In the snug4 old "Cock and Anchor," the morning after the exciting scenes in which O'Connor had taken so active a part, that gentleman was pacing the floor of his sitting-room5 in no small agitation6. On the result of that interview, which he had resolved no longer to postpone7, depended his happiness for years—it might be for life. Again and again he applied8 himself to the task of arranging clearly and concisely9, and withal adroitly10 and with tact11, the substance of what he had to say to Sir Richard Ashwoode. But, spite of all, his mind would wander to the pleasant hours he had passed with Mary Ashwoode in the quiet green wood and by the dark well's side, and through the moss-grown rocks, and by the chiming current of the wayward brook12, long before the cold and worldly had suspected and repulsed13 that love which he knew could never die but when his heart had ceased to beat for ever. Again would he, banishing14 with a stoical effort these unbidden visions of memory, seek to accomplish the important task which he had proposed to himself; but still all in vain. There was she once more—there was the pale, pensive15, lovely face—there the long, dark, silken tresses—there the deep, beautiful eyes—and there the smile—the artless, melancholy16, enchanting17 smile.
"It boots not trying," exclaimed O'Connor. "I cannot collect my thoughts; and yet what use in conning18 over the order and the words of what, after all, will be judged merely by its meaning? Perhaps it is better that I should yield myself wholly up to the impulse of the moment, and so speak but the more directly and the more boldly. No; even in such a cause I will not accommodate myself to his cramp20 and crooked21 habits of thought and feeling. If I let him know all, it matters little how he learns it."
As O'Connor finished this sentence, his meditations22 were dispelled23 by certain sounds, which issued from the passage leading to his room.
"A young man," exclaimed a voice, interrupted by a good deal of puffing24 and blowing, probably caused by the steep ascent25, "and a good-looking, eh?—(puff)—dark eyes, eh?—(puff, puff)—black hair and straight nose, eh?—(puff, puff)—long-limbed, tall, eh?—(puff)."
The answers to these interrogatories, whatever they may have been, were, where O'Connor stood, wholly inaudible; but the cross-examination was accompanied throughout by a stout26, firm, stumping27 tread upon the old floor, which, along with the increasing clearness with which the noise made its way to O'Connor's door, sufficiently28 indicated that the speaker was approaching. The accents were familiar to him. He ran to his door, opened it; and in an instant Hugh Audley, Esquire, very hot and very much out of breath, pitched himself, with a good deal of precision, shoulders foremost, against the pit of the young man's stomach, and, embracing him a little above the hips29, hugged him for some time in silence, swaying him to and fro with extraordinary energy, as if preparatory to tripping him up, and taking him off his feet altogether—then giving him a shove straight from him, and holding him at arm's length, he looked with brimful eyes, and a countenance30 beaming with delight, full in O'Connor's face.
"Confound the dog, how well he looks," exclaimed the old gentleman, vehemently—"devilish well, curse him!" and he gave O'Connor a shove with his knuckles31, and succeeded in staggering himself—"never saw you look better in my life, nor anyone else for that matter; and how is every inch of you, and what have you been doing with yourself? Come, you young dog, account for yourself."
O'Connor had now, for the first time, an opportunity of bidding the kind old gentleman welcome, which he did to the full as cordially, if not so boisterously32.
"Let me sit down and rest myself: I must take breath for a minute," exclaimed the old gentleman. "Give me a chair, you undutiful rascal34. What a devil of a staircase that is, to be sure. Well, and what do you intend doing with yourself to-day?"
"To say the truth," said the young man, while a swarthier glow crossed his dark features. "I was just about to start for Morley Court, to see Sir Richard Ashwoode."
"About his daughter, I take it?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Just so, sir," replied the younger man.
"Then you may spare yourself the pains," rejoined the old gentleman, briskly. "You are better at home. You have been forestalled35."
"What—how, sir? What do you mean?" asked O'Connor, in great perplexity and alarm.
"Just what I say, my boy. You have been forestalled."
"By whom, sir?"
"By me."
"By you?"
"Ay."
The old gentleman screwed his brows and pursed up his mouth until it became a Gordian involution of knots and wrinkles, threw a fierce and determined36 expression into his eyes, and wagged his head slightly from side to side—looking altogether very like a "Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood." At length he said,—
"I'm an old fellow, and ought to know something by this time—think I do, for that matter; and I say deliberately—cut the whole concern and blow them all."
Having thus delivered himself, the old gentleman resumed his sternest expression of countenance, and continued in silence to wag his head from time to time with an air of infinite defiance37, leaving his young companion, if possible, more perplexed38 and bewildered than ever.
"And have you, then, seen Sir Richard Ashwoode?" inquired O'Connor.
"Have I seen him?" rejoined the old gentleman. "To be sure I have. The moment the boat touched the quay39, and I fairly felt terra firma, I drove to the 'Fox in Breeches,' and donned a handsome suit"—(here the gentleman glanced cursorily40 at his bottle-green habiliments)—"I ordered a hack-coach—got safely to Morley Court—saw Sir Richard, laid up with the gout, looking just like an old, dried-up, cross-grained monkey. There was, of course, a long explanation, and all that sort of thing—a good deal of tact and diplomacy41 on my side, doubling about, neat fencing, and circumbendibus; but all would not do—an infernal smash. Sir Richard was all but downright uncivil—would not hear of it—said plump and plain he would never consent. The fact is, he's a sour, hard, insolent42 old scoundrel, and a bitter pill; and I congratulate you heartily43 on having escaped all connection with him and his. Don't look so down in the mouth about the matter; there's as good fish in the sea as ever was caught; and if the young woman is half such a shrew as her father is a tartar, you have had an escape to be thankful for the longest day you live."
We shall not attempt to describe the feelings with which O'Connor received this somewhat eccentric communication. He folded his arms upon the table, and for many minutes leaned his head upon them, without motion, and without uttering one word. At length he said,—
"After all, I ought to have expected this. Sir Richard is a bigoted44 man in his own faith—an ambitious and a worldly man, too. It was folly45, mere19 folly, knowing all this, to look for any other answer from him. He may indeed delay our union for a little, but he cannot bar it—he shall not bar it. I could more easily doubt myself than Mary's constancy; and if she be but firm and true—and she is all loyalty46 and all truth—the world cannot part us two. Our separation cannot outlast47 his life; nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her scruples48, combat all her doubts, satisfy her reason. She will consent—she will be mine—my own—through life and until death. No hand shall sunder49 us for ever,"—he turned to the old man, and grasped his hand—"My dear, kind, true friend, how can I ever thank you for all your generous acts of kindness. I cannot."
"Never mind, never mind, my dear boy," said the old gentleman, blubbering in spite of himself—"never mind—what a d——d old fool I am, to be sure. Come, come, you, shall take a turn with me towards the country, and get an appetite for dinner. You'll be as well as ever in half an hour. When all's done, you stand no worse than you did yesterday; and if the girl's a good girl, as I make no doubt she is, why, you are sure of her constancy—and the devil himself shall not part you. Confound me if I don't run away with the girl for you myself if you make a pother about the matter. Come along, you dog—come along, I say."
"Nay50, sir," replied O'Connor, "forgive me. I am keenly pained. I am agitated51—confounded at the suddenness of this—this dreadful blow. I will go alone, pardon me, my kind and dear friend, I must go alone. I may chance to see the lady. I am sure she will not fail me—she will meet me. Oh! heart and brain, be still—be steady—I need your best counsels now. Farewell, sir—for a little time, farewell."
"Well, be it so—since so it must be," said Mr. Audley, who did not care to combat a resolution, announced with all the wild energy of despairing passion, "by all means, my dear boy, alone it shall be, though I scarce think you would be the worse of a staid old fellow's company in your ramble52—but no matter, boys will be boys while the world goes round."
The conclusion of this sentence was a soliloquy, for O'Connor had already descended53 to the inn yard, where he procured54 a horse, and was soon, with troubled mind and swelling55 heart, making rapid way toward Morley Court. It was now the afternoon—the sun had made nearly half his downward course—the air was soft and fresh, and the birds sang sweetly in the dark nooks and bowers56 of the tall trees: it seemed almost as if summer had turned like a departing beauty, with one last look of loveliness to gladden the scene which she was regretfully leaving. So sweet and still the air—so full and mellow57 the thrilling chorus of merry birds among the rustling58 leaves, flitting from bough59 to bough in the clear and lofty shadow—so cloudless the golden flood of sunlight. Such was the day—so gladsome the sounds—so serene60 the aspect of all nature—as O'Connor, dismounting under the shadow of a tall, straggling hawthorn61 hedge, and knotting the bridle62 in one of its twisted branches, crossed a low stile, and thus entered the grounds of Morley Court. He threaded a winding63 path which led through a neglected wood of thorn and oak, and found himself after a few minutes in the spot he sought. The old beech walk had been once the main avenue to the house. Huge beech-trees flung their mighty64 boughs65 high in air across its long perspective—and bright as was the day, the long lane lay in shadow deep and solemn as that of some old Gothic aisle66. Down this dim vista67 did O'Connor pace with hurried steps toward the spot where, about midway in its length, there stood the half-ruined piers68 and low walls of what had once been a gateway.
"Can it be that she shrinks from this meeting?" thought O'Connor, as his eye in vain sought the wished-for form of Mary Ashwoode, "will she disappoint me?—surely she who has walked with me so many lonely hours in guileless trust need not have feared to meet me here. It was not generous to deny me this boon—to her so easy—to me so rich—yet perchance she judges wisely. What boots it that I should see her? Why see again that matchless beauty—that touching69 smile—those eyes that looked so fondly on me? Why see her more—since mayhap we shall never meet again? She means it kindly70. Her nature is all nobleness—all generosity71; and yet—and yet to see her no more—to hear her voice no more—have we—have we then parted at last for ever? But no—by heavens—'tis she—Mary!"
It was indeed Mary Ashwoode, blushing and beautiful as ever. In an instant O'Connor stood by her side.
"My own—my true-hearted Mary."
"Oh! Edmond," said she, after a brief silence, "I fear I have done wrong—have I?—in meeting you thus. I ought not—indeed I know I ought not to have come."
"Nay, Mary, do not speak thus. Dear Mary, have we not been companions in many a pleasant ramble: in those times—the times, Mary, that will never come again? Why, then, should you deny me a few minutes' mournful converse72, where in other days we two have passed so many pleasant hours?"
There was in the tone in which he spoke73 something so unutterably melancholy—and in the recollections which his few simple words called crowding to her mind, something at once so touching, so dearly cherished, and so bitterly regretted—that the tears gathered in her full dark eyes, and fell one by one fast and unheeded.
"You do not grieve, then, Mary," said he, "that you have come here—that we have met once more: do you, Mary?"
"Well, Mary," said he, "I am happy in the belief that you feel toward me just as you used to do—as happy as one so wretched can hope to be."
"Edmond, your words affright me," said she, fixing her eyes full upon him with imploring75 earnestness: "you look sadder—paler than you did yesterday; something has happened since then. What—what is it, Edmond? tell me—ah, tell me!"
"Yes, Mary, much has happened," answered he, taking her hand between both of his, and meeting her gaze with a look of passionate76 sorrow and tenderness—"yes, Mary, without my knowledge, the friend of whom I told you had arrived, and this morning saw your father, told him all, and was repulsed with sternness—almost with insult. Sir Richard has resolved that it shall never be; there is no more hope of bending him—none—none—none."
While O'Connor spoke, the colour in Mary's cheeks came and fled in turn with quick alternations, in answer to every throb77 and flutter of the poor heart within.
"See him—speak to him—yourself, Edmond, yourself. Oh! do not despair—see him—speak to him," she almost whispered, for agitation had well-nigh deprived her of voice—"see him, Edmond—yourself—for God's sake, dear Edmond—yourself—yourself"—and she grasped his arm in her tiny hand, and gazed in his pale face with such a look of agonized78 entreaty79 as cut him to the very heart.
"Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will speak to him myself," said O'Connor, with deep melancholy. "I will, Mary, though my own heart—my reason—tells me it is all—all utterly80 in vain; but, Mary," continued he, suddenly changing his tone to one of more alacrity81, "if he should still reject me—if he shall forbid our ever meeting more—if he shall declare himself unalterably resolved against our union—Mary, in such a case, would you, too, tell me to see you no more—would you, too, tell me to depart without hope, and never come again? or would you, Mary—could you—dare you—dear, dear Mary, for once—once only—disobey your stern and haughty82 father—dare you trust yourself with me—fly with me to France, and be at last, and after all, my own—my bride?"
"No, Edmond," said she, solemnly and sadly, while her eyes again filled with tears; and though she trembled like the leaf on the tree, yet he knew by the sound of her sad voice that her purpose could not alter—"that can never be—never, Edmond—no—no."
"Then, Mary, can it be," he answered, with an accent so desolate83 that despair itself seemed breathing in its tone—"can it be, after all—all we have passed and proved—all our love and constancy, and all our bright hopes, so long and fondly cherished—cherished in the midst of grief and difficulty—when we had no other stay but hope alone—are we, after all—at last, to part for ever?—is it, indeed, Mary, all—all over?"
As the two lovers stood thus in deep and melancholy converse by the ivy-grown and ruined gateway, beneath the airy shadow of the old beech-trees, they were recalled to other thoughts by the hurried patter of footsteps, and the rustling of the branches among the underwood which skirted the avenue. As fortune willed it, however, the intruder was no other than the honest dog, Rover, Mary's companion in many a silent and melancholy ramble; he came sniffing84 and bounding with boisterous33 greeting to hail his young mistress and her companion. The interruption, harmless as it was, startled Mary Ashwoode.
"Were my father to find us here, Edmond," said she, "it were fatal to all our hopes. You know his temper well. Let us then part here. Follow the by-path leading to the house. Go and see him—speak with him for my sake—for my sake, Edmond—and so—and so—farewell."
"And farewell, Mary, since it must be," said O'Connor, with a bitter struggle. "Farewell, but only for a time—only for a little time, Mary; and whatever befalls, remember—remember me. Farewell, Mary."
As he thus spoke, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it for the first time, it might be for the last, in his life. For a moment he stood, and gazed with sad devotion upon the loved face. Then, with an effort, he turned abruptly86 away, and strode rapidly in the direction she had indicated; and when he turned to look again, she was gone.
O'Connor followed the narrow path, which, diverging87 a little from the broad grass lane, led with many a wayward turn among the tall trees toward the house. As he thus pursued his way, a few moments of reflection satisfied him of the desperate nature of the enterprise which he had undertaken. But if lovers are often upon unreal grounds desponding, it is likewise true that they are sometimes sanguine88 when others would despair; and, spite of all his misgivings—of all the irresistible89 conclusions of stern reason—hope still beckoned90 him on. Thus agitated, he pursued his way, until, on turning an abrupt85 angle, he beheld91, scarcely more than a dozen paces in advance, and moving slowly toward him in the shadowy pathway, a figure, at sight of which, thus suddenly presented, he recoiled92, and stood for a moment fixed93 as a statue. He had encountered the object of his search. The form was that of Sir Richard Ashwoode himself, who, wrapped in his scarlet94 roquelaure, and leaning upon the shoulder of his Italian valet, while he limped forward slowly and painfully, appeared full before him.
"So, so, so, so," repeated the baronet, at first with unaffected astonishment95, which speedily, however, deepened into intense but constrained96 anger—his dark, prominent eyes peering fiercely upon the young man, while, stooping forward, and clutching his crutch-handled cane hard in his lean fingers, he limped first one and then another step nearer.
"Mr. O'Connor! or my eyes deceive me."
"Yes, Sir Richard," replied O'Connor, with a haughty bow, and advancing a little toward him in turn. "I am that Edmond O'Connor whom you once knew well, and whom it would seem you still know. I ought, doubtless——"
"Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric97, if you please," interrupted Sir Richard, bitterly—"no fustian98 speeches—to the point—to the point, sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver it in six words. Your business, sir. Be brief."
"I will not indeed waste words, Sir Richard Ashwoode," replied O'Connor, firmly. "There is but one subject on which I would seek a conference with you, and that subject you well may guess."
"I do guess it," retorted Sir Richard. "You would renew an absurd proposal—one opened three years since, and repeated this morning by the old booby, your elected spokesman. To that proposal I have ever given one answer—no. I have not changed my mind, nor ever shall. Am I understood, sir? And least of all should I think of changing my purpose now," continued he, more pointedly99, as a suspicion crossed his mind—"now, sir, that you have forfeited100 by your own act whatever regard you once seemed to me to merit. You did not seek me here, sir. I'm not to be fooled, sir. You did not seek me—don't assert it. I understand your purpose. You came here clandestinely101 to tamper102 like a schemer with my child. Yes, sir, a schemer!" repeated Sir Richard, with bitter emphasis, while his sharp sallow features grew sharper and more sallow still; and he struck the point of his cane at every emphatic103 word deep into the sod—"a mean, interested, cowardly schemer. How dare you steal into my place, you thrice-rejected, dishonourable, spiritless adventurer?"
The blood rushed to O'Connor's brow as the old man uttered this insulting invective104. The fiery105 impulse which under other circumstances would have been uncontrollable, was, however, speedily, though with difficulty, mastered; and O'Connor replied bitterly,—
"You are an old man, Sir Richard, and her father—you are safe, sir. How much of chivalry106 or courage is shown in heaping insult upon one who will not retort upon you, judge for yourself. Alter what has passed, I feel that I were, indeed, the vile107 thing you have described, if I were again to subject myself to your unprovoked insolence108: be assured, I shall never place foot of mine within your boundaries again: relieve yourself, sir, of all fears upon that score; and for your language, you know you can appreciate the respect that makes me leave you thus unanswered and unpunished."
So saying, he turned, and with long and rapid strides retraced109 his steps, his heart swelling with a thousand struggling emotions. Scarce knowing what he did, O'Connor rode rapidly to the "Cock and Anchor," and too much stunned110 and confounded by the scenes in which he had just borne a part to exchange a word with Mr. Audley, whom he found still established in his chamber111, he threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and sank into gloomy and obstinate112 abstraction. The good-natured old gentleman did not care to interrupt his young friend's ruminations, and hours might have passed away and found them still undisturbed, were it not that the door was suddenly thrown open, and the waiter announced Mr. Ashwoode. There was a spell in the name which instantly recalled O'Connor to the scene before him. Had a viper113 sprung up at his feet, he could not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy114. With a mixture of feelings scarcely tolerable, he awaited his arrival, and after a moment or two of suspense115, Henry Ashwoode entered the room.
Mr. Audley, having heard the name, scowled116 fearfully from the centre of the room upon the young gentleman as he entered, stuffed his hands half-way to the elbows in his breeches pockets, and turning briskly upon his heel, marched emphatically to the window, and gazed out into the inn yard with remarkable117 perseverance118. The obvious coldness with which he was received did not embarrass young Ashwoode in the least. With perfect ease and a graceful119 frankness of demeanour, he advanced to O'Connor, and after a greeting of extraordinary warmth, inquired how he had gotten home, and whether he had suffered since any inconvenience from the fall which he had. He then went on to renew his protestations of gratitude120 for O'Connor's services, with so much ardour and apparent heartiness121, that spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved in his favour; and when Ashwoode expressed in a low voice to O'Connor his wish to be introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley felt his heart quite softened122, and instead of merely bowing to him, absolutely shook him by the hand. The young man then, spite of O'Connor's evident reluctance123, proceeded to relate to his new acquaintance the details of the adventures of the preceding night, in doing which, he took occasion to dwell, in the most glowing terms, upon his obligations to O'Connor. After sitting with them for nearly half an hour, young Ashwoode took his leave in the most affectionate manner possible, and withdrew.
"Well, that is a good-looking young fellow, and a warm-hearted," exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the visitor had disappeared—"what a pity he should be cursed with such a confounded old father."
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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applied
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concisely
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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repulsed
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banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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melancholy
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enchanting
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conning
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mere
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cramp
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crooked
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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dispelled
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puffing
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ascent
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stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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sufficiently
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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countenance
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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boisterously
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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rascal
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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38
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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39
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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40
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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41
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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42
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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43
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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44
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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45
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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46
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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47
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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48
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
sunder
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| v.分开；隔离；n.分离，分开 | |
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50
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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51
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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52
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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53
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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54
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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55
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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56
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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57
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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58
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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59
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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60
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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61
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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62
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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63
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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64
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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65
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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66
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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67
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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68
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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69
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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70
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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71
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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72
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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73
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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74
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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75
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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76
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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77
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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78
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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79
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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80
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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81
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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82
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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83
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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84
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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85
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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86
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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87
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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88
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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89
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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90
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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92
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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93
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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94
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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95
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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96
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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97
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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98
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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99
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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100
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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102
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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103
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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104
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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105
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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106
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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107
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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108
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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109
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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110
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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112
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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113
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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114
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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115
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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116
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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118
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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119
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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120
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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121
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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122
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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123
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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