Mr. Tuke, as a result of his grudging1 sop2 to respectability, had brought about nothing more definite than some unprofitable temporizing3. No doubt this served him well right, and was a lesson to him to be more particular for the future in his dealings with his own conscience. For that same usurer will think nothing of charging a hundred per cent. on the least little matter of “accommodation.”
To choose the lesser4 of two advantages is thought a virtue5 by some; but then to be held kicking one’s heels between them both becomes a grievous injustice6. This hardship our friend thought himself to suffer, and was very morose7 and discontented in consequence.
Does any one think meanly of this gentleman that he could fly for comfort of a legitimate8 suit gone awry9 to a humbler breast than it was his temptation to use and bruise10? I can only offer the defence that pure-hearted Betty thought none the less of him for doing so, and that to no sweeter Mentor11 could any foundering12 soul submit its ethological perplexities. For the question of “taste”—let him decide who is the best authority on the right cut of a coat. But passion, I believe, is not grounded on any conventional knowledge of what is fitting.
Now, for some weeks, the master of “Delsrop” led a very solitary13 and rather crabbed14 life. Debarred, by the simplest honour, from going whither his heart would have conducted him, he yet resented the necessity of a self-denial that would probably in the end prove itself futile15. Miss Royston might, he had some ground for believing, favour his suit eventually, could he submit to her his sufficient credentials16. Yet, though he had committed himself to a rather negative declaration; though he perceived his most honest and most reasonable course would be to set himself right in that lady’s eyes; though he felt no umbrage17 at her caution, which was certainly under the circumstances justifiable18, he could not altogether whip himself away from the temptation to solve the problem of an explanation by—doing nothing at all.
He succeeded in at least scotching19 that snake. But he dared not let his thoughts run on Betty, or on the sweetness and innocence20 that, to the beast in man, are such lures21 to brutality22. It is only when the blood runs aged23 that we can look on any extreme beauty of nature without wishing to obscure it, so unbearable24 to our diseased perceptions is the flawless.
At length he made up his mind to the right course. Christmas was over and done with—a somewhat dismal25 hermit-time to him—and early in the new year Blythewood and his sister were to journey to London. He would ride with them; would spend a few days in town, and while there, would endeavour to induce the lawyer Creel to some explanation of that enigma26 of his inheritance. Surely, with such an object in view as a union with a lady of a certain rank and position, he would not be refused those credentials he desired.
He was further urged to this decision by the fact that his house was now properly served, and that since that night of his furniture’s arrival, there had been no evidence but that Mr. Breeds’s unhonoured guests had withdrawn27 finally from the neighbourhood. Dennis he would leave in general charge, with strict orders as to the protection of the premises29 during his absence.
So matters were ordered; and about the second week in January the party set forth30. The baronet and his sister posted; but their neighbour, to whom a saddle was the most sans souci of conveyances31, rode his own horse.
The weather was bitterly cold, with a perpetual menacing look in all the stony33 vault34 of the sky, and the journey, till near its termination, quite uneventful.
They did not start by way of Stockbridge; but, to Mr. Tuke’s relief, took cross-tracks for a number of miles, and struck the London road at Basinstoke, where they dined. He rode at their wheel, or not, as circumstance permitted, and Angela was gracious or peevish35 with him according to her mood.
Perhaps his own varied36. After dinner his heart would sing jocundly37: “She unites sense with beauty, and hath a hundred charms of wit and winsomeness38. I am a fool to doubt.”
Then he would murmur39: “Am I frighted by the shadow of my own past? I will carry her in the teeth of it all. None but the brave deserve the fair.”
And so presently to the reaction—the fall of enthusiasm’s temperature in the chill of some icy response when digestion40 needed a stimulus41.
And maybe he was right; for even an axiom will not endure for ever, but will wear out like a book-block, and come to leave a faint impression.
They slept at the “White Hart” at Hook—whither an outrider had preceded them to bespeak43 beds—and were to make an end of their journey by the evening of the morrow.
On that following day all went awry. The little baronet had been free with his bottle overnight, and was, for him, in a very sour and cross-grained condition. The water they had found frozen in the ewers44; the soap curdled—as it will in very cold weather—in the dishes. The chimney had, and the venison had been, smoked. The waiters received vails proportionate with the mood of the party, and showed some consequent surliness in bidding it on its way.
For half the morning Mr. Tuke jogged in the rear of the chaise, cursing the ice-bound road and the ringing cold. Angela sat amongst her furs pink-eyed, like a ferret looking out of straw; and Sir David nursed his sick head, and exclaimed spasmodically over the infernal jolting45; for the sludgy track—some eighteen inches deep in mud during the most of the winter—that was the Exeter road, was now petrified46 into furrows47 like those in a bed of larva.
Often a horse would slip and fall, flinging its stiffened48 postillion; and then there would be bitter delay, and the unbuckling of straps49 with blue ineffectual hands, and much breathing of oaths and stamping of deadened feet; while low in the desolate50 welkin the sun looked on with dim unconcerned eye, as if it were some senile monarch51, conscious only of private cosiness52 while gazing through a frosted window on a little township of suffering.
And so on again presently, crashing and pounding, the boys towelling their cattle for mere53 exercise of their own numbed54 fingers, the cat-ice splintering in the ruts, the chaise dancing wildly in its straps.
Fortunately there was no snow; though the sky bore evidence in its appearance of such garnered55 stores of it as could, at a nod, sow the world with winter.
It was an hour past noon when our party drew up, in no very sweet temper, at the door of the “Catherine Wheel” at Egham, where they were to stop for dinner.
They thawed56 a little during the meal, and were even amiable57, one with the other, after a guarded fashion. Sir David was the victim of nothing more than some physical discomfort58; but his two companions suffered yet under a species of misunderstanding that circumstance only could put an end to; and in the meanwhile it was inevitable60 that their mutual61 relations should be marked by some coldness and embarrassment62.
The “Regulator” coach, from Exeter to London, clattered63 up in the frost and stopped to change horses while they were at table. They heard the half-dead “outsides” stumping64 about in the bar and calling for mulled port and Nantes brandy to warm them on to the next stage; and had a glimpse, through the lattice, of the vehicle itself—chocolate in hue65 and traced all over with gilt66 lettering like a Christmas calendar; of a happy-faced young woman who sat, hugging a little boy in her lap, on the “gammon-board” of the roof; and of a kit-kat presentment of an arrogant-visaged young gentleman, with a brown silk handkerchief tied about his head, who leaned out of the drag window, to the huge discomfort of the other “insides,” and amused himself by endeavouring to scrape with a tooth-pick the paint off the bull’s head on the panel of the door.
This latter sight sent Mr. Tuke back in his chair with an involuntary start—which Miss Royston noticed.
“Do you know the gentleman?” she said, jumping to a conclusion.
“I? Yes—I recognize him, I think.”
“Oh, indeed! And who is he, may I ask?”
“’Tis Dunlone—Lord Dunlone. I have met him. We were in the way of being friends, in fact.”
He thought to himself: “The fellow goes townwards from his Cornish place. ’Tis in sort with his cursed parsimony68 to stage it like a provident69 cit.”
“I will excuse you, if you wish to go speak with him,” said Miss Angela.
She laughed, with a faint insolence71 of inflection. Only one reason, it seemed to her, could be for his refusing to act upon the acquaintanceship he claimed—that he feared to put it to the test. Was it possible he was the nobleman’s valet? she mused67, recalling that other case.
He sat on, unwitting of her meditations72; but he felt a degree of relief, nevertheless, when the guard of the “Regulator”—a confident, red-faced young fellow, in a bottle-green coat and with a sprig of mistletoe in his hat—sounded his horn, disposed his reluctant passengers, swung himself up over the hind-boot, chucked the rosy73 young woman, to the gazer’s high approval, under the chin, and gave the signal to start; and it was without regret that he saw that straining vehicle draw away with a rumbling74 of wheels, and the unwelcome vision pass from his ken75. For he had no mind to recall a certain phase of his life, from which he could have sworn, years of reformation bridged him.
By two o’clock they were on their way again, and, as the dusk gathered, so did their gloom and reserve seem to deepen. Indeed, the horseman felt it a positive relief when dark shut in upon them still urging onwards, for so the perils76 of the road were his sufficient excuse for keeping himself apart and without the influence of that depressing atmosphere.
Driving on desperately77, in a struggling flurry to escape being benighted78 on some impassable waste, they struck the track by and by across Hounslow Heath, and put on what additional speed they durst over that open and historic ground.
A crimson79 spot of light that, upon their first issuing on to the flats, had seemed the low-down radiance of some far cottage-window, grew in lustre80 as they advanced, until it flared81 before them, a leaping flame. Thereupon they slackened speed somewhat, moving with caution; and the horseman dropped a hand towards his holster.
A hundred yards further, and the flame became a fire dancing redly by the roadside; and there were shadows flitting about it, and, close by, a looming82 mass that threw back little spars and runlets of reflection to the spouting83 blaze.
Clipping indecision with a jerk of his rowels, Mr. Tuke uttered a shout and rode down upon the group. There was an answering cry; and he saw a figure or two throw up its hands, dramatically entreating84 him to a halt. Something he noticed in time to respond, and pulled up his horse with so great a suddenness upon the icy road, that the brute85 sank upon its haunches and half-tumbled him out of the saddle.
He was on the ground in a moment, and, whipping the frightened animal to its feet, moved towards the fire and was made way for by those about it.
He looked down. The body of a man lay uncouthly86 flung beside the glow—that had been built up hastily of brushwood and dead sticks in a hopeless effort to rekindle87 a late-extinguished spark of life. The flame painted the waxen face and fallen jaw88 with a hectic89 mockery of vitality90, and glinted on a dribbling91 splash in the forehead where something had crushed in through the very ring of a cherished love-lock.
A woman was down upon the grass by the figure—moaning to it, caressing92 it, with some piteous shame of the awful publicity93 of her conduct; for she would not believe in the impotence of her agony to rouse that silent shape to any responsive gesture; and, in the background of her thoughts, was some insane speculation94 as to how, when all was right again, she should hold her terror an apology for her emotion.
Close behind her stood a little crying boy, his fingers in his eyes; and it was moving to see how, in the youngling’s cap and in the breast of the kneeling woman, were merry knots of Christmas—earnests of a thoughtless time.
“The guard?” murmured the new-comer.
He grasped the situation with only too sure an intuition. The glooming mass in the road was nothing less than that same lusty vehicle they had seen but an hour or two before rumble95 away from the inn-door, its jovial96 horn answering to the lips of that formless thing by the fire.
“Aye,” grunted97 the coachman, from the covert98 of his preposterous99 neckcloth. He had come up on the moment, from the task of slowly manipulating his cut traces.
“That’s the last of Charlie,” he said, with some thickness of fury in his tone.
“No, no!” moaned up the woman. “Not the last—my God, no!”
“Don’t take on, my dear,” he said. “Charlie done his dooty like a man; and there’s not a coach vheel ’ll go over that there patch on the road but ’ll roll up a bloody100 account agen his murderers.”
She only sighed miserably101 in answer. The deep apathy102 of grief was in her veins103 like a drug.
“How many?” said Tuke.
“Six, if there was vun, sir. Six cursed ruffians to dance agen the sky and serve the crows for black pudden, so be there’s any vally in the fellowship of the road.”
He shook his pillow of an arm aloft—finely, for all the heavy oddity of his appearance.
“Aye,” he murmured, in response to a gesture—“the man’s wife and his youngster.”
At the word a woman—one from the huddled104 group of robbed and terrified passengers—came out into the glow, and snatching up the child, forced it whimpering into its mother’s arms. The act was well conceived. The desolate creature caught at the hope, and held it convulsively against her breast; and in a moment her burdened heart found relief.
Mr. Tuke backed silently. “No,” the coachman had growled105 to him—“he wanted no help. He could get on well enough now. There was nothing for it but to complete his crippled stage, and as quickly as possible set the law in motion.”
The chaise, with its occupants, was drawn28 up at a little distance from the tragic106 scene. As the horseman made for it, eager to reassure107 his friends that any cause for present alarm was passed, he was aware of a figure standing59 by the door and addressing those within in exceedingly tremulous tones.
“I’ve had enough of it, curse me!” it was saying. “’Twould be a sick thing to travel with that dead rascal108 banging on the roof; and the cursed coachman refuses to go without him. I’ve been robbed of fifty pound, by God! and I’ll take it exceeding civil of you to give me a lift over the last stages.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Angela’s clear voice—“we shall be very happy, Lord Dunlone.”
“Who the deuce told you my name—who, now?”
He could hardly stand still in his fear and excitement; but kept pulling at the handle of the door in a nervous effort to turn it.
“Who told you?” he said. “Curse it! Can’t some one help me?”
“Go steady at it,” came Sir David’s voice. “We’re not tryin’ to overreach you, sir. ’Twas a friend—common to both of us, I understand—Mr. Tuke, who saw you in the coach at Egham.”
“Tuke—Tuke! I don’t know any one of the name. Here—give me a hand, will you?”
He plunged109 into the vehicle, and the door snapped on him. The listener retreated softly into the rearward shadows. He had forgotten that this undesirable110 acquaintance was amongst the passengers; and it was some amelioration of the tragedy to hear that he had been stripped clean. He waited silent while the chaise kept its place—which it did only a few minutes before the nobleman’s peevish voice sounded, cursing the postillions to a move.
Then he went to the help of the coach-driver; and, later, cantered out the rest of his journey in the tail of that gingerbread conveyance32, that was become a mere hearse of death and sorrow.
“Ah!” he thought—“how, in all her after-days, will she love the memory of that chin-chuck, poor soul.”
点击收听单词发音
1 grudging | |
adj.勉强的,吝啬的 | |
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2 sop | |
n.湿透的东西,懦夫;v.浸,泡,浸湿 | |
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3 temporizing | |
v.敷衍( temporize的现在分词 );拖延;顺应时势;暂时同意 | |
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4 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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5 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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6 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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7 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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8 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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9 awry | |
adj.扭曲的,错的 | |
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10 bruise | |
n.青肿,挫伤;伤痕;vt.打青;挫伤 | |
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11 mentor | |
n.指导者,良师益友;v.指导 | |
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12 foundering | |
v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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13 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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14 crabbed | |
adj.脾气坏的;易怒的;(指字迹)难辨认的;(字迹等)难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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16 credentials | |
n.证明,资格,证明书,证件 | |
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17 umbrage | |
n.不快;树荫 | |
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18 justifiable | |
adj.有理由的,无可非议的 | |
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19 scotching | |
n.琢石,擦伤v.阻止( scotch的现在分词 );制止(车轮)转动;弄伤;镇压 | |
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20 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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21 lures | |
吸引力,魅力(lure的复数形式) | |
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22 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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23 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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24 unbearable | |
adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
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25 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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26 enigma | |
n.谜,谜一样的人或事 | |
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27 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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28 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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29 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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30 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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31 conveyances | |
n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 );运送;表达;运输工具 | |
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32 conveyance | |
n.(不动产等的)转让,让与;转让证书;传送;运送;表达;(正)运输工具 | |
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33 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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34 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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35 peevish | |
adj.易怒的,坏脾气的 | |
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36 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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37 jocundly | |
adv.愉快地,快活地 | |
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38 winsomeness | |
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39 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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40 digestion | |
n.消化,吸收 | |
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41 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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42 immunity | |
n.优惠;免除;豁免,豁免权 | |
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43 bespeak | |
v.预定;预先请求 | |
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44 ewers | |
n.大口水壶,水罐( ewer的名词复数 ) | |
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45 jolting | |
adj.令人震惊的 | |
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46 petrified | |
adj.惊呆的;目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆,使惊呆;变僵硬;使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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47 furrows | |
n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 );(脸上的)皱纹v.犁田,开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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49 straps | |
n.带子( strap的名词复数 );挎带;肩带;背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 );用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
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50 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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51 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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52 cosiness | |
n.舒适,安逸 | |
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53 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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54 numbed | |
v.使麻木,使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55 garnered | |
v.收集并(通常)贮藏(某物),取得,获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 thawed | |
解冻 | |
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57 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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58 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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59 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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60 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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61 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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62 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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63 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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64 stumping | |
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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65 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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66 gilt | |
adj.镀金的;n.金边证券 | |
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67 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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68 parsimony | |
n.过度节俭,吝啬 | |
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69 provident | |
adj.为将来做准备的,有先见之明的 | |
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70 requite | |
v.报酬,报答 | |
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71 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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72 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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73 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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74 rumbling | |
n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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75 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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76 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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77 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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78 benighted | |
adj.蒙昧的 | |
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79 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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80 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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81 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82 looming | |
n.上现蜃景(光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼)v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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83 spouting | |
n.水落管系统v.(指液体)喷出( spout的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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84 entreating | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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85 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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86 uncouthly | |
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87 rekindle | |
v.使再振作;再点火 | |
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88 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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89 hectic | |
adj.肺病的;消耗热的;发热的;闹哄哄的 | |
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90 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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91 dribbling | |
n.(燃料或油从系统内)漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 );(使液体)滴下或作细流;运球,带球 | |
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92 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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93 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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94 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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95 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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96 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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97 grunted | |
(猪等)作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 ); (指人)发出类似的哼声; 咕哝着说 | |
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98 covert | |
adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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99 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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100 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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101 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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102 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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103 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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104 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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105 growled | |
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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106 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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107 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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108 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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109 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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110 undesirable | |
adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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