Mr. Whitworth objected to that. She had concluded her address yesterday, and called a witness.
Prisoner. But I have not examined a witness yet.
The Judge. You come somewhat out of time, madam; but, if you will be brief, we will hear you.
Prisoner. I thank you, my lord. It was only to withdraw an error. The cry for help that was heard by the side of Hernshaw Mere4, I said, yesterday, that cry was uttered by Thomas Leicester. Well, I find I was mistaken; the cry for help was uttered by my husband, by that Griffith Gaunt I am accused of assassinating5.
This extraordinary admission caused a great sensation in court. The judge looked grave and sad; and Sergeant6 Wiltshire, who came into court just then, whispered his junior, "She has put the rope round her own neck. The jury would never have believed our witness."
The Prisoner. I will only add that a person came into the town last night, who knows a great deal more about this mysterious business than I do. I purpose, therefore, to alter the plan of my defense7; and, to save your time, my lord, who have dealt so courteously8 with me, I shall call but a single witness.
Ere the astonishment9 caused by this sudden collapse10 of the defense was in any degree abated11, she called "Mercy Vint."
There was the usual stir and struggle; and then the calm self-possessed face and figure of a comely12 young woman confronted the court. She was sworn; and examined by the prisoner after this fashion.
"Where do you live?"
"At the 'Packhorse,' near Allerton, in Lancashire."
Prisoner. Do you know Mr. Griffith Gaunt?
Mercy. Madam, I do.
Prisoner. Was he at your place in October last?
Mercy. Yes, madam, on the thirteenth of October. On that day he left for Cumberland.
Prisoner. On foot, or on horseback?
Mercy. On horseback.
Prisoner. With boots on, or shoes?
Mercy. He had a pair of new boots on.
Prisoner. Do you know Thomas Leicester?
Mercy. A pedlar called at our house on the eleventh of October, and he said his name was Thomas Leicester.
Prisoner. How was he shod?
Mercy. In hobnailed shoes.
Prisoner. Which way went he on leaving you?
Mercy. Madam, he went northwards; I know no more for certain.
Prisoner. When did you see Mr. Gaunt last?
Mercy. Four days ago.
The Judge. What is that? you saw him alive four days ago?
Mercy. Ay, my lord; the last Wednesday that ever was.
At this the people burst out into a loud agitated13 murmur14, and their heads went to and fro all the time. In vain the crier cried and threatened. The noise rose and surged, and took its course. It went down gradually, as amazement15 gave way to curiosity; and then there was a remarkable16 silence; and then the silvery voice of the prisoner, and the mellow17 tones of the witness, appeared to penetrate18 the very walls of the building, each syllable19 of those two beautiful speakers was heard so distinctly.
Prisoner. Be so good as to tell the court what passed on Wednesday last between Griffith Gaunt and you, relative to this charge of murder.
Mercy. I let him know one George Neville had come from Cumberland in search of him, and had told me you lay in Carlisle gaol20 charged with his murder. I did urge him to ride at once to Carlisle, and show himself; but he refused. He made light of the matter. Then I told him, not so; the circumstances looked ugly, and your life was in peril21. Then he said, nay22, 'twas in no peril, for, if you were to be found guilty, then he would show himself on the instant. Then I told him he was not worthy23 the name of a man; and if he would not go, I would. "Go you, by all means," said he, "and I'll give you a writing that will clear her. Jack24 Houseman will be there, that knows my hand; and so does the sheriff, and half the grand jury at the least."
Prisoner. Have you that writing?
Mercy. To be sure I have. Here 'tis.
Prisoner. Be pleased to read it.
The Judge. Stay a minute. Shall you prove it to be his handwriting?
Prisoner. Ay, my lord, by as many as you please.
The Judge. Then let that stand over for the present. Let me see it.
It was handed up to him; and he showed it to the sheriff, who said he thought it was Griffith Gaunt's writing.
The paper was then read out to the jury. It ran as follows:—
"Know all men, that I, Griffith Gaunt, Esq., of Bolton Hall and Hernshaw Castle, in the county of Cumberland, am alive and well; and the matter, which has so puzzled the good folk in Cumberland, befell as follows:—I left Hernshaw Castle in the dead of night upon the fifteenth of October. Why, is no man's business but mine. I found the stable locked; so I left my horse, and went on foot. I crossed Hernshaw Mere by the bridge, and had got about a hundred yards, as I suppose, on the way, when I heard some one fall with a great splash into the mere, and soon after cry dolefully for help. I, that am no swimmer, ran instantly to the north side to a clump25 of trees, where a boat used always to be kept. But the boat was not there. Then I cried lustily for help, and, as no one came, I fired my pistol and cried murder! For I had heard men will come sooner to that cry than to any other. But in truth I was almost out of my wits, that a fellow-creature should perish miserably26 so near me. Whilst I ran wildly to and fro, some came out of the Castle bearing torches. By this time I was at the bridge; but saw no signs of the drowning man; yet the night was clear. Then I knew that his fate was sealed; and for reasons of my own not choosing to be seen by those who were coming to his aid, I hastened from the place. My happiness being gone, and my conscience smiting28 me sore, and not knowing whither to turn, I took to drink, and fell into bad ways, and lived like a brute29 and not a man, for six weeks or more; so that I never knew of the good fortune that had fallen on me when least I deserved it; I mean by old Mr. Gaunt of Coggleswade making of me his heir. But one day at Kendal I saw Mercy Vint's advertisement; and I went to her, and learned that my wife lay in Carlisle gaol for my supposed murder. But I say that she is innocent, and nowise to blame in this matter; for I deserved every hard word she ever gave me; and as for killing30, she is a spirited woman with her tongue, but hath not the heart to kill a fly. She is what she always was, the pearl of womankind; a virtuous31, innocent, and noble lady. I have lost the treasure of her love, by my fault, not hers; but, at least, I have a right to defend her life and honour. Whoever molests32 her after this, out of pretended regard for me, is a liar33, and a fool, and no friend of mine, but my enemy, and I his—to the death.
"GRIFFITH GAUNT."
It was a day of surprises. This tribute from the murdered man to his assassin was one of them. People looked in one another's faces open-eyed.
The prisoner looked in the judge's, and acted on what she saw there. "That is my defense," said she, quietly; and sat down.
But Mr. Whitworth was a zealous35 young barrister, burning for distinction. He stuck to his case, and cross-examined Mercy Vint with severity; indeed, with asperity36.
Whitworth. What are you to receive for this evidence?
Mercy. Anan.
Whitworth. Oh, you know what I mean. Are you not to be paid for telling us this romance?
Whitworth. You were in the prisoner's company yesterday.
Mercy. Yes, sir, I did visit her in the gaol last night.
Whitworth. And there concerted this ingenious defense.
Mercy. Well, sir, for that matter, I told her that her man was alive, and I did offer to be her witness.
Whitworth. For nought.
Mercy. For no money or reward, if 'tis that you mean. Why, 'tis a joy beyond money, to clear an innocent body, and save her life; and that satisfaction is mine this day.
Whitworth (sarcastically). These are very fine sentiments for a person in your condition. Confess that Mrs. Gaunt primed you with all that.
Mercy. Nay, sir, I left home in that mind; else I had not come at all. Bethink you; 'tis a long journey for one in my way of life; and this dear child on my arm all the way.
Mrs. Gaunt sat boiling with indignation. But Mercy's good temper and meekness38 parried the attack that time. Mr. Whitworth changed his line.
Whitworth. You ask the jury to believe that Griffith Gaunt, Esquire, a gentleman, and a man of spirit and honor, is alive, yet skulks39 and sends you hither, when by showing his face in this court he could clear his wife without a single word spoken?
Mercy. Yes, sir, I do hope to be believed; for I speak the naked truth. But, with due respect to you, Mr. Gaunt did not send me hither against my will. I could not bide41 in Lancashire and let an innocent woman be murdered in Cumberland.
Whitworth. Murdered, quotha. That is a good jest. I'd have you to know we punish murders here, not do them.
Mercy. I am glad to hear that, sir, on the lady's account.
Whitworth. Come, come. You pretend you discovered this Griffith Gaunt alive, by means of an advertisement. If so, produce the advertisement.
Mercy Vint colored, and cast a swift uneasy glance at Mrs. Gaunt.
Rapid as it was, the keen eye of the counsel caught it.
"Nay, do not look to the culprit for orders," said he. "Produce it, or confess the truth. Come, you never advertised for him."
"Sir, I did advertise for him."
"Then produce the advertisement."
"Sir, I will not," said Mercy, calmly.
"Then I shall move the court to commit you."
"I am guiltless of either, God knows. But I will not show the advertisement."
The Judge. "This is very extraordinary. Perhaps you have it not about you."
Mercy. "My lord, the truth is I have it in my bosom44. But, if I show it, it will not make this matter one whit3 clearer, and 'twill open the wounds of two poor women. 'Tis not for myself. But, oh my lord, look at her; hath she not gone through grief enow?"
The appeal was made with a quiet touching45 earnestness, that affected46 every hearer. But the judge had a duty to perform. "Witness," said he, "you mean well; but indeed you do the prisoner an injury by withholding47 this paper. Be good enough to produce it at once."
The Prisoner (with a deep sigh). Obey my lord.
Mercy (with a deep sigh). There, sir, may the Lord forgive you the useless mischief48 you are doing.
Whitworth. I am doing my duty, young woman. And yours is to tell the whole truth, and not a part only.
Mercy (acquiescing). That is true, sir.
Whitworth. Why, what is this? This not Mr. Gaunt you advertise for in these papers. 'Tis Thomas Leicester.
The Judge. What is that? I don't understand.
Whitworth. Nor I neither.
The Judge. Let me see the papers. 'Tis Thomas Leicester sure enough.
Whitworth. And you mean to swear that Griffith Gaunt answered an advertisement inviting49 Thomas Leicester?
Mercy. I do. Thomas Leicester was the name he went by in our part.
Whitworth. What? what? You are jesting.
Mercy. Is this a place or a time for jesting? I say he called himself Thomas Leicester.
Here the business was interrupted again by a multitudinous murmur of excited voices. Everybody was whispering astonishment to his neighbor. And the whisper of a great crowd has the effect of a loud murmur.
Whitworth. Oh, he called himself Thomas Leicester, did he? Then what makes you say he is Griffith Gaunt?
Mercy. Well, sir, the pedlar, whose real name was Thomas Leicester, came to our house one day, and saw his picture, and knew it; and said something to a neighbor that raised my suspicions. When he came home, I took this shirt out of a drawer; 'twas the shirt he wore when he first came to us. 'Tis marked "G. G." (The shirt was examined). Said I, "For God's sake speak the truth: what does G. G. stand for?" Then he told me his real name was Griffith Gaunt, and he had a wife in Cumberland. "Go back to her," said I, "and ask her to forgive you." Then he rode north, and I never saw him again till last Wednesday.
Whitworth (satirically). You seem to have been mighty50 intimate with this Thomas Leicester, whom you now call Griffith Gaunt. May I ask what was, or is, the nature of your connection with him?
Mercy was silent.
Whitworth. I must press for a reply, that we may know what value to attach to your most extraordinary evidence. Were you his wife—or his mistress?
Mercy. Indeed I hardly know; but not his mistress, or I should not be here.
Whitworth. You don't know whether you were married to the man or not?
Mercy. I do not say so. But—
She hesitated, and cast a piteous look at Mrs. Gaunt, who sat boiling with indignation.
At this look, the prisoner, who had long contained herself with difficulty, rose, with scarlet51 cheeks and flashing eyes, in defense of her witness, and flung her prudence52 to the wind.
"Fie, sir," she cried. "The woman you insult is as pure as your own mother, or mine. She deserves the pity, the respect, the veneration53 of all good men. Know, my lord, that my miserable54 husband deceived and married her under the false name he had taken; she has the marriage certificate in her bosom. Pray make her show it whether she will or not. My lord, this Mercy Vint is more an angel than a woman. I am her rival after a manner; yet out of the goodness and greatness of her noble heart, she came all that way to save me from an unjust death. And is such a woman to be insulted? I blush for the hired advocate who cannot see his superior in an incorruptible witness, a creature all truth, piety55, purity, unselfishness, and goodness. Yes, sir, you began by insinuating56 that she was as venal57 as yourself; for you are one that can be bought by the first comer; and now you would cast a slur58 on her chastity, For shame! for shame! This is one of those rare women that adorn59 our whole sex, and embellish60 human nature: and, so long as you have the privilege of exchanging words with her, I shall stand here on the watch, to see that you treat her with due respect: ay, sir, with reverence61; for I have measured you both, and she is as much your superior as she is mine."
This amazing burst was delivered with such prodigious62 fire and rapidity, that nobody was self-possessed enough to stop it in time. It was like a furious gust63 of words sweeping64 over the court.
Mr. Whitworth, pale with auger65, merely said, "Madam, the good taste of these remarks I leave the court to decide upon. But you cannot be allowed to give evidence in your own defense."
"No, but in hers I will," said Mrs. Gaunt; "no power shall hinder me."
The Judge (coldly). Had you not better go on cross-examining the witness?
Whitworth. Let me see your marriage certificate, if you have one?
It was handed to him.
"Well, now how do you know that this Thomas Leicester was Griffith Gaunt?"
The Judge. Why, she has told you he confessed it to her.
Mercy. Yes, my lord; and, besides, he wrote me two letters signed Thomas Leicester. Here they are, and I desire they may be compared with the paper he wrote last Wednesday, and signed Griffith Gaunt. And more than that, whilst we lived together as man and wife, one Hamilton, a travelling painter, took our portraits, his and mine. I have brought his with me. Let his friends and neighbors look on this portrait, and say whose likeness66 it is. What I say and swear is, that on Wednesday last I saw and spoke40 with that Thomas Leicester, or Griffith Gaunt, whose likeness I now show you.
With that she lifted the portrait up, and showed it to all the court.
Instantly there was a roar of recognition.
It was one of those hard daubs that are nevertheless so monstrously67 like the originals.
The Judge (to Mr. Whitworth). Young gentleman, we are all greatly obliged to you. You have made the prisoner's case. There was but one weak point in it; I mean the prolonged absence of Griffith Gaunt. You have now accounted for that. You have forced a very truthful68 witness to depose69 that this Gaunt is himself a criminal, and is hiding from fear of the law. The case for the Crown is a mere tissue of conjectures70, on which no jury could safely convict, even if there was no defense at all. Under other circumstances I might decline to receive evidence at second hand that Griffith Gaunt is alive; but here such evidence is sufficient, for it lies on the Crown to prove the man dead; but you have only proved that he was alive on the fifteenth of October, and that, since then, somebody is dead with shoes on. This somebody appears on the balance of proof to be Thomas Leicester, the pedlar; and he has never been heard of since, and Griffith Gaunt has. Then I say you cannot carry the case farther. You have not a leg to stand on. What say you, brother Wiltshire?
Wiltshire. My lord, I think there is no case against the prisoner, and am thankful to your lordship for relieving me of a very unpleasant task.
The question of guilty or not guilty was then put as a matter of form to the jury, who instantly brought the prisoner in not guilty.
The Judge. Catherine Gaunt, you leave this court without a stain, and with our sincere respect and sympathy. I much regret the fear and pain you have been put to: you have been terribly punished for a hasty word. Profit now by this bitter lesson; and may heaven enable you to add a well-governed spirit to your many virtues71 and graces.
He then said a few words to Mercy Vint.
"Young woman, I have no words to praise you as you deserve. You have shown us the beauty of the female character, and, let me add, the beauty of the Christian74 religion. You have come a long way to clear the innocent. I hope you will not stop there; but also punish the guilty person, on whom we have wasted so much pity."
"Me, my lord," said Mercy, "I would not harm a hair of his head for as many guineas as there be hairs in mine."
"Child," said my lord, "thou art too good for this world: but go thy ways; and God bless thee."
The Judge now retired for some refreshment76, and while he was gone, Sir George Neville dashed up to the Town Hall, four in hand, and rushed in by the magistrate's door, with a pedlar's pack, which he had discovered in the mere, a few yards from the spot where the mutilated body was found.
He learned the prisoner was already acquitted. He left the pack with the sheriff, and begged him to show it to the judge; and went in search of Mrs. Gaunt.
He found her in the gaoler's house. She and Mercy Vint were seated hand in hand. He started at first sight of the latter. There was a universal shaking of hands, and glistening77 of eyes. And, when this was over, Mrs. Gaunt turned to him, and said, piteously, "She will go back to Lancashire to-morrow; nothing I can say will turn her."
"No, Dame," said Mercy, quietly, "Cumberland is no place for me. My work is done here. Our paths in this world do lie apart. George Neville, persuade her to go home at once, and not trouble about me."
"Indeed, madam," said Sir George, "she speaks wisely: she always does. My carriage is at the door, and the people waiting by thousands in the street to welcome your deliverance."
"Are they so," said she, grimly. "Then I'll baulk them. I'll steal away in the dead of night. No, miserable populace, that howls and hisses80 with the strong against the weak, you shall have no part in my triumph; 'tis sacred to my friends. You honoured me with your hootings; you shall not disgrace me with your acclamations. Here I stay till Mercy Vint, my guardian81 angel, leaves me for ever."
She then requested Sir George to order his horses hack82 to the inn, and the coachman was to hold himself in readiness to start when the whole town should be asleep.
Meantime a courier was despatched to Hernshaw Castle, to prepare for Mrs. Gaunt's reception.
Mrs. Menteith made a bed up for Mercy Vint, and, at midnight, when the coast was clear, came the parting.
It was a sad one.
Even Mercy, who had great self-command, could not then restrain her tears.
To apply the sweet and touching words of Scripture83, "They sorrowed most of all for this, that they should see each other's face no more."
Sir George accompanied Mrs. Gaunt to Hernshaw.
After one or two attempts at conversation, he judged it wisest and even most polite to respect her mood.
At last she burst out, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!"
"Why, what is amiss?" inquired Sir George.
"What is amiss? Why, 'tis all amiss. 'Tis so heartless, so ungrateful, to let that poor angel go home to Lancashire all alone, now she has served my turn. Sir George, do not think I undervalue your company, but if you would but take her home instead of taking me! Poor thing, she is brave; but, when the excitement of her good action is over, and she goes back the weary road all alone, what desolation it will be. My heart bleeds for her. I know I am an unconscionable woman, to ask such a thing; but then you are a true chevalier; you always were; and you saw her merit directly; oh, do pray leave me to slip unnoticed into Hernshaw Castle, and do you accompany my benefactress to her humble85 home. Will you, dear Sir George? 'Twould be such a load off my heart."
To this appeal, uttered with trembling lip and moist eyes, Sir George replied in character. He declined to desert Mrs. Gaunt until he had seen her safe home; but that done, he would ride back to Carlisle, and escort Mercy home.
Mrs. Gaunt sighed, and said she was abusing his friendship, and should kill him with fatigue86, and he was a good creature. "If anything could make me easy, this would," said she: "you know how to talk to a woman, and comfort her. I wish I was a man: I'd cure her of Griffith before we reached the 'Packhorse.' And, now I think of it, you are a very happy man to travel eighty miles with an angel, a dove-eyed angel."
"I am a happy man to have an opportunity of complying with your desires, madam," was the demure87 reply. "Tis not often you do me the honor to lay your orders on me."
After this, nothing of any moment passed until they reached Hernshaw Castle; and then, as they drove up to the door, and saw the hall blazing with lights, Mrs. Gaunt laid her hand softly on Sir George, and whispered, "You were right. I thank you for not leaving me."
The servants were all in the hall, to receive their mistress; and amongst them were those who had given honest but unfavorable testimony88 at the trial, being called by the Crown. These had consulted together, and, after many pros89 and cons27, had decided90 that they had better not follow their natural impulse, and hide from her face, since that might be a fresh offense. Accordingly, these witnesses, dressed in their best, stood with the others in the hall, and made their obeisances91, quaking inwardly.
Mrs. Gaunt entered the hall leaning on Sir George's arm. She scarcely bestowed92 a look upon the late witnesses for the Crown, but made them one sweeping curtsy in return, and passed on; only Sir George felt her taper93 fingers just nip his arm.
She made him partake of some supper, and then this chevalier des dames94 rode home, snatched a few hours' sleep, put on the yeoman's suit in which he had first visited the "Packhorse," and arriving at Carlisle, engaged the whole inside of the coach; for his orders were to console, and he did not see his way clear to do that with two or three strangers listening to every word.
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1
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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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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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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assassinating
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的现在分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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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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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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molests
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| n.骚扰( molest的名词复数 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵v.骚扰( molest的第三人称单数 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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37
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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39
skulks
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
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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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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42
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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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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45
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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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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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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51
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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auger
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| n.螺丝钻，钻孔机 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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monstrously
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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81
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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84
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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85
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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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87
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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88
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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89
pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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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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obeisances
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| n.敬礼，行礼( obeisance的名词复数 )；敬意 | |
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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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93
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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