"Seeing is believing," said Mrs. Gaunt, gaily4, and in a moment she was at the priest's mirror, and inspected her eyes minutely, cocking her head this way and that. She ended by shaking it, and saying, "Nay. He has flattered them prodigiously5."
"Not a jot," said Betty. "If you could see yourself in chapel6, you do turn 'em up just so, and the white shows all round." Then she tapped the picture with her finger: "Oh them eyes! they were never made for the good of his soul; poor simple man."
Betty said this with sudden gravity: and now Mrs. Gaunt began to feel very awkward. "Mr. Gaunt would give fifty pounds for this," said she, to gain time: and, while she uttered that sentence, she whipped on her armour7.
"I'll tell you what I think," said she, calmly: "he wished to paint a Madonna; and he must take some woman's face to aid his fancy. All the painters are driven to that. So he just took the best that came to hand, and that is not saying much, for this is a rare ill-favoured parish: and he has made an angel of her, a very angel. There, hide Me away again, or I shall long for Me—to show to my husband. I must be going; I wouldn't be caught here now for a pension."
"Well, if ye must," said Betty; "but when will ye come again?" (She hadn't got the petticoat yet.)
"Humph!" said Mrs. Gaunt, "I have done all I can for him; and perhaps more than I ought. But there's nothing to hinder you from coming to me. I'll be as good as my word; and I have an old Paduasoy, besides; you can do something with it perhaps."
"You are very good, dame," said Betty, curtsying.
Mrs. Gaunt then hurried away, and Betty looked after her very expressively8, and shook her head. She had a female instinct that mischief10 was brewing11.
Mrs. Gaunt went home in a reverie.
At the gate she found her husband, and asked him to take a turn in the garden with her.
He complied; and she intended to tell him a portion, at least, of what had occurred. She began timidly, after this fashion——"My dear, Brother Leonard is so grateful for your flowers," and then hesitated.
"I'm sure he is very welcome," said Griffith. "Why doesn't he sup with us and be sociable12, as Father Francis used? Invite him; let him know he will be welcome."
Sirs. Gaunt blushed; and objected, "He never calls on us."
"Well, well, every man to his taste," said Griffith, indifferently, and proceeded to talk to her about his farm, and a sorrel mare13 with a white mane and tail, that he had seen, and thought it would suit her.
She humoured him, and affected14 a great interest in all this, and had not the courage to force the other topic on.
Next Sunday morning, after a very silent breakfast, she burst out, almost violently, "Griffith, I shall go to the parish church with you, and then we will dine together afterwards."
"You don't mean it, Kate?" said he, delighted. "Ay, but I do. Although you refused to go to chapel with me."
They went to church together, and Mrs. Gaunt's appearance there created no small sensation. She was conscious of that, but hid it, and conducted herself admirably. Her mind seemed entirely15 given to the service, and to a dull sermon that followed.
But at dinner she broke out, "Well, give me your church for a sleeping draught16. You all slumbered17, more or less: those that survived the drowsy18, droning prayers, sank under the dry, dull dreary19 discourse20. You snored, for one."
"Nay, I hope not, my dear."
"And you sat there and let me!" said Griffith, reproachfully.
"To be sure I did. I was too good a wife, and too good a Christian23, to wake you. Sleep is good for the body, and twaddle is not good for the soul. I'd have slept too, if I could; but, with me going to chapel, I'm not used to sleep at that time o' day. You can't sleep, and Brother Leonard speaking."
In the afternoon came Mrs. Gough, all in her best. Mrs. Gaunt had her into her bedroom, and gave her the promised petticoat, and the old Peau de soie gown; and then, as ladies will, when their hand is once in, added first one thing, then another, till there was quite a large bundle.
"But how is it you are here so soon?" asked Mrs. Gaunt.
"Oh, we had next to no sermon to-day. He couldn't make no hand of it: dawdled24 on a bit; then gave us his blessing25, and bundled us out."
"Then I've lost nothing," said Mrs. Gaunt.
"Not you. Well, I don't know. Mayhap if you had been there he'd have preached his best. But la, we weren't worth it."
At this conjecture26 Mrs. Gaunt's face burned; but she said nothing: only she cut the interview short, and dismissed Betty with her bundle.
As Betty crossed the landing, Mrs. Gaunt's new lady's-maid, Caroline Ryder, stepped accidentally, on purpose, out of an adjoining room, in which she had been lurking27, and lifted her black brows in affected surprise. "What, are you going to strip the house, my woman?" said she, quietly.
Betty put down the bundle, and set her arms akimbo. "There is none on't stolen, any way," said she.
Caroline's black eyes flashed fire at this, and her cheek lost colour; but she parried the innuendo28 skilfully29.
"Taking my perquisites30 on the sly, that is not so very far from stealing."
"Oh, there's plenty left for you, my fine lady. Besides, you don't want her; you can set your cap at the master, they say. I'm too old for that, and too honest into the bargain."
"Too ill-favoured, you mean, ye old harridan," said Ryder, contemptuously.
But, for reasons hereafter to be dealt with. Betty's thrust went home: and the pair were mortal enemies from that hour.
Mrs. Gaunt came down from her room discomposed: from that she became restless and irritable31; so much so, indeed, that, at last, Sir. Gaunt told her, good-humouredly enough, if going to church made her ill (meaning peevish), she had better go to chapel. "You are right," said she, "and so I will."
The next Sunday she was at her post in good time.
The preacher cast an anxious glance around to see if she was there. Her quick eye saw that glance, and it gave her a demure32 pleasure.
This day he was more eloquent33 than ever: and he delivered a beautiful passage concerning those who do good in secret. In uttering these eloquent sentences, his cheek glowed, and he could not deny himself the pleasure of looking down at the lovely face that was turned up to him. Probably his look was more expressive9 than he intended: the celestial34 eyes sank under it, and were abashed35, and the fair cheek burned: and then so did Leonard's at that.
Thus, subtly yet effectually, did these two minds communicate in a crowd, that never noticed nor suspected the delicate interchange of sentiment that was going on under their very eyes.
In a general way compliments did not seduce36 Mrs. Gaunt: she was well used to them, for one thing. Put to be praised in that sacred edifice37, 'and from the pulpit, and by such an orator38 as Leonard, and to be praised in words so sacred and beautiful, that the ears around her drank them with delight, all this made her heart beat, and filled her with soft and sweet complacency.
And then to be thanked in public, yet, as it were, clandestinely39, this gratified the furtive40 tendency of women.
There was no irritability41 this afternoon; but a gentle radiance that diffused42 itself on all around, and made the whole household happy; especially Griffith, whose pipe she filled, for once, with her own white hand, and talked dogs, horses, calves43, hinds44, cows, politics, markets, hay, to please him: and seemed interested in them all.
But the next day she changed: ill at ease, and out of spirits, and could settle to nothing.
It was very hot for one thing: and, altogether, a sort of lassitude and distaste for everything overpowered her, and she retired45 into the grove46, and sat languidly on a seat with half-closed eyes.
But her meditations47 were no longer so calm and speculative48 as heretofore. She found her mind constantly recurring49 to one person, and, above all, to the discovery she had made of her portrait in his possession. She had turned it off to Betty Gough; but here, in her calm solitude50 and umbrageous51 twilight52, her mind crept out of its cave, like wild and timid things at dusk, and whispered to her heart that Leonard perhaps admired her more than was safe or prudent53.
Then this alarmed her, yet caused her a secret complacency: and that, her furtive satisfaction, alarmed her still more.
Now, while she sat thus absorbed, she heard a gentle footstep coming near. She looked up, and there was Leonard close to her; standing54 meekly55 with his arms crossed upon his bosom56.
His being there so pat upon her thoughts, scared her out of her habitual57 self-command. She started up, with a faint cry, and stood panting, as if about to fly, with, her beautiful eyes turned large upon him.
He put forth58 a deprecating hand, and soothed59 her. "Forgive me, madam," said he; "I have unawares intruded60 on your privacy; I will retire."
"Nay," said she, falteringly61, "you are welcome. But no one comes here; so I was startled;" then, recovering herself, "excuse my ill-manners. 'Tis so strange you should come to me here, of all places."
"Nay, my daughter," said the priest, "not so very strange: contemplative minds love such places. Calling one day to see you, I found this sweet and solemn grove; the like I never saw in England: and to-day I returned in hopes to profit by it. Do but look around at these tall columns; how calm, how reverend! 'Tis God's own temple not built with hands."
"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Gaunt, earnestly. Then, like a woman as she was, "So you came to see my trees, not me."
Leonard blushed. "I did not design to return without paying my respects to her who owns this temple, and is worthy62 of it; nay, I beg you not to think me ungrateful."
His humility63, and gentle but earnest voice, made Mrs. Gaunt ashamed of her petulance64. She smiled sweetly, and looked pleased. However, ere long, she attacked him again. "Father Francis used to visit us often," said she. "He made friends with my husband, too. And I never lacked an adviser65 while he was here."
Leonard looked so confused at this second reproach that Mrs. Gaunt regretted having uttered it. Then he said humbly66 that Francis was a secular67 priest, whereas he was convent-bred. He added, that by his years and experience Francis was better fitted to advise persons of her age and sex, in matters secular, than he was. He concluded timidly that he was ready, nevertheless, to try and advise her; but could not, in such matters, assume the authority that belongs to age and knowledge of the world.
"Nay, nay," said she, earnestly, "guide and direct my soul, and I am content."
He said, yes! that was his duty and his right.
Then, after a certain hesitation68, which at once let her know what was coming, he began to thank her, with infinite grace and sweetness, for her kindness to him.
She looked him full in the face, and said she was not aware of any kindness she had shown him worth speaking of.
"That but shows," said he, "how natural it is to you to do acts of goodness. My poor room is a very bower69 now, and I am happy in it. I used to feel very sad there at times; but your hand has cured me."
Mrs. Gaunt coloured beautifully. "You make me ashamed," said she. "Things are come to a pass indeed if a lady may not send a few flowers and things to her spiritual father without being—thanked for it. And, oh, sir, what are earthly flowers compared with those blossoms of the soul you have shed so liberally over us? Our immortal70 parts were all asleep when you came here, and wakened them by the fire of your words. Eloquence71! 'twas a thing I had read of, but never heard, nor thought to hear. Methought the orators72 and poets of the Church were all in their graves this thousand years, and she must go all the way to heaven, that would hear the soul's true music. But I know better now."
Leonard coloured high with pleasure. "Such praise from you is too sweet," he muttered. "I must not court it. The heart is full of vanity." And he deprecated further eulogy73, by a movement of the hand extremely refined and, in fact, rather feminine.
Deferring74 to his wish, Mrs. Gaunt glided75 to other matters, and was naturally led to speak of the prospects76 of their Church, and the possibility of reconverting these islands. This had been the dream of her young heart; but marriage and maternity77, and the universal coldness with which the subject had been received, had chilled her so, that of late years she had almost ceased to speak of it. Even Leonard, on a former occasion, had listened coldly to her; but now his heart was open to her. He was, in fact, quite as enthusiastic on this point as ever she had been; and then he had digested his aspirations79 into clearer forms. Not only had he resolved that Great Britain must be reconverted, but had planned the way to do it. His cheek glowed, his eyes gleamed, and he poured out his hopes and his plans before her with an eloquence that few mortals could have resisted.
As for this, his hearer, she was quite carried away by it. She joined herself to his plans on the spot; she begged, with tears in her eyes, to be permitted to support him in this great cause. She devoted80 to it her substance, her influence, and every gift that God had given her: the hours passed like minutes in this high converse81; and, when the tinkling82 of the little bell at a distance summoned him to vespers, he left her with a gentle regret he scarcely tried to conceal83, and she went slowly in like one in a dream, and the world seemed dead to her for ever.
Nevertheless, when Mrs. Ryder, combing out her long hair, gave one inadvertent tug84, the fair enthusiast78 came back to earth, and asked her, rather sharply, who her head was running on.
Ryder, a very handsome young woman, with fine black eyes, made no reply, but only drew her breath audibly hard.
I do not very much wonder at that, nor at my having to answer that question for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was at that moment running, like any other woman's, on the man she was in love with.
And the man she was in love with was the husband of the lady, whose hair she was combing, and who put her that curious question—plump.
点击收听单词发音
1 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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2 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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3 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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4 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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5 prodigiously | |
adv.异常地,惊人地,巨大地 | |
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6 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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7 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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8 expressively | |
ad.表示(某事物)地;表达地 | |
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9 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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10 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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11 brewing | |
n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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12 sociable | |
adj.好交际的,友好的,合群的 | |
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13 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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14 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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15 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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16 draught | |
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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17 slumbered | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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18 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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19 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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20 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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21 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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22 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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23 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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24 dawdled | |
v.混(时间)( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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26 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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27 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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28 innuendo | |
n.暗指,讽刺 | |
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29 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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30 perquisites | |
n.(工资以外的)财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 );额外收入;(随职位而得到的)好处;利益 | |
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31 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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32 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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33 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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34 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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35 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 seduce | |
vt.勾引,诱奸,诱惑,引诱 | |
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37 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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38 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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39 clandestinely | |
adv.秘密地,暗中地 | |
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40 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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41 irritability | |
n.易怒 | |
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42 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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43 calves | |
n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子,腓;腿肚子( calf的名词复数 );牛犊;腓;小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 );(冰川)崩解;生(小牛等),产(犊);使(冰川)崩解 | |
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44 hinds | |
n.(常指动物腿)后面的( hind的名词复数 );在后的;(通常与can或could连用)唠叨不停;滔滔不绝 | |
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45 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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46 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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47 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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48 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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49 recurring | |
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
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50 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51 umbrageous | |
adj.多荫的 | |
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52 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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53 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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54 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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55 meekly | |
adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
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56 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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57 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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58 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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59 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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60 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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61 falteringly | |
口吃地,支吾地 | |
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62 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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63 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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64 petulance | |
n.发脾气,生气,易怒,暴躁,性急 | |
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65 adviser | |
n.劝告者,顾问 | |
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66 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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67 secular | |
n.牧师,凡人;adj.世俗的,现世的,不朽的 | |
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68 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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69 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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70 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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71 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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72 orators | |
n.演说者,演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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73 eulogy | |
n.颂词;颂扬 | |
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74 deferring | |
v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的现在分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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75 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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76 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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77 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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78 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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79 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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80 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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81 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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82 tinkling | |
n.丁当作响声 | |
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83 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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84 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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