His voice was low; his face, though pale and grim, had not the terrible aspect he wore at parting.
So she thought he had come back in an amicable3 spirit; and she flew to him with a cry of love, and threw her arm round his neck, and panted on his shoulder.
At this reception, and the tremulous contact of one he had loved so dearly, a strange shudder4 ran through his frame: a shudder that marked his present repugnance5, yet indicated her latent power.
He himself felt he had betrayed some weakness; and it was all the worse for her: he caught her wrist and put her from him, not roughly, but with a look of horror. "The day is gone by for that, madam," he gasped6. Then, sternly: "Think you I came here to play the credulous7 husband?"
Mrs. Gaunt drew back in her turn, and faltered8 out, "What! come back here, and not sorry for what you have done? not the least sorry? Oh, my heart! you have almost broken it."
"Prithee, no more of this," said Griffith, sternly. "You and I are nought9 to one another now, and for ever. But there, you are but a woman, and I did not come to quarrel with you." And he fixed10 his eyes on the ground.
"Thank God for that," faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "Oh, sir, the sight of you—the thought of what you were to me once—till jealousy11 blinded you. Lend me your arm, if you are a man; my limbs do fail me."
The shock had been too much; a pallor over-spread her lovely features, her knees knocked together, and she was tottering12 like some tender tree cut down, when Griffith, who, with all his faults, was a man, put out his strong arm, and she clung to it, quivering all over, and weeping hysterically13.
That little hand, with its little feminine clutch, trembling on his arm, raised a certain male compassion14 for her piteous condition; and he bestowed15 a few cold, sad, words of encouragement on her. "Come, come," said he, gently; "I shall not trouble you long. I'm cured of my jealousy. 'Tis gone, along with my love. You and your saintly sinner are safe from me. I am come hither for my own, my two thousand pounds, and for nothing more."
"Ah! you are come back for money, not for me?" she murmured, with forced calmness.
"For money; and not for you, of course," said he, coldly.
The words wore hardly out of his month, when the proud lady flung his arm from her. "Then money shall you have, and not me; nor ought of me but my contempt."
But she could not carry it off as heretofore. She turned her back haughtily16 on him; but, at the first step, she burst out crying. "Come, and I'll give you what you are come for," she sobbed17. "Ungrateful! heartless! Oh, how little I knew this man!"
She crept away before him, drooping18 her head, and crying bitterly; and he followed her, hanging his head, and ill at ease; for there was such true passion in her voice, her streaming eyes, and indeed in her whole body, that he was moved, and the part he was playing revolted him. He felt confused and troubled, and asked himself how on earth it was that she, the guilty one, contrived19 to appear the injured one, and made him, the wronged one, feel almost remorseful20.
Mrs. Gaunt took no more notice of him now than if he had been a dog following at her heels. She went into the drawing-room, and sank helplessly on the nearest couch; threw her head wearily back, and shut her eyes. Yet the tears trickled22 through the closed lids.
Griffith caught up a hand-bell, and rang it vigorously.
Quick light steps were soon heard pattering; and in darted23 Caroline Ryder, with an anxious face; for of late she had conceived a certain sober regard for her mistress, who had ceased to be her successful rival, and who bore her grief like a man.
At sight of Griffith, Ryder screamed aloud, and stood panting.
Mrs. Gaunt opened her eyes. "Ay, child, he has come home," said she, bitterly; "his body, but not his heart."
She stretched her hand out feebly, and pointed24 to a bottle of salts that stood on the table. Ryder ran and put them to her nostrils25. Mrs. Gaunt whispered in her ear, "Send a swift horse for Father Francis; tell him, life or death!"
Ryder gave her a very intelligent look, and presently slipped out, and ran into the stable-yard.
At the gate she caught sight of Griffith's horse. What does this quick-witted creature do but send the groom26 off on that horse, and not on Mrs. Gaunt's.
"Ay, I thank you."
"Then listen to me. When you and I set up house together, I had two thousand pounds. I spent it on this house. The house is yours. You told me so, one day, you know."
"Ah, you can remember my faults."
"I remember all, Kate."
"Thank you, at least, for calling me Kate. Well, Griffith, since you abandoned us, I thought, and thought, and thought, of all that might befall you; and I said, 'What will he do for money? My jewels, that you did me the honour to take, would not last you long, I feared. So I reduced my expenses three-fourths at least, and I put by some money for your need."
Griffith looked amazed. "For my need?" said he.
"For whose else? I'll send for it, and place it in your hands—to-morrow."
"To-morrow? Why not to-day?"
"I have a favour to ask of you first."
"What is that?"
"Justice. If you are fond of money, I too have something I prize: my honour. You have belied29 and insulted me, sir; but I know you were under a delusion30. I mean to remove that delusion, and make you see how little I am to blame: for, alas31! I own I was imprudent. But, oh Griffith! as I hope to be saved, it was the imprudence of innocence33 and over-confidence."
"Mistress," said Griffith, in a stern, yet agitated34 voice, "be advised, and leave all this: rouse not a man's sleeping wrath35. Let bygones be bygones."
Mrs. Gaunt rose, and said, faintly, "So be it. I must go, sir, and give some orders for your entertainment."
"Oh; don't put yourself about for me," said Griffith, "I am not the master of this house."
Mrs. Gaunts lip trembled, but she was a match for him. "Then are you my guest," said she; "and my credit is concerned in your comfort."
She made him a curtsy, as if he were a stranger, and marched to the door, concealing36, with great pride and art, a certain trembling of her knees.
At the door she found Ryder, and bade her follow, much to that lady's disappointment; for she desired a tête-à-tête with Griffith, and an explanation.
As soon as the two women were out of Griffith's hearing, the mistress laid her hand on the servant's arm, and, giving way to her feelings, said, all in a flutter, "Child, if I have been a good mistress to thee, show it now. Help me keep him in the house till Father Francis comes."
"I undertake to do so much," said Ryder, firmly. "Leave it to me, mistress."
Mrs. Gaunt threw her arms round Ryder's neck and kissed her.
It was done so ardently37, and by a woman hitherto so dignified38 and proud, that Ryder was taken by surprise, and almost affected39.
As for the service Mrs. Gaunt had asked of her, it suited her own designs.
"Mistress," said she, "be ruled by me; keep out of his way a-bit, while I get Miss Rose ready. You understand."
"Ah! I have one true friend in the house," said poor Mrs. Gaunt. She then confided40 in Ryder, and went away to give her own orders for Griffith's reception.
Ryder found little Rose, dressed her to perfection, and told her her dear papa was come home. She then worked upon the child's mind in that subtle way known to women, so that Rose went downstairs loaded and primed, though no distinct instructions had been given her.
As for Griffith, he walked up and down, uneasy; and wished he had stayed at the "Packhorse." He had not bargained for all these emotions; the peace of mind he had enjoyed for some months seemed trickling41 away.
"Mercy, my dear," said he, to himself, "'twill be a dear penny to me, I doubt."
Then he went to the window, and looked at the lawn, and sighed. Then he sat down, and thought of the past.
Whilst he sat thus moody42, the door opened very softly, and a little cherubic face, with blue eyes and golden hair, peeped in. Griffith started. "Ah!" cried Rose, with a joyful43 scream: and out flew her little arms, and away she came, half running, half dancing, and was on his knee in a moment, with her arms round his neck.
"Papa! papa!" she cried. "Oh, my dear, dear, dear, darling papa!" And she kissed and patted his cheek again and again.
Her innocent endearments44 moved him to tears. "My pretty angel!" he sighed: "my lamb!"
"How your heart beats: don't cry, dear papa. Nobody is dead: only we thought you were. I'm so glad you are come home alive. Now we can take off this nasty black: I hate it."
"What, 'tis for me you wear it, pretty one?"
"Ay. Mamma made us. Poor mamma has been so unhappy. And that reminds me: you are a wicked man, papa. But I love you all one for that. It tis so dull when everybody is good like mamma; and she makes me dreadfully good too; but now you are come back, there will be a little, little, wickedness again, it is to be hoped. Aren't you glad you are not dead, and are come home instead? I am."
"I am glad I have seen thee. Come, take my hand, and let us go look at the old place."
"Ay. But you must wait till I get on my new hat and feather."
"Dull company, sweetheart, thou'lt find me."
"I don't mean that: I mean, when you were here always, you were only papa; but now you come once in an age, you're COMPANY. I won't budge47 without 'em; so there, now."
"Well, little one, I do submit to thy hat and feather: only be quick or I shall go forth48 without thee."
"If you dare," said Rose, impetuously: "for I won't be half a moment."
She ran and extorted49 from Ryder the new hat and feather, which by rights she was not to have worn until next month.
Griffith and his little girl went all over the well-known premises50, he sad and moody, she excited and chattering51, and nodding her head down, and cocking her eye up every now and then, to get a glimpse of her feather.
"And don't you go away again, dear papa. It tis so dull without you. Nobody comes here. Mamma won't let 'em."
"Nobody except Father Leonard," said Griffith, bitterly.
"Father Leonard? Why, he never comes here. Leonard! That is the beautiful priest that used to pat me on the head, and bid me love and honour my parents. And so I do. Only mamma is always crying, and you keep away: so how can I love and honour you, when I never see you, and they keep telling me you are good for nothing, and dead."
"How can I tell? Why it was miles ago; when I was a mere53 girl. You know he went away before you did."
"I know nothing of the kind. Tell me the truth now. He has visited here since I went away."
"Nay, papa."
"That is strange. She visits him, then?"
"What, mamma? She seldom stirs out; and never beyond the village. We keep no carriage now. Mamma is turned such a miser54. She is afraid you will be poor; so she puts it all by for you. But now you are come, we shall have carriages and things again. Oh, by-the-by, Father Leonard! I heard them say he had left England, so I did."
"When was that?"
"Well, I think that was a little bit after you went away."
"That is strange," said Griffith, thoughtfully.
He led his little girl by the hand, but scarcely listened to her prattle55; he was so surprised and puzzled by the information he had elicited56 from her.
Upon the whole, however, he concluded that his wife and the priest had perhaps been smitten57 with remorse21, and had parted,—when it was too late.
This, and the peace of mind he had found elsewhere, somewhat softened58 his feelings towards them. "So," thought he, "they were not hardened creatures after all. Poor Kate!"
As these milder feelings gained on him, Rose suddenly uttered a joyful cry; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder behind her. Both were in gay colours, which, in fact, was what had so delighted Rose.
They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed a changed woman. She looked young and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic affection on her daughter; and said to Griffith, "Is she not grown? Is she not lovely? Sure you will never desert her again."
"'Twas not her I deserted59, but her mother; and she had played me false with her d——d priest," was Griffith's reply.
Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. "This, before my girl?" she cried. "Griffith Gaunt, you lie!"
And this time it was the woman who menaced the man. She rose to six feet high, and advanced on him with her great grey eyes flashing flames at him. "Oh, that I were a man!" she cried: "this insult should be the last. I'd lay you dead at her feet and mine."
Griffith actually drew back a step; for the wrath of such a woman was terrible; more terrible perhaps to a brave man than to a coward.
Then he put his hands in his pockets with a dogged air; and said, grinding his teeth: "But—as you are not a man, and I'm not a woman, we can't settle it that way. So I give you the last word, and good day. I'm sore in want of money; but I find I can't pay the price it is like to cost me. Farewell."
"Begone!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "and, this time, for ever. Ruffian, and fool, I loathe60 the sight of you."
Rose ran weeping to her. "Oh, mamma, don't quarrel with papa:" then back to Griffith, "Oh, papa, don't quarrel with mamma—for my sake."
Griffith hung his head, and said, in a broken voice: "No, my lamb, we twain must not quarrel before thee. We will part in silence, as becomes those that once were dear, and have thee to show for't. Madam, I wish you all health and happiness. Adieu."
He turned on his heel; and Mrs. Gaunt took Rose to her knees, and bent and wept over her. Niobe over her last was not more graceful61, nor more sad.
As for Ryder she stole quietly after her retiring master. She found him peering about, and asked him demurely62 what he was looking for.
"My good black horse, girl, to take me from this cursed place. Did I not tie him to your gate?"
"The black horse? Why I sent him for Father Francis. Nay, listen to me, master; you know I was always your friend, and hard upon her. Well, since you went, things have come to pass that make me doubt. I do begin to fear you were too hasty."
"Do you tell me this now, woman?" cried Griffith, furiously.
"How could I tell you before? Why did you break your tryst63 with me? If you had come according to your letter, I'd have told you months ago what I tell you now; but, as I was saying, the priest never came near her after you left; and she never stirred abroad to meet him. More than that, he has left England."
"Remorse! Too late."
"Perhaps it may, sir. I couldn't say; but there is one coming that knows the very truth."
"Who is that?"
"Father Francis. The moment you came, sir, I took it on me to send for him. You know the man: he won't tell a lie to please our Dame. And he knows all: for Leonard has confessed to him. I listened and heard him say as much. Then, master, be advised, and get the truth from Father Francis."
Griffith trembled. "Francis is an honest man," said he; "I'll wait till he comes. But oh, my lass, I find money may be bought too dear."
"Your chamber64 is ready, sir; and your clothes put out. Supper is ordered. Let me show you your room. We are all so happy now."
"Well," said he, listlessly, "since my horse is gone, and Francis coming, and I'm wearied and sick of the world, do what you will with me for this one day."
He followed her mechanically to a bedroom, where was a bright fire, and a fine shirt, and his silver-laced suit of clothes airing.
"Ay," he said, "I'll dress, and so to supper; I'm main hungry. It seems a man must eat, let his heart be ever so sore."
Before she left him, Ryder asked him coldly why he had broken his appointment with her.
"That is too long a story to tell you now," said he, coolly.
"Another time then," said she; and went out smiling, but bitter at heart.
Griffith had a good wash, and enjoyed certain little conveniences which he had not at the "Packhorse." He doffed66 his riding suit, and donned the magnificent dress Ryder had selected for him; and with his fine clothes he somehow put on more ceremonious manners.
He came down to the dining-room. To his surprise he found it illuminated67 with wax candles, and the table and sideboard gorgeous with plate.
Supper soon smoked upon the board; but, though it was set for three, nobody else appeared.
Griffith inquired of Ryder whether he was to sup alone.
She replied, "My mistress desires you not to wait for her. She has no stomach."
"Well, then, I have," said Griffith; and fell o with a will.
Ryder, who waited on this occasion, stood and eyed him with curiosity. His conduct was so unlike a woman's.
Just as he concluded, the door opened, and a burly form entered. Griffith rose and embraced him with his arms and lips, after the fashion of the day. "Welcome, thou one honest priest!" said he.
"Welcome, thrice welcome, my long-lost son!" said the cordial Francis.
"Sit down, man, and eat with me. I'll begin again, for you."
Ryder, to whom this was addressed, went out, and left the gentlemen together.
Father Francis drew out of his pocket two packets, carefully tied and sealed. He took a knife from the table and cut the strings69, and broke the seals. Griffith eyed him with curiosity.
Father Francis looked at him. "These," said he, very gravely, "are the letters that Brother Leonard hath written, at sundry70 times, to Catherine Gaunt, and these are the letters Catherine Gaunt hath written to Brother Leonard."
Griffith trembled, and his face was convulsed.
"Let me read them at once," said he: and stretched out his hand, with eyes like a dog's in the dark.
Francis withdrew them, quietly. "Not till she is also present," said he.
At that Griffith's good-nature, multiplied by a good supper, took the alarm. "Come, come, sir," said he, "have a little mercy. I know you are a just man, and, though a boon71 companion, most severe in all matters of morality. But, I tell you plainly, if you are going to drag this poor woman in the dirt, I shall go out of the room. What is the use tormenting72 her? I've told her my mind before her own child: and now I wish I had not. When I caught them in the Grove73 I lifted my hand to strike her, and she never winced74; I had better have left that alone too, methinks. D—n the women: you are always in the wrong if you treat 'em like men. They are not wicked; they are weak. And this one hath lain in my bosom75, and borne me two children, and one he lieth in the churchyard, and t'other hath her hair and my very eyes: and the truth is, I can't bear any man on earth to miscall her but myself. God help me: I doubt I love her still too well to sit by and see her tortured. She was all in black for her fault, poor penitent76 wretch77. Give me the letters; but let her be."
Francis was moved by this appeal, but shook his head solemnly; and, ere Griffith could renew his argument, the door was flung open by Ryder, and a stately figure sailed in that took both the gentlemen by surprise.
It was Mrs. Gaunt, in full dress. Rich brocade that swept the ground: magnificent bust78, like Parian marble varnished79; and on her brow a diadem80 of emeralds and diamonds that gave her beauty an imperial stamp.
She swept into the room as only fine women can sweep, made Griffith a haughty81 curtsy, and suddenly lowered her head, and received Father Francis's blessing82: then seated herself, and quietly awaited events.
"The brazen83 jade84!" thought Griffith. "But how divinely beautiful!" And he became as agitated as she was calm—in appearance. For, need I say her calmness was put on? Defensive85 armour86 made for her by her pride and her sex.
The voice of Father Francis now rose, solid, grave, and too impressive to be interrupted.
"My daughter, and you who are her husband and my friend, I am here to do justice between you both, with God's help; and to show you both your faults.
"Catherine Gaunt, you began the mischief87, by encouraging; another man to interfere88 between you and your husband in things secular89."
"But, father, he was my director, my priest."
"My daughter, do you believe, with the Protestants, that marriage is a mere civil contract; or do you hold, with us, that it is one of the holy sacraments?"
"Can you ask me?" murmured Kate, reproachfully.
"Well, then, those whom God and the whole Church have in holy sacrament united, what right hath a single priest to disunite in heart, and make the wife false to any part whatever of that most holy vow90? I hear, and not from you, that Leonard did set you against your husband's friends, withdrew you from society, and sent him abroad alone. In one word, he robbed your husband of his companion and his friend. The sin was Leonard's: but the fault was yours. You were five years older than Leonard, and a woman of sense and experience; he but a boy by comparison. What right had you to surrender your understanding, in a matter of this kind, to a poor silly priest, fresh from his seminary, and as manifestly without a grain of common sense as he was full of piety91?"
This remonstrance92 produced rather a striking effect on both those who heard it. Mrs. Gaunt seemed much struck with it. She leaned back in her chair, and put her hand to her brow with a sort of despairing gesture that Griffith could not very well understand: it seemed to him so disproportionate.
It softened him, however, and he faltered out, "Ay, father, that is how it all began. Would to heaven it had stopped there."
Francis resumed. "This false step led to consequences you never dreamed of; for one of your romantic notions is, that a priest is an angel. I have known you, in former times, try to take me for an angel: then would I throw cold water on your folly93 by calling lustily for chines of beef and mugs of ale. But I suppose Leonard thought himself an angel too; and the upshot was, he fell in love with his neighbour's wife."
"Not so," said Francis; "but perhaps she was nearer it than she thinks."
"Prove that," said Mrs. Gaunt, "and I'll fall on my knees to him before you."
Francis smiled, and proceeded. "To be sure, from the moment you discovered Leonard was in love with you, you drew back, and conducted yourself with prudence32 and propriety95. Read these letters, sir, and tell me what you think of them."
He handed them to Griffith. Griffith's hand trembled visibly as he took them.
"Stay," said Father Francis; "your better way will be to read the whole correspondence according to their dates. Begin with this of Mrs. Gaunt's."
Griffith read the letter in an audible whisper.
Mrs. Gaunt turned her head a little, and for the first time lowered her eyes to the ground.
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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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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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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darted
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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nostrils
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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prattle
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| 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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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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