“Poor papa is deaded,” said Jack1 to Boo on his return to town; in the tenderness of his heart he was beginning to forget the dead man’s pinches and to pity his retirement2 from the world.
“I’m ’fraid he must be so dull in heaven,” said Jack seriously. “I don’t think they let them race, or bet, or do anything amusin’ there.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard so.
“I ought to have gone down as well as you, instead of Gerry,” said Boo, who had been exceedingly aggrieved6 at being left in town like Baby.
“Oh, no,” said Jack with much dignity, “you’re not in the succession; you’re a female.”
“A female? Me? How dare you?” cried Boo in a red fury of wrath4, and gave him a resounding7 box on the ear. The head of her House perceived that he was not a hero to his relatives, and, ignorant of the French proverb, turned to the servants.
“I’m Duke, James,” he said to his friend the hall-boy.
“So I’ve heard, your Grace.”
“We’ll play marbles all day long, James.”
“All right, sir.”
“Why aren’t you a duke, James?”
The hall-boy grinned.
“M. le Duc ne doit pas causer avec les domestiques,” said the French governess, and took hold of him by his right ear and propelled him upstairs.
“Pourquoi nong pas?” asked Jack.
“Parcequ’ils sont vos inférieurs,” replied the French lady.
Jack did like the reply, it sounded harsh, he did not believe it was true; James beat him at marbles, and could[266] make popguns and cut out boats, and had talents and virtues8 innumerable.
Jack loved the hall-boy, and had once got into dreadful disgrace by taking his place and answering the door, to let his friend go round the corner.
As he was being driven upstairs by the governess he heard the voice of Brancepeth arguing with a footman; the young man was insisting that they should let him in, and the servants were apologizing, her Grace’s orders had been positive. Jack, with a leap like a chamois’s, rushed downstairs and leaped into his friend’s arms.
“Well, your Grace,” said Brancepeth, as he kissed the child, “how is my lord duke, eh?”
Brancepeth had not been allowed to go down to Staghurst, even for the funeral; he had been desired to allege9 military duties as an obstacle, and had done so, though he thought it brutally10 uncivil to poor Cocky.
Jack laughed; his rosy11 face was bright above his black jersey12; but he tried to look serious, as he had been told that he ought to do.
“Mammy says we must not laugh,” he said sorrowfully. “Come in here.”
He pulled his favorite by the hand into the library.
“He’s deaded you know,” he whispered solemnly.
Brancepeth nodded; he sat down on a low chair, took Jack on his knee and kissed him.
“He won’t do anything any more, poor devil,” said his friend, who sincerely mourned him.
Jack was silent, trying to realize the position and failing. “Cuckoopint’s mine now, ain’t he?” he said suddenly.
Cuckoopint was Cocky’s cob.
“Everything’s yours, you lucky little beggar,” said Brancepeth. “But don’t flatter yourself they’ll let you do as you like. Ronnie and the bishop14 between ’em will keep you uncommon15 tight.”
Jack did not attend to this foreboding: his mind was full of Cuckoopint.
“Were you with him when he died, Jack?” asked[267] Brancepeth, who felt a morbid16 interest in Cocky’s end. Jack nodded.
“Yes; he said ‘damn’; they told me to go on the bed and kiss him, but he wouldn’t; he said ‘damn.’”
“Poor devil!” sighed Brancepeth with a twinge in his conscience like neuralgia.
“Well, you’ve a long minority,” he added as he kissed the child again. “Things’ll pull round and get straight in all these years, but I’m afraid you’ll run amuck17 when you’re your own master, you naughty little beggar. I don’t know though, I think you’ve got grit18 in you.”
Jack meditated19 profoundly. Then he whispered in his elder’s ears, “If I’m all that grandpa’ was mayn’t I live without mammy somewhere? Take Cuckoopint and Boo and live with ’oo?”
Brancepeth shook his head with a sigh. “No, Jack, you’ll never live with me. At least——” he paused as a certain possibility crossed his mind. “As for your mother,” he added, “well, you’ll see as much of her as she wishes, wherever you live. You won’t see more.”
Jack’s face puckered20 up ready for a good cry; his position did not seem to him changed in any of its essentials.
“And Cuckoopint?” he said piteously.
“They’ll sell Cuckoopint probably,” said Brancepeth. “But I’ll try and buy him and keep for you; you’re not big enough to ride him yet.”
Jack threw his arms about his friend’s throat.
Brancepeth pressed the boy to him fondly; he knew the caress22 was chiefly for the sake of Cuckoopint. Still it was sweet to him.
“And that poor devil died with a bad word in his mouth,” he thought; and something as like remorse23 as any modern person can feel stirred in him.
The widowed duchess could not see her Parisian creditor24 at her own house. It would be known that he came there, and would look very odd at such a time, and might awaken25 her brother’s suspicions. She ordered him to meet her at the house of a famous Court dressmaker, a woman who had been often useful to her in more agreeable[268] appointments and more interesting embarrassments26. She went out alone on foot, ostensibly to church, deeply veiled of course, at ten o’clock on the Sunday morning which followed her husband’s funeral. The Court dressmaker lived in a private house in Green Street, and she had not far to go. There, in a perfectly27 safe seclusion28, she awaited the arrival of her creditor.
She was in a pretty room on the first floor. It had rose blinds and heavy curtains, and had been furnished in subdued29 and artistic30 style by a famous firm of decorators; she knew the room well, and it had always been at her disposition31. Her heart had throbbed32 more agreeably, but never so nervously33, there, as it did this Sunday morning whilst the church bells jangled and boomed in her ears, and the warm steam of a calorifère heating a foggy atmosphere, made her feel sick and faint. In a few moments the jeweler was announced—a slender, frail34, fair man of some sixty-five years old, who saluted35 her gracefully36, and in return had a haughty37 stare which revealed to him forcibly that he was a tradesman and she was a gentlewoman. Beaumont, who was accustomed to different treatment, said to himself that she wanted a lesson. Nothing costs us so dear in this world as our pride, and if we cannot afford to purchase the privilege of its indulgence the world will make us smart for claiming so great a luxury.
The deep black of her attire38, so trying to most of her sex, only made fairer her skin, made brighter her hair and her eyes, and lent a richer rose to her lips; she looked extremely well, though she looked cross and anxious as she saw the jeweler enter.
“Good morning, Beaumont!” she said sharply. “Have you brought the jewels?”
He smiled: the question seemed to him of an extraordinary naïveté for a lady who knew the world so well.
“I do not carry jewels in my pocket, madame,” he replied. “I am here to speak of yours.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Yes, madame; am I not here by your appointment?”
“But I ordered you to bring the diamonds?” she asked with that brusque authority which was part of her being.
[269]“I came to speak of the transaction, madame,” he repeated and smiled.
The cool audacity39 of her manner and commands diverted him. He perceived that she had no intention of paying him. “The cocotte has never been born,” he thought, “who could hold a candle to a great lady for impudence40.”
If she had asked him to sit down he still would have refrained from troubling her; but she said no syllable41 that was civil; she continued to look at her creditor with haughty impatience42.
“Be quick about what you have to say then,” she remarked; “I can only stay a few moments here; I am going to church.”
A creditor, if deftly43 treated as a Buddha44 of power and sanctity, may be disarmed45, for, although a creditor, he is human. But if he be “cheeked” and treated as of no importance he is naturally moved to use his thunderbolt and assert his godhead. Beaumont sat down without invitation or permission, and she, to show her disgust at such familiarity, rose and remained standing46.
“Madame,” he said very politely, “have you forgotten the paper which you signed?”
She was silent, darting47 azure48 lightning on him from her eyes. She did not distinctly remember what she had signed. She had not very clearly understood it at the time of signing; it had been all done in such a hurry, and the cab had been waiting for her in the rain, and she had wanted to get back to the Bristol unseen and dress for a dinner at the English Embassy, and the time to do so had been very short. Certainly she remembered writing her name; but the words above her name she did not recall; it was more than four years ago.
Beaumont saw that she had forgotten.
“I warned you of the importance of what you signed,” he said politely. “If you desire now to read it over——”
“Is that what I signed?” she said eagerly; she thought it would not be difficult to get it away from him; he looked very weak and small, and must, she thought, be seventy if he were a day.
Beaumont smiled.
“It is a copy.”
[270]Her face clouded; she took it with an impatient gesture and read its clauses. The lines were few, but they clearly stated that she was the sole and lawful49 owner of the diamond and transferred it to the keeping of the jeweler until such time as he should be repaid in full, capital and interest.
“Well, madame?” said Beaumont, having waited for five long minutes, during which she stood looking out of the window, her foot irritably50 beating on the carpet.
“What is there to say?” she replied bluntly, her brain was less clear than usual. “I can’t pay you, if that’s what you want.”
“I conclude I have the honor of being your Grace’s first creditor, or you would have learned by painful experience that it is not well to be impolite to creditors52. The situation is changed since you signed that little memorandum53. I was content to wait whilst the good Duke of Otterbourne was living: but he is dead, and I am indisposed to wait, and if you cannot pay me I must see who will.”
“You beast!” muttered Mouse between her pearl like teeth.
“I do not think I am a beast,” said Beaumont meekly54. “At least, not more so than most men. I took you at your word, madame, and it appears that your word was—was not entirely55 to be depended upon. It appears that the jewel is an heirloom; it goes to your little boy under settlement in trust. So I am informed by those competent to know.”
She stood with her profile turned toward him, and continued to look out of the window at the house opposite.
“If it is my son’s you can’t claim it,” she said sullenly56. “You knew well enough at the time it wasn’t mine. You only pretended to believe that it was. You did an illegal thing when you lent me the money; and you know you can’t go into any Court about it. My husband was alive then; my signature was not worth a farthing, you know that!”
Beaumont gazed at her in admiration57 for her boldness, in compassion58 for her temerity59 and want of worldly wisdom.
[271]“I have done business sometimes, madame, in Paris,” he said softly, “with persons of your sex who are not considered, there, pure enough to sit beside you in the tribune at Chantilly, or at the Institute, or at the Chambers60. But amongst those horizontales I never knew one quite of your force. Je vous en fais mes compliments.”
Angry blood flew into the fair cheeks of his debtor61; her blue eyes flashed like stormy summer skies; her hand clenched62 till her rings cut into the skin.
“You dare to insult me because my lord is dead!”
Cocky in memory really appeared to her, at this moment, as a very tower of strength.
Beaumont made a little gesture of smiling protestation.
“Oh, madame, if your lord were living he would not make much difference to me in this matter, or to any action of your creditors. But he would certainly have apprehended63 the situation more quickly than you do.”
She would have reached to touch the button of the electric bell, but Beaumont interposed.
“Do not make a scandal, duchesse; I shall not, if you do not press me too far. I am not your enemy. I never expose women if I can help it. Nature made them dishonest; jewels and money are to them what cherries and apples are to schoolboys. That is why they are so much better shut up in harems. However, I came for strict business; let us limit ourselves to it. You say I cannot go into a tribunal. You have relied upon that fact. But it is a rotten staff to lean on; it is not a fact. I both can and will go into any number of tribunals about this matter. They may nonsuit me. I may, perhaps, lose both the diamond and the money; but I have plenty of money and no children, and it will amuse me, madame, to see you cross-examined. It will not amuse you.”
She stared fixedly65 at the windows of the opposite house, and observed, as people do observe extraneous66 matters in moments of horrible agitation67, that the lace curtains to them were very soiled. Her heart heaved under the crape fichû of her bodice, and he saw that it was only by great effort that she controlled herself from some bodily assault upon him.
[272]“What a godsend for the illustrated68 press such a trial would be!” he continued, in quiet, amused tones. “But it would be disagreeable to you, because those papers disfigure so the pretty people whom they pretend to represent.”
“You would never dare to go to law!” she interrupted in a hoarse69, fierce voice. “You would not dare! You would be punished yourself!”
“I should be punished, possibly, by losing the money. They would nonsuit me, but I think they would make you pay my costs. But as I have said, I do not mind losing the money; I have a good deal and no children, and I am old——”
Beaumont smiled.
“Why not make you, madame, a free gift of the money and the interest? Allez donc! You ought to be too proud to dream of taking a present from a tradesman. If I were a young man I might—on conditions—but I am old, and a beautiful woman is not much more to me than an ugly one, alas71! Besides, you have been very rude, duchesse. No one should be so rude as that who does not stand on a solid bank balance.”
“How much longer are you going to prose on in this way? I want to go out.”
Beaumont shook his head. “You will not learn wisdom? You are wrong, madame. Twist a tiger’s tail, laugh at an anarchist73, and put nitro-glycerine in your dressing-bag, but never, ah, never be rude to anyone who has you in his power.”
“In your power? I? In yours? You are mad.”
“Oh, no; I am entirely sane74. Saner75 than you, madame; for you do not seem to understand that you have done a very ugly thing, a vulgar thing even; what is called in English, I believe, a first-class misdemeanor, for you obtained a very large sum by false representation.”
She changed color; she was intelligent and she did see her conduct in the light in which twelve London jurymen would be likely to see it, and also in the shape in which[273] the Radical76 press would be certain to present it to their public.
Beaumont relented a little. A man may be too old to fully5 appreciate beauty, but he is always kinder to a pretty woman than to a plain one. Moreover he had no real inclination77 to figure in the law courts himself, though to punish her he was prepared to take her into them.
“Is it possible, madame,” he said with hesitation78, “that all the great people you belong to cannot arrange this small matter for you without forcing me to go to extremes? The magnificent English aristocracy.”
“The magnificent English aristocracy,” she repeated with unspeakable scorn, “who are coal-owners, corn-factors, horse-dealers, game-vendors, shop-owners, tradesmen, every man-jack of them, are most of them bankrupt tradesmen, my good Beaumont! They are obliged to ally themselves with tradesmen who aren’t bankrupt—like you—to keep their heads above water. The great families with whom I am allied79, as you expressed it, couldn’t, I believe, amongst them all raise a thousand guineas in solid coin.”
“But you came to me for twelve thousand,” thought Beaumont; aloud he merely said, “But monsieur your brother? Surely he——”
A shiver ran over her from head to foot. She would rather, she thought, face the Middlesex jury than tell this tale to Ronald.
“My brother has all the copy-book virtues,” she answered sharply. “He would sell his shirt to pay you if you told him this story, but if he hasn’t got a shirt?”
“You speak figuratively, I presume?”
“Figuratively? I mean what I say. Well, of course he’s got shirts to his back; but that is pretty well all he has got. And he is guardian80 to the boy, to all the children.”
“I understand.”
He saw in what a position Hurstmanceaux would be placed between his duty to his wards81 and his sentiment for his sister if the knowledge of what had been done with the roc’s egg came before him. “But if he be a poor man it would be no use to worry him,” thought Beaumont, who was keenly practical, and who, in this matter, merely[274] wanted to get his money back, and to be safely out of what he knew was not a very creditable position for himself, since the family would naturally argue that he should not have taken Lady Kenilworth’s unsupported word in a matter of so much importance.
“Everyone knows the high character of Lord Hurstmanceaux,” he said, to gain time for his own reflections. Mouse repressed a rude exclamation82; she was so utterly83 sick of Ronnie’s character. A brother who had known how to do all the things that Cocky had used to do, and would have put her up to doing them, would have been so much more useful at the moment. She felt that she had not drunk at the fountain of knowledge during her husband’s lifetime as she ought to have done. For a person who was not hampered84 by scruples85 she was most blamably ignorant about the ins and outs and hooks and crooks86 of left-handed financing.
Beaumont waited in polite silence. He was not a hard or harsh man and he was not insensible to the purity of her profile as she stood sideways against the window; he saw that she was genuinely alarmed and genuinely powerless; the folded crape which went crossways over her bosom87 heaved with her deep drawn88 hurried breathing.
“Have you no friend?” he said at last very softly and with a world of meaning in the tone.
She changed countenance89; she could not pretend to misunderstand his meaning.
“Friends have more sympathy than relatives,” he added in the same meditative90 manner. “It is true, madame, that your dilemma91 is not in itself interesting; it resembles too much actions which receive unlovely names when in a lower class than yours, still a beautiful woman can always persuade the weaker sense to be blind to her errors; at least until those errors have been proclaimed in print, so that all who run may read them.”
He took a natural and not a very malignant92 vengeance93 in his words, but to her he seemed a very Mephistopheles torturing her with every refined devilry.
And she was insulted and she could not resent! She could not ring for her servants and have this man turned into the street.
[275]The twelve thousand pounds had melted like morning mist. She could scarcely remember what they had gone for; but the bitter insult remained, would remain, she thought, with her for ever.
He rose and stood before her. “Well?” he said gently.
“You have a right to your money, I suppose,” she said sullenly between her set teeth. “I have no notion on earth how to get you a farthing, but if you will wait a month and not speak to my brother in the interval94, I will—I will see what I can do.”
Beaumont bowed.
“I will wait six months and I will speak to no one. But if at the end of six months I do not receive all, I shall speak, with pain, madame, but inevitably95 not to your brother but to the world.”
“I understand,” she said haughtily96. “You will do your worst. Well, never enter my presence again, that is all; and leave it now this moment.”
Beaumont smiled with admiration and regret combined.
“You are very unwise, madame. If you had not been rude to me I would have accorded you a year. Mais on chasse de race.”
She knew that it was unwise to be so insolent, but she could not have made herself polite to him to save her life. He punished her for having tricked him and flouted97 her. He was a very rich man and she had offended him.
She saw her mistake, but she would not have resisted repeating it if he had come back into the room. Women always bring temper into business, and that is why they fail in it so frequently, for those who do not bring temper bring sentiment, and the one is as ruinous as the other.
She had a rapid imagination; she saw before her the crowded court, the witness-box where prevarication98 was of no use, all her dearest friends with their lorgnons lifted, the bench of the scribbling99 reporters, the correspondents of the illustrated papers making their sketches100 furtively101 and staring at her as she had stared at people in causes célèbres; she saw it all, even the portraits of herself which would appear in those woodcuts of artistic journals which would make Helen’s self hideous and Athene’s self grotesque102.
[276]She saw it all—all the huge headings in the posters and papers, all the staring eyes, all the commiserating103 censure104, all the discreet105 veiled enjoyment106 of her acquaintances, all the rancid acrid107 virulence108 of the rejoicing Radical press.
She imagined that Beaumont would not get his money easily because she knew something about the risks run by those who lend on an imperfect title, as to minors109 or to women; but she had seen in his regard that he would not mind losing any amount of money if he had his revenge on her in putting her into court.
Actually, Beaumont was by no means a revengeful, nor even a hard man, and a very little diplomacy110 would have made him favorable to her.
She hated him more intensely than she had ever hated anyone. For in the first place he had done her a favor, and in the second place she had done him a wrong—a mixture which naturally produces the strongest hatred111. She knew that, despite his courtesy, she had nothing more to hope from him; that he would have his money back again, or he would make the transaction public.
Public sympathy would be entirely with him against herself. Even that, however, seemed to her less horrible than the fact that Ronald would know what she had done. At the bottom of her heart she was not very brave; she could hector and bully112, and command, and she had that share in the physical courage of her race which took her unflinching over a bullfinch in the shires. But she had not the moral courage which would allow that punishment was just and bear it calmly. It was probable that Ronald and her brothers-in-law would never let the matter come to a trial, that they would get the money between them together somehow, though they were all as poor as Job; but to have the matter brought before these prejudiced persons seemed to her worse than the law court itself. Ronald she dreaded113, the Ormes she detested114, and her sisters’ husbands she thought the most odious115 prigs in the world; to come before a family council of this sort would be more unsupportable than the law court itself, which would at least contain an element of excitement, and in which her personal appearance would be sure to rouse some feeling in her favor. To that personal[277] fascination116 her brother and her brothers-in-law were at all times insensible.
“Some women have men belonging to them who are of some use,” she thought bitterly, “but all the men I have anything to do with are paupers117 and prigs. What is a family made for if it is not to pull one through awkward places, and follow one with a second horse?”
She hated her family fiercely. It seemed to her that it was all their fault that she had been placed in such a dreadful dilemma. If there was one thing more sure than another, she knew that it was the dead certainty that everybody in her world were as poor as rats, unless they were men of business who did not properly belong to that world at all. It was wonderful how soon you come to the end of a man’s resources! No one knew that better than herself. As for the bigwigs who look so swell118 and imposing119 to the classes which know nothing about them, she was but too well aware of the carking cares, the burdened lands, the desperate devices which sustained their magnificent appearances as the rotten timbers of a doomed120 ship may support a gilded121 figure-head.
“By the time Jack’s thirty years old the whole rotten thing will be gone like a smashed egg,” she thought, with a certain pleasure in reflecting that all the wearisome and impertinent precautions which Jack’s guardians122 took to shelter his interests would be of no avail for him in the long run against the rapidly rising tide of English socialism.
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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5
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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6
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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31
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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32
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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33
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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34
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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35
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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36
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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37
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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38
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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39
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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40
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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41
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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42
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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43
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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44
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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45
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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46
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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47
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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48
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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49
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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50
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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51
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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52
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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53
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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54
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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57
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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58
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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59
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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60
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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61
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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62
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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65
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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66
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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67
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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68
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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70
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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71
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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72
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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73
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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74
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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75
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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76
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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77
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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78
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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79
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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80
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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81
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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82
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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83
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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84
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
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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86
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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90
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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91
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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92
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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93
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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94
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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95
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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96
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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97
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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99
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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100
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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101
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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102
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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103
commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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104
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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105
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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106
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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107
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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108
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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109
minors
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| n.未成年人( minor的名词复数 )；副修科目；小公司；[逻辑学]小前提v.[主美国英语]副修，选修，兼修( minor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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111
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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112
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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113
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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116
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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117
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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118
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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119
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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120
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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121
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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122
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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