While these events were taking place in London, Marie, isolated2 in The Monastery3, anxiously waited to hear news from her lover. As arranged, Mr. Fuller met her at the Lewes station and drove her to Belstone in his trap. As Alan had guessed, the vicar was in full possession of all that had taken place, and invited the girl to stay with himself and his wife until matters were more settled. While in London Marie had complained of her loneliness at the big house, and had looked forward to some such invitation. But on the way down in the train she had changed her mind, since she felt that she could think things out better when alone. However, she did not object to dining at the vicarage, and explained the whole matter to her hostess. They were naturally horrified4, as no such event had ever before disturbed the village.
"I can't believe that Mr. Sorley would commit a crime," said Mrs. Fuller, greatly distressed5, "gentlemen don't do these things."
The vicar drew down his long upper lip. "I fear that gentlemen do what suits them, when the temptation is strong, my dear."
"Does that mean that you believe Uncle Ran is guilty?" flashed out Marie in a resentful tone.
"Not necessarily. I am not yet acquainted with the whole story, save what scraps6 you told me as we drove here."
Marie looked round the room, and seeing that the servants had taken their departure, leaving those at the table to walnuts7 and wine, she concluded that the moment had come to make a clean breast of things. In a low voice, and entirely8 without emotion, she related all that she had heard from Alan and Dick. The story sounded black enough, and the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller grew longer as she proceeded. When she ended there ensued a silence which rasped Marie's nerves.
"Well?" she asked sharply, and looking from one to the other, "what do you think of it?"
"The weight of evidence is decidedly in favor of Sorley's guilt," said Mr. Fuller sadly.
"I daresay. All the same he is innocent."
"How can you prove that, my dear girl?"
"I can't prove it," responded Miss Inderwick in a truly feminine way, "but Uncle Ran never did it for all that."
"It is all very dreadful," moaned Mrs. Fuller, shaken out of her usual state of placid12 happiness. "I wonder you can speak so quietly, Marie."
"I cried awfully13 in London," acknowledged the girl frankly14; "but I can't cry any more. Tears won't help Uncle Ran, and common-sense will. He is not going to be hanged if I can help it."
"You intend to prove your uncle's innocence18--or what you presume to be his innocence?" asked the vicar, looking at her doubtfully.
"Yes, only I don't presume anything. I know that Uncle Ran never killed that poor thing. I don't know who did, but he didn't."
"How are you going to set about the matter?"
"I can't say," said Marie curtly19, although this statement was not quite true, for she had an idea of making a start, which she did not intend to place before these two ordinary people.
"Of course, if your uncle had the peacock, my dear----"
"Mrs. Fuller, I am quite sure that Miss Grison brought down the peacock on that day when she paid a visit unasked to The Monastery. She hates Uncle Ran because she thinks he ruined her brother, and is only too glad to get him into trouble."
"But how could she get the peacock?"
"From her brother. He had it all the time. Alan said so, and he knows a very great deal about matters."
"Alan has a good head," said the vicar approvingly. "I think Marie you had better allow him to look into the matter, and stay with us meanwhile. We can send over to The Monastery for your clothes, my dear."
"No thank you. I wished at one time to stay here until Uncle Ran was proved innocent, but I think it is best for me to return to the house in case he should come back again."
"Oh, I hope not," cried Mrs. Fuller in alarm, "he would assuredly be arrested as soon as the news got about."
"It wouldn't get about," said Marie resolutely21, "for I should hide Uncle Ran somewhere until we learned the truth. There are plenty of secret places in the house where he could be concealed23."
Mr. Fuller passed over this latter statement to remark upon the first. "The question is, what is the truth? If Sorley is innocent, and I sincerely trust that he is, who murdered this unfortunate Baldwin?"
"Who is he? You never mentioned him before," said Mrs. Fuller, startled.
"Did I not?" observed Miss Inderwick with a lightness she was far from feeling. "Oh, he is an Indian who wants to get the jewels because he says that they belong to the royal family of Kam. He came down here and stopped a night at The Red Fox."
Mr. Fuller nodded. "I fancy I heard something about a foreigner staying there," he said quietly, "in July last was it not?"
Marie nodded. "He learned all about the peacock from Mrs. Verwin--the common talk of the village, that is."
"Oh that woman is a terrible gossip," exclaimed Mrs. Fuller distressed. "I dread11 her tongue. What did she say exactly, my dear?"
Marie reported the interview between herself and Mrs. Verwin and Alan, and shortly, the vicar and his wife were acquainted with the way in which Morad-Bakche had traced the peacock to Belstone and afterwards to London. "And I believe that he learned Mr. Grison had it," finished Marie, "and must have tried to get it from him. A man like that is much more likely to murder a person than poor dear Uncle Ran, though he has his faults, and has always been horrid25 over my engagement to Alan."
"But are you really engaged to Alan?" asked the vicar sharply.
"Yes, I am. Uncle Ran said that if Alan found the jewels that we could be married, so I look upon myself as being engaged to him."
"But Alan has never found the jewels," objected Mrs. Fuller tremulously. "He may never find them, my dear."
"It doesn't matter," replied Marie, getting on her feet; "we shall marry all the same. But the first thing to be done is to save Uncle Ran, and I am doing what I can--that is, I intend to do what I can. Alan will work also, and Mr. Latimer, though he doesn't seem to think Uncle Ran is innocent.'
"On the face of it it looks as though he were not," said the vicar doubtfully, and rising in his turn, "however we can talk over the matter in the drawing-room."
"No," said Marie standing26 very erect27, and looking at the elderly pair with very bright eyes. "I am now going home to think out things."
"Oh, Marie, won't you stay here?"
"I think it is best to go home," repeated the girl gently, but kissing the soft and withered28 old cheek. "I am all right with granny and Henny and Jenny to look after me. If Mr. Bakche comes I shan't be afraid."
"My dear girl, you may suspect him wrongly," said Mr. Fuller.
"Well, other people are suspecting Uncle Ran wrongly," retorted Miss Inderwick, "so that balances things. Now I must go away. Good-night Mr. Fuller; good-night, Mrs. Fuller. If I learn anything I shall come and tell you."
"I shall write at once to Alan and ask him to explain things precisely29," said the vicar, as he saw his guest at the door; "and keep up your heart my dear child. This trouble, like all troubles, is a blessing30 in disguise."
"It is a very good disguise, then" said Marie sadly, "no, don't come with me," she added when Mr. Fuller assumed his soft hat and took his stick. "I can get home by myself."
"No," said the clergyman grimly, and took her arm, "after you have hinted about that Indian, I think it is just as well to see you safely into the hands of your servants."
"But you don't think----"
"I think that one should always be on the safe side, my dear. If this man wants the peacock, he may try and enter the house. If he does I am sorry for him, as Henny and Jenny are as strong as men. By the way where is that wretched bird, which has caused so much trouble?"
"I don't know," sighed Marie, as they walked through the village, "uncle took it away with him I think, although he has left his gems31."
"I should think if Sorley clears his name he will have had enough of gems for the rest of his life," remarked Mr. Fuller rebukingly32, but as Marie did not answer, and he did not wish to cause her pain, he said no more. They passed through Belstone, and into the park, and Marie said good-bye to the vicar when Henny with a noisy joy received her at the door. Mr. Fuller was now at ease in his mind, as he knew how devoted33 the Dutch dolls were, and returned home wondering how these crooked34 things would straighten out.
Granny and the two servants were overcome with delight when their young mistress was within doors, for they had troubled considerably35 over her visit to London. Marie laughed them out of their fears and assured them that she was quite able to look after herself. They asked after Mr. Sorley, who was no great favorite with the three, but of course Marie, ignorant of what had taken place at Miss Grison's, could give them no information. In her opinion Uncle Ran had gone abroad, and would wait there until his innocence could be proved.
"Well, my dear Miss Marie," said granny polishing her spectacles. "God forbid as I should say what I shouldn't say, but there's no doubt as Mr. Sorley ain't the proper person to be your guardian36, my dear. He's took your money and kept you short and mewed you up here like a nun37, to say nothing of having behaved very badly to that poor Miss Grison, not that I'm fond of her myself."
"Did Uncle Ran ever care for her?" asked Miss Inderwick anxiously.
"Well he did and he didn't. She was pretty, in a light-haired skimpy way, I don't deny, and I thought as he loved her; and then--but it's too long a story, Miss Marie. I'll tell it you to-morrow when you are rested. Let us hope that Mr. Sorley won't be hanged, which would be a sore disgrace to the family, and that you'll marry Master Alan, who is just the kind-hearted gentleman to look after your interests properly."
"Look after them and me also, you mean, granny," said Marie, who was really too weary to listen to an account of her uncle's early delinquencies. "I shall go to bed now," and she did, feeling quite worn out. But before falling asleep she arranged in her own mind to go to London the next day.
The fact is, Marie being anxious and wilful38, was not at all pleased to remain passive while things were so unpleasant for her uncle, and incidentally for herself, since she was his niece. Alan had insisted that she should not see Mother Slaig, whereupon Marie, although promising39 to obey him, mentally vowed40 that she would do so. Mother Slaig, if anyone, would know the truth and might be persuaded to reveal it to a dexterous41 questioner. Of course this was Marie's own opinion, and she intended to prove to Alan that she was right. Sorley had given her twenty pounds, so there was no lack of money, and the girl decided10 firmly to do a little detective business on her own account. For no visible reason she believed that Bakche had something to do with the death of Grison, if not indeed the actual doer of the deed. Should her surmise42 prove to be correct Mother Slaig might be able to say if the Indian had haunted the slum, or had come into touch with the deceased. And Marie wished her uncle would return home if only to tell her that he had seen Bakche at Rotherhithe, which was not impossible, considering that Mr. Sorley had been too often to interview Grison. But Sorley, as she sadly reflected, did not dare to come back, for the detective left behind by Moon was still in the house, and would arrest him at once.
Of course granny made an outcry the next morning, when Marie announced her intention of going again to London. All her arguments were in vain, however, and Miss Inderwick left the house early so as to catch a morning train. She promised to be back again by six o'clock, but did not tell granny where she was going--that is she admitted that the metropolis43 was her goal, but did not specify44 whither she would precisely go. Granny, believing that the wilful girl was to meet her lover, felt fairly comfortable in her mind. Had she known that Miss Inderwick purposed exploring a slum, she would have sent a telegram to Fuller to stop the excursion. Marie guessed this, so held her peace.
The girl knew exactly how to get to Rotherhithe, as she had peeped into an ABC. before leaving Belstone. On arrival at Victoria it was necessary to take the underground route, which would conduct her directly to her destination. When on the spot Marie hoped by enquiries to learn the precise whereabouts of Mother Slaig, and moreover had a faint idea that the slum the harridan45 lived in was called Gibson's Rents. To explore this low neighborhood she had put on an old serge frock and a shabby black jacket, so that she was as well disguised as her uncle had been when he sought Barkers Inn. Not that Marie was ever so well dressed as Mr. Sorley, for he never gave her sufficient money to be extravagant46.
The venturesome damsel duly reached Victoria Station, and had no difficulty in dropping downward to the nether47 railway line. Being yet a schoolgirl and feeling hungry, she bought some pastry48 of the jam-puff order and devoured49 it in the first-class compartment50, which she shared with other ladies. Marie travelled in this most expensive fashion, because she thought she would be safer from being accosted51 by strangers. Destiny protected her in this especial way, and she gained Rotherhithe without having a single remark addressed to her. When she emerged into the open air once more, she looked helplessly around, not knowing which way to go. But she felt sure that Gibson's Rents was the name of the slum, and asked a tall and burly policeman where it was to be found.
The officer looked at her keenly, and saw that she was a lady in spite of her shabby clothes. "Why do you wish to go there, miss?" he asked, and touched his helmet, "it's a rough place."
"I wish to see a woman called Mrs. Slaig."
"Mother Slaig. Why, miss, she's one of the worst creatures in the slum. I don't think it is wise of you to go, miss, I don't indeed. You're a district visitor, I take it, miss," went on the man, who could conceive of no other object but philanthropy which would take the young lady into such a hole, "and Mother Slaig don't want tracts52."
Marie did not deny the identity the policeman attributed to her, as she was quick enough to see that such a character would expedite her journey, and would conceal22 her real intentions. She did not wish to be asked questions lest she should get into trouble, by interesting herself in a police-court case, such as the murder of Grison truly was. "I shall be all right, officer," she answered lightly; "no one will hurt me."
"Well, miss, I don't think they will, for they think a heap of district visitors at Gibson's Rents, as these ladies give them money. But I can take you to the end of my beat and pass you on to another officer, who will show you the way. Come along, miss."
Marie conceived a high estimate of the guardians53 of the law, for her friend passed her along to another, who transferred her to a third, and all three men were courteous54 and considerate in every way. Perhaps Marie's good looks, and engaging manners had something to do with this suavity55, but she was certainly charmed with her guides. It was a fourth policeman, tall, slim and military-looking who conducted her down the crooked alley56, near the riverside, where Mother Slaig had her boarding-house. There were numbers of disreputable people about, both male and female, and when the oaths of these unfortunate creatures struck her ear, and her eyes rested on their animal faces, the girl felt glad that she had a constable57 at her elbow. In her ignorance, she had never thought that the neighborhood was so vile58 as this, and half regretted coming. However, she had the high spirit of the Inderwicks, and declined to turn back, for having put her hand to the plough, the did not intend to leave it until she had driven her furrow59.
The fourth policeman saw her shudder16 of disgust, when they stopped before a disreputable house, dingy60, tumble-down, and dilapidated. "I shall stay here while you give Mother Slaig your tracts, miss," he said politely, also taking her for a district visitor, "and if anything goes wrong, you just call for me."
Perhaps for this reason Mother Slaig received Marie graciously, when she ventured into the evil-smelling place. It was like a rabbit-warren with innumerable doors, passages, stairs, and rooms, all equally foul61. Men and women in ragged62 garbs63 swarmed64 in and out, while children tumbled here there and everywhere, shrilly65 crying and swearing and quarrelling. The police introduced Marie to the landlady66 of this thieves' kitchen, as it truly was, and then took up his station at the door with his thumbs in his belt, to look benignly67 on the ebbing68 and flowing of the populace in and out of the lane, and in and out of the dens69 which bordered it. Mother Slaig, not approving of district visitors--for Marie had been presented as one--led the young lady into a small dark room on the ground floor, and sat down with a sniff70, prepared to battle for her rights as an Englishwoman, who declined to be converted. She was a shapeless stout71 old creature swathed in various rags which had long since lost their color. Her face was so swarthy as to suggest gipsy blood, and her snappy black eyes and the quantity of cheap jewellery she wore emphasised the fact that she probably belonged to the gentle Romany.
"I don't want no Bible talk, young lady," she said in a harsh voice, "nor no tracts, nor no arsking if I'm saved. Whether I am or I ain't's my look out, so just say your say and git, though I don't deny," added Mother Slaig in a whining72 tone, "as a shilling or two, let alone gold, would help me to bear me sorrers better, bless you, my dearie."
"I shall give you a pound if you will let me have a talk with you," said Marie, smiling, for in spite of the woman's disreputable looks there was something oddly attractive about her.
"Not much, but it is all I can afford. You are a kind-hearted woman, Mrs. Slaig, I am quite sure."
"Me!" Mother Slaig stared. "Why I'm the tork of the place for me languidge and slappings."
"Ah," said Marie diplomatically, "no one has taken you in the right way."
"P'raps they 'ave an' p'raps they 'avn't," growled74 the woman restlessly, for Marie's charm of manner softened75 her, "an what's all this oil and butter for, miss. You want something, you do. Oh trust you fur that."
"Yes, Mrs. Slaig, I do want something, and I am going to throw myself on your mercy, because I trust you."
The old hag stopped scratching her elbow, and stared harder than ever. "I never was spoke76 delicate-like to afore," she muttered. "You ain't the sort of lady with tracts as I' 'ad 'ere, bullying77 me no end."
"I hope I'm not," said Marie with a girlish laugh, which brought a perplexed78 smile in answer on the old woman's dirty wrinkled face. It was rare that such pure innocent laughter was heard in Gibson's Rents. "I know you will help me, Mrs. Slaig."
"Well, I don't say as I won't, for there's no denying you've got a way with you, as ain't bad. What is it?"
"It's about the murder of Mr. Grison?" said Marie slowly.
Mother Slaig aroused with a subdued79 screech80, "Blimme if you ain't one o' them wimin 'tecs. Now ain't y', ain't y'?"
"No; I am the niece of Mr. Randolph Sorley who is accused of the crime."
Mother Slaig dropped again into her chair a shapeless bundle of clothes, and with a bewildered look in her eyes. "Ho! you're her, are y'?" she growled, but not in a hostile manner. "Moon--he's the head peeler hereabouts, dearie's been nosin' round about that murder. Only this mornin' he comes an' ses as they caught that Sorley cove81 larst night, and he got away in th' bloomin' fog. Yuss," said Mother Slaig, anticipating Marie's question. "I knows the Sorley cove. Many a time he's come t' see that Grison chap, as was a rotten bad egg, and guv me shillin's and tanners endless. A swell82, a toff, he was tryin' to look what wasn't his age, but a good 'un wiff his cash. I 'adn't got no row with him, nohow," and she nodded vigorously.
"You don't think he murdered Mr. Grison?" asked Marie apprehensively83.
"Blimme if I knows," said Mother Slaig reflectively, and scratching her elbow again, "and what odd's 'f he did anyhow, miss. Grison was better undergroun' than above it in my opinion. Never paid his rent rigler he did, cuss him," swore Mother Slaig furiously, "an' if I'd knowed about that gold hen as they're makin' sich a fuss round, I'd ha' had it out of him for a whelp as he allays84 was, an' that same, you kin1 taike fro' me, miss."
"Well I don't believe that my uncle murdered Mr. Grison," said Marie in a resolute20 voice, and looking hard at the harridan.
"That's right, dearie, allys stick up fur them as is relatives, though I don't think much o' mine leavin' me 'ere to slave cruel, and never givin' no cash whiff their stingyness. He was 'ere that night y' know anyhow."
"He came away at eight o'clock and Mr. Grison wasn't killed till after," declared the girl.
"So he ses," murmured Mother Slaig, "p'raps some frien' of him es Grison stuck paid him out in th' saime waif."
"What do you mean?" asked Marie who had not heard of the man's act.
"Didn't y' know," cried Mother Slaig with relish85 "why, bless y' miss--an' bless y' I kin, fur I've kind o' taiken a fancy t' y'--Grison killed a cove es he smoked wiff in, that Chinky's den9. We fun' the watch of th' cove an' his juwulery in Grison's room. A frien' of him es wos done fur may 'ave stuck Grison out of revenge, and no blame t' him, dearie."
"Do you know if any relatives of this dead man came down here?"
"No, I never did. I don't know anything, miss, and what's more I don't want to i' case I shud come bunkin' against them beastly perlice, as is allays interferin' with an honest woman who's tryin' to git 'er livin'."
"Well then," asked Marie coming to the point "can you tell me if an Indian called Morad-Bakche ever came to see Mr. Grison?"
"Don' no th' naime," said Mother Slaig, after a moment's thought, "an there's lots of them dagoes abaout 'ere, lascars an' mulletters and all that sort o' scum. Grison torked t' one an' all. What like's the cove's y've got in yer mind, miss?"
As Marie had heard Bakche described both by Alan and Mrs. Verwin she was able to convey to Mother Slaig's shrewd intelligence a fair picture of the man. The old hag reflected again, then slapped her fat knees with both fat hands. "Know 'im, dearie; 'course I knows him, 'Aughty-like, fur a nigger, an' looked on me, es is a free born British woman jus' like mud. I guv him bits of m' mind when he sneaked86 round 'ere."
"Then he did come to see Mr. Grison?" asked Marie, delighted that she had succeeded in establishing the fact of Bakche's acquaintance with the dead man. "Did he come often?"
"Carn't keep count, miss, me not 'aving a 'ead fur figures, tho' me sister was grand at them, dearie. But he comes times an' again. Oh, yuss," she went on as the memory returned to her, "he was stan'orf fur a nigger. 'Thort he was a lascar at fust, but he wasn't, tho' he did live on rice and water like them sweeps. Dress'd like one of them stokers tho'--if y' know what a seedee boy is, miss, which of course y' wudn't, bein' a lady. I sawr as he was a cut above them, I did. He wore a snake?"
"Wore a snake," repeated Marie bewildered.
"On his right arm, below th' elber," explained Mother Slaig, "'tattooted it was, as them sailors 'ave a fancy fur; twistin' round' an' roun' till it made me giddy t' look at it."
Marie was glad she had heard this mark of identification was to be found on the haughty87 dark gentleman who had visited Grison. She was certain that the man in question was Bakche in search of the peacock, but it was just as well that Mother Slaig could identify him by means of the tattooed88 snake. "Was he here on the night of the murder?" asked Marie anxiously.
"Ah, now you 'as me," said Mother Slaig in an expansive fashion, "me, on th' night as he was done fur, bein' 'appy."
"Happy?" Marie did not know what was meant.
"Gin," explained Mother Slaig rocking to and fro. "White satin as some call it, tho' blue ruin is my naime fur it. I got half a quid fro' that Sorley chap, es he come in or wen' out--I dunno which. 'Laid it all out in gin wiff frien's o' mine, and we did 'ave a time t' dream of. Never thort I cud ha' swallered such oachings o' gin; but I did, an' the thust as was on me nex' mornin', dearie, you'd never believe."
"But isn't it bad to drink so much," asked Marie, rising timidly.
"Fur sich es you es is a flower it is," agreed Mother Slaig, rolling out of the chair and getting on her feet with an effort, since she was so stout, "but not fur me, es 'as a 'ard time, dearie. You've fun' me sober thro' me not 'aving--where's that there quid y' promised?" she demanded suddenly.
"There," said Marie, taking the money from her pocket, "but don't drink it away, Mrs. Slaig. It's a pity such a nice woman as you should drink gin."
"Well, I don't git no shampin down 'ere, dearie," said Mrs. Slaig crossly, and, like Jotty, biting the gold to make sure it was genuine. "We taikes what we can. Wan't t' know anythin' else, lovey dovey?"
"No," answered Marie, walking into the passage, for the smell and closeness of the place was making her feel faint. "But you needn't tell anyone what I asked you about."
"Sha'n't nohow," said Mother Slaig firmly. "Y've browt back daiys when I was a pretty girl and 'ad all the men arter me, furious-like. You're a breath o' fresh air an' a smell of country roses, an' a sight o' green fields, t' yours truly, dearie. An, never a word shell I say, save as you're a visitor with tracts--tho' you ain't guv me one, but summit better." Mother Slaig felt for her sovereign as she spoke. "But if there's police, dearie, an' I 'as t' saive m' bacon, I mus' speak."
"There will be no trouble with the police," Marie assured her in a low and hurried voice, for her friendly constable was just at the end of the passage. "Good-bye, Mrs. Slaig."
"Go'bye, dearie," she attempted a curtsey, but failed for want of breath. "'An bless y' fur an angil o' delight wiff stars roun' yer 'ead."
Marie laughed and hurried away in the shadow of the policeman, who refused to accept a tip. Again she was passed from one constable to another, until she regained89 the station, and every one of her temporary guides declined money.
"The most chivalrous90 men in the world," said Marie afterwards, "are London policemen!" and she never changed her opinion on this point.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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rebukingly
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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garbs
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| vt.装扮（garb的第三人称单数形式） | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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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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76
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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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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81
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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82
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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83
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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84
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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86
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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87
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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