"I'll tell thee a part,
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh."
—Shelley.
The next day is Sunday, and a very muggy1, disagreeable one it proves. There is an indecision about it truly irritating. A few drops of rain here and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. Finally, at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing any improvement, it clears up in a degree,—against its will,—and allows two or three depressed2 and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth3, rather with a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it.
Sunday at Herst is much the same as any other day. There are no rules, no restrictions4. In the library may be found volumes of sermons waiting for those who may wish for them. The covers of those sermons are as clean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, now many years ago, showing how amiably5 they have waited. You may play billiards6 if you like; you need not go to church if you don't like. Yet, somehow, when at Herst, people always do go,—perhaps because they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth7 of amusements.
Molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with Tedcastle, coming down-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, finds almost all the others assembled before her in the hall, ready to start.
Laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathers up the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to Lady Stafford.
At this moment both Luttrell and Shadwell move toward the books. Shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them.
"You will carry them for me?" says Molly, with a bright smile to him; and Luttrell, with a slight contraction8 of the brow, falls back again, and takes his place beside Lady Stafford.
As the church lies at the end of a pleasant pathway through the woods, they elect to walk it; and so in twos and threes they make their way under the still beautiful trees.
"It is cold, is it not?" Molly says to Mrs. Darley once, when they come to an open part of the wood, where they can travel in a body; "wonderfully so for September."
"Is it? I never mind the cold, or—or anything," rejoins Mrs. Darley, affectedly9, talking for the benefit of the devoted11 Mottie, who walks beside her, "laden12 with golden grain," in the shape of prayer-books and hymnals of all sorts and sizes, "if I have any one with me that suits me; that is, a sympathetic person."
"A lover you mean?" asks uncompromising Molly. "Well, I don't know; I think that is about the time, of all others, when I should object to feeling cold. One's nose has such an unpleasant habit of getting beyond one's control in the way of redness; and to feel that one's cheeks are pinched and one's lips blue is maddening. At such times I like my own society best."
"And at other times, too," said Philip, disagreeably; "this morning, for instance." He and Molly have been having a passage of arms, and he has come off second best.
"I won't contradict you," says Molly, calmly; "it would be rude, and, considering how near we are to church, unchristian."
"Is it charitable, is it kind to scorn a fellow-creature as you do, only because he loves you?" Philip says, in a low tone.
Miss Massereene is first honestly surprised, then angry. That Philip has made love to her now and again when opportunity occurred is a fact she does not seek to deny, but it has been hitherto in the careless, half-earnest manner young men of the present day affect when in the society of a pretty woman, and has caused her no annoyance18.
That he should now, without a word of warning (beyond the slight sparring-match during their walk, and which is one of a series), break forth with so much vehemence19 and apparent sense of injury, not only alarms but displeases20 her; whilst some faint idea of treachery on her own part toward her betrothed21, in listening to such words, fills her with distress22.
There is a depth, an earnestness, about Philip not to be mistaken. His sombre face has paled, his eyes do not meet hers, his thin nostrils23 are dilated24, as though breathing were a matter of difficulty; all prove him genuinely disturbed.
To a man of his jealous, passionate25 nature, to love is a calamity26. No return, however perfect, can quite compensate27 him for all the pains and fears his passion must afford. Already Philip's torture has begun; already the pangs28 of unrequited love have seized upon him.
"I wish you would not speak to me like—as—in such a tone," Molly says, pettishly29 and uneasily. "Latterly, I hate going anywhere with you, you are so ill-tempered; and now to-day—— Why cannot you be pleasant and friendly, as you used to be when I first came to Herst?"
"Ah, why indeed?" returns he, bitterly.
At this inauspicious moment a small rough terrier of Luttrell's rushes across their path, almost under their feet, bent30 on some mad chase after a mocking squirrel; and Philip, maddened just then by doubts and the coldness of her he loves, with the stick he carries strikes him a quick and sudden blow; not heavy, perhaps, but so unexpected as to draw from the pretty brute31 a sharp cry of pain.
Hearing a sound of distress from his favorite, Luttrell turns, and, seeing him shrinking away from Molly's side, casts upon her a glance full of the liveliest reproach, that reduces her very nearly to the verge32 of tears. To be so misunderstood, and all through this tiresome33 Philip, it is too bad! As, under the circumstances, she cannot well indulge her grief, she does the next best thing, and gives way to temper.
"Don't do that again," she says, with eyes that flash a little through their forbidden tears.
"Why?" surprised in his turn at her vehemence; "it isn't your dog; it's Luttrell's."
"No matter whose dog it is; don't do it again. I detest34 seeing a poor brute hurt, and for no cause, but merely as a means to try and rid yourself of some of your ill-temper."
"There is more ill-temper going than mine. I beg your pardon, however. I had no idea you were a member of the Humane35 Society. You should study the bearing-rein question, and vivisection, and—that," with a sullen36 laugh.
"Nothing annoys me so much as wanton cruelty to dumb animals."
"There are other—perhaps mistakenly termed—superior animals on whom even you can inflict37 torture," he says, with a sneer17. "All your tenderness must be reserved for the lower creation. You talk of brutality38: what is there in all the earth so cruel as a woman? A lover's pain is her joy."
"You are getting out of your depth,—I cannot follow you," says Molly, coldly. "Why should you and I discuss such a subject as lovers? What have we in common with them? And it is a pity, Philip, you should allow your anger to get so much the better of you. When you look savage39, as you do now, you remind me of no one so much as grandpapa. And do recollect what an odious40 old man he makes."
This finishes the conversation. He vouchsafes41 her no reply. To be considered like Mr. Amherst, no matter in how far-off a degree, is a bitter insult. In silence they continue their walk; in silence reach the church and enter it.
It is a gloomy, antiquated42 building, primitive43 in size, and form, and service. The rector is well-meaning, but decidedly Low. The curate is unmeaning, and abominably44 slow. The clerk does a great part of the duty.
He is an old man, and regarded rather in the light of an institution in this part of the county. Being stone deaf, he puts in the responses anyhow, always in the wrong place, and never finds out his mistake until he sees the clergyman's lips set firm, and on his face a look of patient expectation, when he coughs apologetically, and says them all over again.
There is an "Amen" in the middle of every prayer, and then one at the end. This gives him double trouble, and makes him draw his salary with a clear conscience. It also creates a lively time for the school-children, who once at least on every Sunday give way to a loud burst of merriment, and are only restored to a sense of duty by a severe blow administered by the sandy-haired teacher.
It is a good old-fashioned church too, where the sides of the pews are so high that one can with difficulty look over them, and where the affluent46 man can have a real fire-place all to himself, with a real poker47 and tongs48 and shovel49 to incite50 it to a blaze every now and again.
Here, too, without rebuke51 the neighbors can seize the opportunity of conversing52 with each other across the pews, by standing53 on tiptoe, when occasion offers during the service, as, for instance, when the poor-box is going round. And it is a poor-box, and no mistake,—flat, broad, and undeniable pewter, at which the dainty bags of a city chapel54 would have blushed with shame.
When the clergyman goes into the pulpit every one instantly blows his or her nose, and coughs his or her loudest before the text is given out, under a mistaken impression that they can get it all over at once, and not have to do it at intervals55 further on. This is a compliment to the clergyman, expressing their intention of hearing him undisturbed to the end, and, I suppose, is received as such.
It is an attentive56 congregation,—dangerously so, for what man but blunders in his sermon now and then? And who likes being twitted on week-days for opinions expressed on Sundays, more especially if he has not altogether acted up to them! It is a suspicious congregation too (though perhaps not singularly so, for I have perceived others do the same), because whenever their priest names a chapter and verse for any text he may choose to insert in his discourse57, instantly and with avidity each and all turn over the leaves of their Bibles, to see if it be really in the identical spot mentioned, or whether their pastor58 has been lying. This action may not be altogether suspicion; it may be also thought of as a safety-valve for their ennui59, the rector never letting them off until they have had sixty good minutes of his valuable doctrine60.
All the Herst party conduct themselves with due discretion61 save Mr. Potts, who, being overcome by the novelty of the situation and the length of the sermon, falls fast asleep, and presently, at some denunciatory passage, pronounced in a rather distinct tone by the rector, rousing himself with a precipitate62 jerk, sends all the fire-irons with a fine clatter63 to the ground, he having been most unhappily placed nearest the grate.
"The ruling passion strong in death," says Luttrell, with a despairing glance at the culprit; whereupon Molly nearly laughs outright64, while the school-children do so quite.
Beyond this small contre-temps, however, nothing of note occurs; and, service being over, they all file decorously out of the church into the picturesque65 porch outside, where they stand for a few minutes interchanging greetings with such of the county families as come within their knowledge.
With a few others too, who scarcely come within that aristocratic pale, notably66 Mrs. Buscarlet. She is a tremendously stout67, distressingly68 healthy woman, quite capable of putting her husband in a corner of her capacious pocket, which, by the bye, she insists on wearing outside her gown, in a fashion beloved of our great-grandmothers, and which, in a modified form, last year was much affected10 by our own generation.
This alarming personage greets Marcia with the utmost bonhommie, being apparently69 blind to the coldness of her reception. She greets Lady Stafford also, who is likewise at freezing-point, and then gets introduced to Molly. Mrs. Darley, who even to the uninitiated Mrs. Buscarlet appears a person unworthy of notice, she lets go free, for which favor Mrs. Darley is devoutly70 grateful.
Little Buscarlet himself, who has a weakness for birth, in that he lacks it, comes rambling71 up to them at this juncture72, and tells them, with many a smirk73, he hopes to have the pleasure of lunching with them at Herst, Mr. Amherst having sent him a special invitation, as he has something particular to say to him; whereupon Molly, who is nearest to him, laughs, and tells him she had no idea such luck was in store for her.
"You are the greatest hypocrite I ever met in my life," Sir Penthony says in her ear, when Buscarlet, smiling, bowing, radiant, has moved on.
"I am not indeed; you altogether mistake me," Molly answers. "If you only knew how his anxiety to please, and Marcia's determination not to be pleased, amuse me, you would understand how thoroughly74 I enjoy his visits."
"I ask your pardon. I had no idea we had a student of human nature among us. Don't study me, Miss Massereene, or it will unfit you for further exertions75; I am a living mass of errors."
Mr. Amherst, who never by any chance darkens the doors of a church, receives them in the drawing-room on their return. He is in an amiable78 mood and pleased to be gracious. Seizing upon Mr. Buscarlet, he carries him off with him to his private den13, so that for the time being there is an end of them.
"For all small mercies," begins Mr. Potts, solemnly, when the door has closed on them; but he is interrupted by Lady Stafford.
"'Small,' indeed," grumbles79 she. "What do you mean? I shan't be able to eat my lunch if that odious little man remains80, with his 'Yes, Lady Stafford;' 'No, Lady Stafford;' 'I quite agree with your ladyship,' and so on. Oh, that I could drop my title!"—this with a glance at Sir Penthony;—"at all events while he is present." This with another and more gracious glance at Stafford. "Positively81 I feel my appetite going already, and that is a pity, as it was an uncommonly82 good one."
"Cheer up, dear," says Molly; "and remember there will be dinner later on. Poor Mr. Buscarlet! There must be something wrong with me, because I cannot bring myself to think so disparagingly83 of him as you all do."
"I am sorry for you. Not to know Mr. Buscarlet's little peculiarities84 of behavior argues yourself unknown," Marcia says, with a good deal of intention. "And I presume they cannot have struck you, or you would scarcely be so tolerant."
"He certainly sneezes very incessantly85 and very objectionably," Molly says, thoughtfully. "I hate a man who sneezes publicly; and his sneeze is so unpleasant,—so exactly like that of a cat. A little wriggle87 of the entire body, and then a little soft—splash!"
"My dear Molly!" expostulates Lady Stafford.
"But is it not?" protests she; "is it not an accurate description?"
"Yes, its accuracy is its fault. I almost thought the man was in the room."
"And then there is Mrs. Buscarlet: I never saw any one like Mrs. Buscarlet," Maud Darley says, plaintively88; "did you? There is so much of her, and it is all so nasty. And, oh! her voice! it is like wind whistling through a key-hole."
"Poor woman," says Luttrell, regretfully, "I think I could have forgiven her had she not worn that very verdant89 gown."
"My dear fellow, I thought the contrast between it and her cheeks the most perfect thing I ever saw. It is evident you have not got the eye of an artist," Sir Penthony says, rather unfeelingly.
"I never saw any one so distressingly healthy," says Maud, still plaintively. "Fat people are my aversion. I don't mind a comfortable-looking body, but she is much too stout."
"Let us alter that last remark and say she has had too much stout, and perhaps we shall define her," remarks Tedcastle. "I hate a woman who shows her food."
"The way she traduced90 those Sedleys rather amused me," Molly says, laughing. "I certainly thought her opinion of her neighbors very pronounced."
"She shouldn't have any opinion," says Lady Stafford, with decision. "You, my dear Molly, take an entirely91 wrong view of it. Such people as the Buscarlets, sprung from nobody knows where, or cares to know, should be kept in their proper place, and be sat upon the very instant they develop a desire to progress."
"How can you be so illiberal92?" exclaims Molly, aghast at so much misplaced vehemence. "Why should they not rise with the rest of the world?"
"Eleanor has quite a penchant93 for the Buscarlets," says Marcia, with a sneer; "she has quite adopted them, and either will not, or perhaps does not, see their enormities."
Nobody cares to notice this impertinence, and Mr. Potts says, gravely:
"Lady Stafford has never forgiven Mrs. Buscarlet because once, at a ball here, she told her she was looking very 'distangy.' Is that not true?"
Cecil laughs.
"Why should not every one have an opinion?" Molly persists. "I agree with the old song that 'Britons never shall be slaves:' therefore, why should they not assert themselves? In a hundred years hence they will have all the manners and airs of we others."
"Then they should be locked up during the intermediate stage," says Cecil, with an uncompromising nod of her blonde head. "I call them insufferable; and if Mr. Buscarlet when he comes in again makes himself agreeable to me—me!—I shall insult him,—that's all! No use arguing with me, Molly,—I shall indeed." She softens94 this awful threat by a merry sweet-tempered little laugh.
"Let us forget the little lawyer and talk of something we all enjoy,—to-day's sermon, for instance. You admired it, Potts, didn't you? I never saw any one so attentive in my life," says Sir Penthony.
Potts tries to look as if he had never succumbed95 during service to "Nature's sweet restorer;" and Molly says, apologetically:
"How could he help it? The sermon was so long."
"Yes, wasn't it?" agrees Plantagenet, eagerly. "The longest I ever heard. That man deserves to be suppressed or excommunicated; and the parishioners ought to send him a round robin96 to that effect. Odd, too, how much at sea one feels with a strange prayer-book. One looks for one's prayer at the top of the page, where it always used to be in one's own particular edition, and, lo! one finds it at the bottom. Whatever you may do for the future, Lady Stafford, don't lend me your prayer-book. But for the incessant86 trouble it caused me, between losing my place and finding it again, I don't believe I should have dropped into that gentle doze97."
"Had you ever a prayer-book of your own?" asks Cecil, unkindly. "Because if so it is a pity you don't air it now and again. I have known you a great many years,—more than I care to count,—and never, never have I seen you with the vestige98 of one. I shall send you a pocket edition as a Christmas-box."
"Thanks awfully99. I shall value it for the giver's sake. And I promise you that when next we meet—such care shall it receive—even you will be unable to discover a scratch on it."
"Plantagenet, you are a bad boy," says Cecil.
"I thought the choir100 rather good," Molly is saying; "but why must a man read the service in a long, slow, tearful tone? Surely there is no good to be gained by it; and to find one's self at 'Amen' when he is only in the middle of the prayer has something intolerably irritating about it. I could have shaken that curate."
"Why didn't you?" says Sir Penthony. "I would have backed you up with the greatest pleasure. The person I liked best was the old gentleman with the lint-white locks who said 'Yamen' so persistently101 in the wrong place all through; I grew quite interested at last, and knew the exact spot where it was likely to come in. I must say I admire consistency102."
"How hard it is to keep one's attention fixed," Molly says, meditatively103, "and to preserve a properly dismal104 expression of countenance105! To look solemn always means to look severe, as far as I can judge. And did you ever notice when a rather lively and secular106 set of bars occur in the voluntary, how people cheer up and rouse themselves, and give way to a little sigh or two? I hope it isn't a sigh of relief. We feel it's wicked, but we always do it."
"Still studying poor human nature," exclaims Sir Penthony. "Miss Massereene, I begin to think you a terrible person, and to tremble when I meet your gaze."
"Well, at all events no one can accuse them of being High Church," says Mrs. Darley, alluding107 to her pastors108 and masters for the time being. "The service was wretchedly conducted; hardly any music, and not a flower to speak of."
"My dear! High Church! How could you expect it? Only fancy that curate intoning!" says Cecil, with a laugh.
"That's why he isn't High Church," says Mr. Potts of the curate, speaking with a rather sweeping109 air of criticism. "He ain't musical; he can't intone. Take my word for it, half the clergy45 are Anglicans merely because they think they have voices, and feel what a loss the world will sustain if it don't hear them."
Here the scene is further enlivened by the reappearance of Mr. Amherst and the lawyer, which effectually ends the conversation and turns their thoughts toward the dining-room.
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1
muggy
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| adj.闷热的；adv.（天气）闷热而潮湿地；n.（天气）闷热而潮湿 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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affectedly
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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pettishly
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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41
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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42
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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43
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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44
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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45
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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46
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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47
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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48
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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49
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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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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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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59
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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traduced
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| v.诋毁( traduce的过去式和过去分词 )；诽谤；违反；背叛 | |
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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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illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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100
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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102
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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103
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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104
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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105
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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106
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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107
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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108
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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109
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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