to have something to do as well as to hope for; something to fight with as well as to endure. Now more than ever came pulsing in and out of her memory a line once repeated in her hearing, with an observation of how "true" it was. And though originally it was applied58 by a man to a woman, and she smiled sometimes to think how "unfeminine" some people—Selina for instance—would consider her turning it the other way, still she did so. She believed that, for woman as for man, that is the purest and noblest love which is the most self-existent, most independent of love returned; and which can say, each to the other equally on both sides, that the whole solemn purpose of life is, under God's service,
Such thoughts made her step firmer and her heart lighter60; so that she hardly noticed the distance they must have walked till the close London air began to oppress her, and the smooth glaring London pavements made her Stowbury feet ache sorely.
"Are you tired, Elizabeth? Well, we'll rest soon. There must be lodgings near here. Only I can't quite make out—"
As Miss Hilary looked up to the name of the street the maid noticed what a glow came into her mistress's face, pale and tired as it was. Just then a church clock struck the quarter hour.
"That must be St. Pancras. And this—yes, this is Burton Street,
Burton Crescent."
"I'm sure Missis wouldn't like to live there;" observed Elizabeth, eyeing uneasily the gloomy rez de-chaussee, familiar to many a generation of struggling respectability, where, in the decadence61 of the season, every second house bore the announcement "apartments furnished."
"No," Miss Hilary replied, absently. Yet she continued to walk up and down the whole length of the street; then passed out into the dreary62, deserted looking Crescent, where the trees were already beginning to fade; not, however, into the bright autumn tint63 of country woods, but into a premature64 withering65, ugly and sad to behold66.
"I am glad he is not here—glad, glad!" thought Hilary, as she realized the unutterable dreariness of those years when Robert Lyon lived and studied in his garret from month's end to month's end—these few dusty trees being the sole memento67 of the green country life in which he had been brought up, and which she knew he so passionately69 loved. Now she could understand, that "calenture" which he had sometimes jestingly alluded70 to, as coming upon him at times, when he felt literally71 sick for the sight of a green field or a hedge full of birds. She wondered whether the same feeling would ever come upon her in this strange desert of London, the vastness of which grew upon her every hour.
She was glad he was away; yes, heart glad! And yet, if this minute she could only have seen him coming round the Crescent, have met his smile, and the firm, warm clasp of his hand—
For an instant there rose up in her one of those wild, rebellious72 outcries against fate, when to have to waste years of this brief life of ours, in the sort of semi-existence that living is, apart from the treasure of the heart and delight of the eyes, seems so cruelly, cruelly hard!
"Miss Hilary."
She started, and "put herself under lock and key" immediately. "Miss
Hilary; you do look so tired!"
"Do I? Then we will go and sit down in this baker's shop, and get rested and fed. We cannot afford to wear ourselves out, you know. We have a great deal to do to-day."
More indeed, than she calculated, for they walked up one street and down another, investigating at least twenty lodgings before any appeared which seemed fit for them. Yet some place must be found where Johanna's poor, tired head could rest that night. At last, completely exhausted73, with that oppressive exhaustion74 which seems to crush mind as well as body after a day's wandering in London. Hilary's courage began to ebb75. Oh for an arm to lean on, a voice to listen for, a brave heart to come to her side, saying, "Do not be afraid, there are two of us!" And she yearned76, with an absolutely sick yearning77 such as only a woman who now and then feels the utter helplessness of her womanhood can know, for the only arm she cared to lean on, the only voice dear enough to bring her comfort, the only heart that she felt she could trust.
Poor Hilary! And yet why pity her? To her three alternatives could but happen: were Robert Lyon true to her she would be his entirely78 and devotedly79, to the end of her days; did he forsake80 her, she would forgive him should he die, she would be faithful to him eternally. Love of this kind may know anguish81, but not the sort of anguish that lesser82 and weaker loves do. If it is certain of nothing else, it can always be certain of itself.
"Its will is strong;
'It suffers; but it can not suffer long."
Hilary roused herself, and bent85 her mind steadily86 on lodgings till she discovered one from the parlor of which you could see the trees of Burton Crescent and hear the sound of Saint Pancras's clock.
"I think we may do here—at least for a while," said she cheerfully; and then Elizabeth heard her inquiring if an extra bedroom could be had if necessary.
There was only one small attic87. "Ascott never could put up with that," said Hilary, half to herself. Then suddenly—"I think I will see Ascott before I decide. Elizabeth, will you go with me, or remain here?"
"I'll go with you, if you please, Miss Hilary."
"If you please," sounded not unlike, "if I please," and Elizabeth had gloomed over a little. "Is Mr. Ascott to live with us?"
"I suppose so."
No more words were interchanged till they reached Gower street, when Miss Hilary observed, with evident surprise, what a handsome street it was.
"I must have made some mistake. Still we will find out Mr. Ascott's number, and inquire."
No, there was no mistake. Mr. Ascott Leaf had lodged88 there for three months, but had given up his rooms that very morning.
"Where had he gone to?"
The servant—a London lodging32 house servant all over—didn't know; but she fetched the landlady89, who was after the same pattern of the dozen London landladies90 with whom Hilary had that day made acquaintance, only a little more Cockney, smirking91, dirty, and tawdrily fine.
"Yes, Mr. Leaf had gone, and he hadn't left no address. Young College gentlemen often found it convenient to leave no address. P'raps he would if he'd known there would be a young lady a calling to see him."
"I am Mr. Leaf's aunt," said Hilary, turning as hot as fire.
"Oh, in-deed," was the answer, with civil incredulousness.
But the woman was sharp of perception—as often-cheated London landladies learn to be. After looking keenly at mistress and maid, she changed her tone; nay, even launched out into praises of her late lodger92: what a pleasant gentleman he was; what good company he kept, and how he had promised to recommend her apartments to his friends.
"And as for the little some'at of rent, Miss—tell him it makes no matter, he can pay me when he likes. If he don't call soon p'raps I might make bold to send his trunk and his books over to Mr. Ascott's of—dear me, I forget the number and the square."
Hilary unsuspiciously supplied both.
"Yes, that's it—the old gen'leman as Mr. Leaf went to dine with every other Sunday, a very rich old gentleman, who, he says, is to leave him all his money. Maybe a relation of yours, Miss?"
"No," said Hilary; and adding something about the landlady's hearing from Mr. Leaf very soon, she hurried out of the house, Elizabeth following.
"Won't you be tired if you walk so fast, Miss Hilary?"
Hilary stopped, choking. Helplessly she looked up and down the forlorn, wide, glaring, dusty street; now sinking into the dull shadow of a London afternoon.
"Let us go home!" And at the word a sob93 burst out—just one passionate68 pent up sob. No more. She could not afford to waste strength in crying.
"As you say, Elizabeth, I am getting tired, and that will not do. Let me see; something must be decided7." And she stood still, passing her hand over her hot brow and eyes. "I will go back and take the lodgings, leave you there to make all comfortable, and then fetch my sisters from the hotel. But stay first, I have forgotten something."
She returned to the house in Gower Street, and wrote on one of her cards an address—the only permanent address she could think of—that of the city broker94 who was in the habit of paying them their yearly income of £50.
"If any creditors95 inquire for Mr. Leaf, give them this. His friends may always hear of him at the London University."
"Thank you, ma'am," replied the now civil landlady. "Indeed, I wasn't afraid of the young gentleman giving us the slip. For though he was careless in his bills he was every inch the gentleman. And I wouldn't object to take him in again. Or p'raps you yourself, ma'am, might be a-wanting rooms."
"No, I thank you. Good morning." And Hilary hurried away.
Not a word did she say to Elizabeth, or Elizabeth to her, till they got into the dull, dingy96 parlor—henceforth, to be their sole apology for "home:" and then she only talked about domestic arrangements—talked fast and eagerly, and tried to escape the affectionate eyes which she knew were so sharp and keen. Only to escape them—not to blind them; she had long ago found out that Elizabeth was too quick-witted for that, especially in any thing that concerned "the family." She felt convinced the girl had heard every syllable97 that passed at Ascott's lodgings: that she knew all that was to be known, and guessed what was to be feared as well as Hilary herself.
"Elizabeth"—she hesitated long, and doubted whether she should say the thing before she did say it—"remember we are all strangers in London, and family matters are best kept within the family. Do not mention either in writing home, or to any body here, about—about—"
She could not name Ascott; she felt so horribly ashamed.
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hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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chilly
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sodden
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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afterward
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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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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sweeping
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proceeding
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nebula
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| n.星云，喷雾剂 | |
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converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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nucleus
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hustled
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chafed
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miraculous
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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deserted
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wrath
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astonishment
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lodgings
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lodging
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hush
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vexed
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dreariness
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mischievously
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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devotedness
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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81
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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82
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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83
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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87
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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88
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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91
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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92
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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93
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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94
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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95
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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96
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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97
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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