There was no one in London of the world which had been William Massarene’s highest heaven. The August sun shone on the flower-beds of the parks in all their glory, and the poor forgotten plants which drooped1 in the balconies before shuttered windows, and the cats, forgotten also, mewed vainly in closed kitchens and behind iron railings, and the dogs, abandoned to servants and grooms2, moped sadly in stable or basement yards, or, straying out into the streets and mews, were lassoed by the police or coaxed3 to their doom4 by the agents of experimental institutes. Katherine Massarene, all alone, stayed on at Harrenden House, absorbed in the enormous work of examining her late father’s papers. Her mother remained in the country, whither Katherine went from Saturday to Monday to see her. But all the other days of the week the inheritress of Mr. Massarene’s wealth spent in tracing the sources of that poisoned and blood-stained Pactolus.
He, like many another successful and masterful man, had never taken death into account, or he would have destroyed many of those written witnesses against him. As it was, he had kept everything, partly from the sense of power which it gave him to do so, partly from the prudent5 sharpness of a business man which made him never lose a letter, however insignificant6, or destroy a signature, however unneeded. She could not understand all the meaning of these papers, but she understood much: enough to make her heart sick with shame, frozen with horror. She had always known, vaguely7, that his fortunes had been obtained mainly through crimes which in the successful man society has agreed to let pass as virtues8; but she could now name, measure, analyze9 those crimes and see them in all their entity10, as drops of blood are seen under a microscope.
Thus she became acquainted with all the steps which had conducted him from the straw of the cattle-shed to[404] the carpets of Harrenden House. That small study, in which he had kept locked all his ledgers12, folios, banking-books, and documents of every kind, seemed like a very charnel-house to its new visitant. She had read very widely; she had thought a great deal; and to her clear and cultured intelligence the true aims and objects of her father’s life seemed as sordid14 and miserable15 as those of the ragged16 men whom she had seen in her childhood greedily washing river sand in tin pannikins in the hope of finding some gleam of gold, and ready to murder their bosom17 friend to secure a grain of the coveted18 metal.
Among those papers was the letter written by the Suffolk emigrant19 for Robert Airley. She read it, and it flashed across her mind that Robert Airley had come to England and had killed her father. There was nothing to suggest it, nothing to prove it; but she had no more doubt of it than if she had heard the confession20 of the assassin. She telegraphed to Kerosene21 City to inquire where Robert Airley was. It was telegraphed back to her that he had sailed for Liverpool on the 30th of May: her father had been shot on the night of the 17th of June: she had no doubt after this that her inference had been correct. And it had not been murder, but justice! Justice red-handed and rude—the lex talionis, but justice nevertheless.
Through suggestions from the American police, and Massarene’s manager, the same suspicions were entertained by Scotland Yard. But Robert Airley was lost sight of on his arrival in London, and, as the woman of the eating-house held her peace and kept her own counsel, he remained untraced.
She said nothing of what she found and thought to her mother, and lived on in that state of isolated22 reflection and regret which can only be supported by those who are strong in character and independent of sympathy, but from which even they suffer greatly. She did not try to trace Robert Airley. When she heard that he was suspected of the crime but could not be found, she was relieved to think that he was lost to sight; his seizure23 and trial would have been agony to her. The horror of her discoveries and the shame of them filled her with a feeling[405] as of personal guilt24. She looked worn, unwell, aged25; she had nothing in her regard, in her manner, in her thoughts, of the sense of freedom and power which all would have expected her to feel in such an accession to immense wealth, in entire liberty. She had no one to whom she could speak of anything which she felt. Lord Framlingham was in India, and he was the only person to whom she could have confided26 something of her anxieties, her shame, her uncertainty27 what to do and how to bear the burden laid upon her. She knew that she must carry all her knowledge shut up in her own breast as long as she lived. It lay like a stone upon her, as did the inheritance of all this ill-gotten wealth.
One day, when she was as usual in the little study poring over an old ledger11, one of the servants brought her a card. On it was printed, “Earl of Hurstmanceaux.” She was surprised, much surprised, but she remembered the letter her father had addressed to him. She hesitated some moments: if he came on his sister’s business could he not go to the lawyer?
“Ask Lord Hurstmanceaux to be so good as to see the solicitors28,” she said to the servant, who returned in a few minutes with the reply that Lord Hurstmanceaux desired the favor of a personal interview.
“Show him into the library then,” she said, much surprised. “I will come to him there.”
She put back the ledger in its place, closed the case which held it, and left the room, locking the door with that safety-key which had never quitted her father’s watch-chain in his lifetime, and which she carried now always on hers.
She did not go to her room to see how she looked, as most women would have done; she did not even glance at one of the mirrors in the rooms through which she passed. She went as she was, looking very white, very worn, very stern in her close black gown, to the other end of the house where the library was.
Hurstmanceaux was standing29 in the middle of the room; the light from one of the windows shone on his fair hair. She saw that he too was very pale and appeared distressed30 and embarrassed.
[406]“You wished to see me, Lord Hurstmanceaux,” she said coldly. “Would not the solicitors have done equally well?”
“No,” said Hurstmanceaux—his voice was harsh and unsteady. “I venture to beg of you not to make my errand known to your solicitors.”
She was silent; she sat down and motioned to him to do the same, but he remained standing.
“You sent me a letter from your late father—Mr. Massarene?” he said—his voice seemed strangled in his throat.
“I enclosed one some time ago, yes.”
“I have only now received it. I have been away yachting. Nothing was forwarded.” His words came with difficulty; he spoke31 like a man to whom what he is obliged to say is torture.
“It does not concern me,” she said coldly. “I have no wish to know what it contained.”
“You must know,” said Ronald. “It contained a signature of my sister of Otterbourne, who, it appears from another paper enclosed with it, owed to your father the enormous sum of twelve thousand pounds.”
Katherine was silent: she thought that probably the Duchess of Otterbourne had owed very much more than that to her father.
Hurstmanceaux breathed heavily: he was overwhelmed with shame at what he was forced to say.
“Apparently,” he continued, “she owed this amount to Beaumont, the jeweler in the Rue13 de la Paix. Your father sent me Beaumont’s receipt to him, and my sister’s acknowledgment of her debt to him, for the payment to Beaumont. She is now in Norway with the Bassenthwaites; but the two signatures make the matter quite clear. There is no necessity for any inquiry32.”
He paused, struggling with an emotion which he feared would get the better of his manhood.
“He sent you those signatures!” she said, as a sense of her father’s cruelty dawned on her. “What a brutal34, what an infamous35 thing to do! What a message from the grave!”
[407]“Mr. Massarene was quite within his rights,” said Ronald stiffly: “wholly within them. As my sister’s husband is dead, I am the person to whom her creditors36 should apply. I blame him for lending her such a sum, without my knowledge, in his lifetime. It is impossible to say to you what I suffer in finding her—in finding her——”
His voice broke down; for an instant he walked away to the window nearest him, and looked out in silence.
Katherine did not reply.
She was thinking of the many times, in her father’s private account books, in which Lady Kenilworth’s name was written, the many slips in the old check-books in which there was also written, in her father’s hand: “Drawn self: passed to Lady K.”
What could she say? It seemed to her nothing, yet she felt acute sorrow for this proud, sensitive, honorable gentleman, who had the cruel humiliation37 of such a discovery and such a confession, after all his pride, his scorn, and his avoidance of her and of her parents.
In another moment he turned back from the window and walked toward her.
“I came to ask you, if you can, not to let your men of business know of this,” he said more calmly. “I do not think there is any necessity for them to know. I regret unspeakably that I cannot repay this sum at once, but I am a poor man. In a month’s time I hope to be able to do so. Meanwhile, if you can keep my sister’s wretched secret, I shall be very grateful to you.”
Katherine rose and looked at him, with some indignation and much sympathy shining in her large dark eyes.
“Do you think, because I am his daughter, that I have neither decency38 nor honor? Do not take this matter so deeply to heart. If my father lent the duchess money, she was, on her part, of great use to him. He owed his social position almost entirely39 to her assistance. I grieve more than I can say that he should have stabbed you from his grave like this. Nor can I imagine why he did so, unless to avenge40 himself for your persistent41 refusal to be acquainted with us; a mean motive42, indeed, if it was his motive. Pray believe me, Lord Hurstmanceaux. Your[408] sister’s name is safe for ever with me; and as for repaying this money, do not think of it. The debt is not yours.”
“Of my payment of it there must be no dispute,” said Ronald quickly. “It was a strictly43 business matter. Your father was a business man. I would not ask even a day’s delay were I not forced. I thank you for your promise of silence; it is more than I have deserved.”
He tried to put the matter on a business footing, to endeavor to treat his sister’s receipt of money from Massarene as though it had been a mere44 affair of agreement and mutual45 interest; but he was too frank to play a part, and he was conscious that he showed the shame, the disgust, the loathing46 which he felt for the false position of a woman so near to him.
“Do not speak of money to me,” said Katherine, with an intensity47 of feeling which surprised him. “I have passed nearly every day since my father’s death in seeing how the riches he loved were put together. I loathe48 so utterly49 all he has left to me, that I envy every work-girl who sews for daily bread in her garret. You said rightly on the road in Woldshire that such a fortune as ours is only amassed50 by wickedness, and cruelty, and fraud. If I could cast it from me as a toad51 its skin, I would not pause a moment before I did so, and fled from it for ever.”
She was carried out of herself by the forces of feeling, which, for an instant, broke down her reserve, and hurried her into eloquent52 and unstudied speech.
Hurstmanceaux, at any other time, would have been moved to sympathy with her; but now he was too absorbed in his own humiliation and pain to have any perception of hers.
“You will soon get reconciled to your burden, madam,” he said, with a slight and bitter smile. “Do not fear. The world will help you to get rid of it. Allow me once more to thank you for your promise of silence. I am conscious that both I and she are unworthy of your clemency53.”
Katherine’s soul shrank within her. She felt all the recoil54, the embarrassment55, the revulsion of feeling of a reserved nature, which has unbent and revealed itself, and finds its expansion unresponded to and misunderstood.[409] She felt that he did not believe in what she had said in the least.
“You have not heard your sister’s defence,” she said, after a pause.
“My sister’s fables56? I do not want to hear them. Her signature speaks for her. Besides, I can have the whole facts of the transaction from the jeweler. No ingenuity57 of hers can ever explain them away.”
“You are very harsh.”
“I am far from harsh. And of my harshness or my mildness you cannot be the judge.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are the daughter of a man who knew nothing of honor, or of its exactions, and that instinct is not acquired in a single generation.”
“Have twenty-three generations of nobility bequeathed it to your sister?” was the retort which sprang to her lips, but she generously and valorously kept it unspoken.
Her white skin flushed hotly and painfully at the insult, which was to her what a blow would have been to a man.
She did not resent, but she suffered intensely. What he had said was so completely the reflection of her own feelings that it seemed to burn itself into her brain like a branding-iron.
Oh, to have come of some stainless58 and valiant59 race, with traditions of a past great and pure! What she would have given for that heritage of barren honor, which would have been, in her keeping, virgin60 and puissant61, as a kingdom guarded against every foe62!
For an instant she was tempted63 to go and unlock the drawer in which all the memoranda64 of his sister’s other debts were lying, and put them before him and say: “Did a thousand years of nobility teach honor and honesty to her?” But she resisted the temptation.
He was humiliated65 and embittered66, and this insolence67 of his speech was, she thought, to be forgiven to him. She said nothing in protest or defence; but there was that in her expression which touched him to repentance68 for his utterance69. He felt that she had deserved better at his hands, though he could not bend his pride to say so.
He was silent some moments, so was she—a silence of[410] pain and of embarrassment. At length, with a great effort, he forced himself to say to her:
“I should not have said that. I beg your pardon. It was offensive.”
She made a slight inclination70 of the head, as if to accept the apology.
“You said what is generally true, I believe. But there may be exceptions.”
His apology could not efface71 the impression of his speech, which seemed like vitriol thrown in her face. The impression of pain which his speech left on her was so poignant72 that she felt as if it would never pass away.
He was violently and bitterly prejudiced against her; he was incapable73 of being just to her; she seemed to him steeped in the villainy of all that ill-gotten gold in which she had her being; but he could not but acknowledge the dignity and simplicity74 of her attitude under insult, and he was conscious that he had insulted her grossly. After all, the disgrace of his sister was no fault of hers.
She might be wholly in earnest when she said that she abhorred75 the wealth of which she was the sole possessor. He was tempted to believe that she was entirely sincere; but she was the daughter of William Massarene. She was anathema76 maranatha.
She bowed to suggest to him that his interview had lasted long enough.
“Good-day to you,” she said coldly.
“Good-day,” repeated Hurstmanceaux. “In a month’s time you will hear from me. Meanwhile, forget if you can.”
Then he left the library.
She remained standing beside the heavy table laden77 with choice octavos and the reviews of the month.
She had been tempted out of her habitual78 silence, and had opened a little window into her heart. And she regretted that she had done so, as, alas79! we always do; for there is nothing which we regret so bitterly, and pay for so heavily, as the confidence we give. She was vexed80 with herself, also, that she had dismissed him so soon and so abruptly81, that she had not endeavored to atone82 for that brutal action after death, that cruel legacy83 which her father had left in vengeance84. She felt that he would pay[411] the money back, if to do so he had to sell every rood of land he possessed85, and she hated herself for having sent him, however innocently on her part, that barbed legacy of the dead. She understood how deep a wound it must have given to a man of the principles, the temperament86, and the pride of Hurstmanceaux.
Meanwhile he, who had only returned to London an hour previously88, took the tidal train to Paris, where he went forthwith to Beaumont.
“What would you, milord?” said Beaumont the following morning. “Madame la duchesse sent that old, fat, common man to pay in her name, and he paid. It was no matter to me who paid. I wanted my money back. Yes; I lent it on the big jewel and the others. Illegal! Oh, ta-ta-ta, milord! Of course all dealings with those pretty married ladies are great risks. We know that in business. That is why I was anxious to get back my money. If I had not had it, I should have gone to law. Perhaps my title to it was unsound, as you say. Perhaps it was. But madame, votre sœur, had had the money from me—she could not have denied that in a law court—and great families do not like scandals which touch them. Ah, no, milord! noblesse oblige we know!”
And Beaumont smiled softly, with a very sweet, sub-ironic, inflection of the voice, as he sat handling some uncut stones in his bureau which looked on the garden.
From him Hurstmanceaux obtained the certainty of what he had suspected from the moment that he had received Massarene’s posthumous89 letter: that his sister had not had the Otterbourne jewels in her possession when he had asked her for them.
Heaven and earth! the duplicity of women!—he thought as he passed along the sunny Paris streets with a heart as heavy as lead in his breast. His sister, his blue-eyed Sourisette, his favorite from her nursery days, was no better than a thief! No better than any wretched woman of the streets whose souteneur might strike him with a knife in the gloaming that evening!
From Beaumont’s he went to Boussod et Valadon’s,[412] and after an interview with that famous firm, returned to his favorite place of Faldon, where he had a small collection of old Flemish and Dutch pictures brought together in the previous century by his great-grandfather. They were not in the entail90, and he had always been at liberty to sell them, but he had never been tempted to do so, for he was attached to the paintings and he liked to see them hanging in the oval room with a north light, where they had been for over a hundred years. He abhorred selling things, all his economies had been effected without selling anything: only by refraining from buying, which is an unpopular method. Dilettanti and dealers91 had all alike hinted to him that those pictures were worth a great deal, and that it was a pity to keep them in a secluded92 country place on the edge of the Atlantic. But he had always turned a deaf ear to such suggestions.
Now, he said to himself, the pictures must go. He had nothing else in his possession which would fetch a tenth part of his sister’s debt to William Massarene. He was even afraid that the pictures would fail to realize the whole amount. But he asked for that amount and after some demur93 the price was accepted, the pictures were well known, and the money would be paid down, on their delivery in Ireland, to the agent of the great Paris house.
It was a matter easily concluded; but one which cut him to the quick.
However rapidly and privately94 it had been arranged the facts of the sale would not, he knew, be kept out of the newspapers. Paragraphs would appear in all the social and artistic95 journals to the effect that Lord Hurstmanceaux had sold his Dutch and Flemish collections of petits maîtres.
Every misfortune is nowadays doubled and trebled by the publicity96 given to it in the press, which turns the knife in our wounds and pours petroleum97 on our burning roof-tree. He would also be unable to explain to his friends why he sold them. He would appear like any other of the spendthrifts and idiots who sent to the hammer their libraries and pictures. No pressure would ever have forced him to make such a sale for his own pleasures or his own necessities.
[413]To a sensitive and proud man the comment which it would excite was worse to endure than all the blows of adversity.
“So you have sold your pictures after all!” a thousand tongues would say to him; and society would say that Ronnie had become like other people at last.
They are so silly, so unutterably silly, those flippant sneers98 of our acquaintances, and yet they irritate and wound like mosquitos.
But he accepted these inevitable99 consequences and he went to Faldon, and saw them packed with his own eyes, and with his own hands placed in its wooden case with tender care a little flaxen-haired maiden100 spinning, of Mieris, which when he had been a child he had always called the portrait of his wife.
It was a cruel sacrifice to an unworthy object when the pictures went from their places, and the red sunset light coming over the Atlantic billows shone on the blank walls from which they had been torn.
Truly have the Rosny spoken of the semi-humanité des choses! the sympathetic companionship which we feel in those cherished things of our homes, wound as they are about the roots of our fondest memories, of our longest associations.
Two days later Katherine Massarene received a check on Coutts’s, signed Hurstmanceaux, for the amount which her father had paid the jeweler plus the interest at five per cent. for two years.
It was enclosed with the compliments of the sender. A week later she saw in an art journal the announcement of the sale, to the Paris dealers, of the Dutch and Flemish collection of Faldon Castle.
She put the check in one of the iron safes in the little study and turned the key on it.
He might send her the money in what way he would. He could not make her take it. But she had forgotten that this stubbornness might equal, and even exceed her own.
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1
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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puissant
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| adj.强有力的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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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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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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