"Take, oh! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were foresworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain."
—Shakespeare.
The longed-for night has arrived at last; so has Molly's dress, a very marvel1 of art, fresh and pure as newly-fallen snow. It is white silk with tulle, on which white water-lilies lie here and there, as though carelessly thrown, all their broad and trailing leaves gleaming from among the shining folds.
Miss Massereene is in her own room, dressing2, her faithful Sarah on her knees beside her. She has almost finished her toilet, and is looking more than usually lovely in her London ball-dress.
"Our visit is nearly at an end, Sarah; how have you enjoyed it?" she asks, in an interval3, during which Sarah is at her feet, sewing on more securely one of her white lilies.
"Very much, indeed, miss. They've all been excessive polite, though they do ask a lot of questions. Only this evening they wanted to know if we was estated, and I said, 'Yes,' Miss Molly, because after all, you know, miss, it is a property, however small; and I wasn't going to let myself down. And then that young man of Captain Shadwell's ast me if we was 'county people,' which I thought uncommon4 imperent. Not but what he's a nice young man, miss, and very affable."
"Still constant, Sarah?" says Molly, who is deep in the waves of doubt, not being able to decide some important final point about her dress.
"Oh, law! yes, miss, he is indeed. It was last night he was saying as my accent was very sweet. Now there isn't one of them country bumpkins, miss, as would know whether you had an accent or not. It's odd how traveling do improve the mind."
"Sarah, you should pay no attention to those London young men,—(pin it more to this side),—because they never mean anything."
"Law, Miss Molly, do you say so?" says her handmaid, suddenly depressed5. "Well, of course, miss, you—who are so much with London gentlemen—ought to know. And don't they mean what they say to you, Miss Molly?"
"I, eh?" says Molly, rather taken aback; and then she bursts out laughing. "Sarah, only I know you to be trustworthy, I should certainly think you sarcastic6."
"What's that, miss?"
"Never mind,—something thoroughly7 odious8. You abash9 me, Sarah. By all means believe what each one tells you. It may be as honestly said to you as to me. And now, how do I look, Sarah? Speak," says Molly, sailing away from her up the room like a "white, white swan," and then turning to confront her and give her a fair opportunity of judging of her charms.
"Just lovely," says Sarah, with the most flattering sincerity10 of tone. "There is no doubt, Miss Molly, but you look quite the lady."
"I agree with Sarah," says Cecil, who has entered unnoticed. She affects blue, as a rule, and is now attired12 in palest azure13, with a faint-pink blossom in her hair, and another at her breast. "Sarah is a person of much discrimination; you do look 'quite the lady.' You should be grateful to me, Molly, when you remember I ordered your dress; it is almost the prettiest I have ever seen, and with you in it the effect is maddening."
"Let me get down-stairs, at all events, without having my head turned," says Molly, laughing. "Oh, Cecil, I feel so happy! To have a really irreproachable14 ball-dress, and to go to a really large ball, has been for years the dream of my life."
"I wonder, when the evening is over, how you will look on your dream?" Cecil cannot help saying. "Come, we are late enough as it is. But first turn round and let me see the train. So; that woman is a perfect artist where dresses are concerned. You look charming."
"And her neck and arms, my lady!" puts in Sarah, who is almost tearful in her admiration15. "Surely Miss Massereene's cannot be equaled. They are that white, Miss Molly, that no one could be found fault with for comparing them to the dribbling16 snow."
"A truly delightful17 simile," exclaims Molly, merrily, and forthwith follows Cecil to conquest.
They find the drawing-rooms still rather empty. Marcia is before them, and Philip and Mr. Potts; also Sir Penthony. Two or three determined18 ball-goers have arrived, and are dotted about, looking over albums, asking each other how they do, and thinking how utterly19 low it is of all the rest of the county to be so late. "Such beastly affectation, you know, and such a putting on of side, and general straining after effect."
"I hope, Miss Amherst, you have asked a lot of pretty girls," says Plantagenet, "and only young ones. Old maids make awful havoc20 of my temper."
"I don't think there are 'lots' of pretty girls anywhere; but I have asked as many as I know. And there are among them at least two acknowledged belles22."
"You don't say so!" exclaims Sir Penthony. "Miss Amherst, if you wish to make me eternally grateful you will point them out to me. There is nothing so distressing23 as not to know. And once I was introduced to a beauty, and didn't discover my luck until it was too late. I never even asked her to dance! Could you fancy anything more humiliating? Give you my honor I spoke24 to her for ten minutes and never so much as paid her a compliment. It was too cruel,—and she the queen of the evening, as I was told afterward25."
"You didn't admire her?" asks Cecil, interested. "Never saw her beauty?"
The ball is at its height. Marcia, dressed in pale maize27 silk,—which suits her dark and glowing beauty,—is still receiving a few late guests in her usual stately but rather impassive manner. Old Mr. Amherst, standing28 beside her, gives her an air of importance. Beyond all doubt she will be heavily dowered,—a wealthy heiress, if not exactly the heir.
Philip, as the supposed successor to the house and lands of Herst, receives even more attention; while Molly, except for her beauty, which outshines all that the room contains, is in no way noticeable. Though, when one holds the ace29 of trumps30, one feels almost independent of the other honors.
The chief guest—a marquis, with an aristocratic limp and only one eye—has begged of her a square dance. Two lords—one very young, the other distressingly31 old—have also solicited32 her hand in the "mazy dance." She is the reigning33 belle21; and she knows it.
Beautiful, sparkling, brilliant, she moves through the rooms. A great delight, a joyous34 excitement, born of her youth, the music, her own success, fills her. She has a smile, a kindly35 look, for every one. Even Mr. Buscarlet, in the blackest of black clothes and rather indifferent linen36, venturing to address her as she goes by him, receives a gracious answer in return. So does Mrs. Buscarlet, who is radiant in pink satin and a bird-of-paradise as a crown.
"Ain't she beautiful?" says that substantial matron, with a beaming air of approbation37, as though Molly was her bosom38 friend, addressing the partner of her joys. "Such a lovely-turned jaw39! She has quite a look of my sister Mary Anne when a girl. I wish, my dear, she was to be heiress of Herst, instead of that stuck-up girl in yellow."
"So do I; so do I," replies Buscarlet, following the movements of Beauty as she glides40 away, smiling, dimpling on my lord's arm. "And—ahem!"—with a meaning and consequential41 cough—"perhaps she may. Who knows? There is a certain person who has often a hold of her grandfather's ear! Ahem!"
Meantime the band is playing its newest, sweetest strains; the air is heavy with the scent42 of flowers. The low ripple43 of conversation and merry laughter rises above everything. The hours are flying all too swiftly.
"May I have the pleasure of this waltz with you?" Sir Penthony is saying, bending over Lady Stafford, as she sits in one of the numberless small, dimly-lit apartments that branch off the hall.
"Dear Sir Penthony, do you think I will test your good-nature so far? You are kind to a fault, and I will not repay you so poorly as to avail myself of your offer. Fancy condemning44 you to waste a whole dance on your—wife!"
The first of the small hours has long since sounded, and she is a little piqued45 that not until now has he asked her to dance. Nevertheless, she addresses him with her most charming smile.
"I, for my part, should not consider it a dance wasted," replies he, stiffly.
"Is he not self-denying?" she says, turning languidly toward Lowry, who, as usual, stands beside her.
"You cannot expect me to see it in that light," replies he, politely.
"May I hope for this waltz?" Sir Penthony asks again, this time very coldly.
"Not this one; perhaps a little later on."
"As you please, of course," returns he, as, with a frown and an inward determination never to ask her again, he walks away.
"Have you seen Miss Massereene?" he asks instantly. "I am engaged to her, and can see her nowhere."
"Try one of those nests for flirtation," replies Stafford, bitterly, turning abruptly48 away, and pointing toward the room he has just quitted.
But Luttrell goes in a contrary direction. Through one conservatory49 after another, through ball-room, supper-room, tea-room, he searches without success. There is no Molly to be seen anywhere.
"She has forgotten our engagement," he thinks, and feels a certain pang50 of disappointment that it should be so. As he walks, rather dejectedly, into a last conservatory, he is startled to find Marcia there alone, gazing with silent intentness out of the window into the garden beneath.
As he approaches she turns to meet his gaze. She is as pale as death, and her dark eyes are full of fire. The fingers of her hand twitch51 convulsively.
"You are looking for Eleanor?" she says, intuitively, her voice low, but vibrating with some hidden emotion. "See, you will find her there."
She points down toward the garden through the window where she has been standing, and moves away. Impelled52 by the strangeness of her manner, Luttrell follows her direction, and, going over to the window, gazes out into the night.
It is a brilliant moonlight night; the very stars shine with redoubled glory; the chaste53 Diana, riding high in the heavens, casts over "tower and stream" and spreading parks "a flood of silver sheen;" the whole earth seems bright as gaudy54 day.
Beneath, in the shrubberies, pacing to and fro, are Molly and Philip Shadwell, evidently in earnest conversation. Philip at least seems painfully intent and eager. They have stopped, as if by one impulse, and now he has taken her hand. She hardly rebukes55 him; her hand lies passive within his; and now,—now, with a sudden movement, he has placed his arm around her waist.
"Honor or no honor," says Luttrell, fiercely, "I will see it out with her now."
Drawing a deep breath, he folds his arms and leans against the window, full of an agonized56 determination to know the worst.
Molly has put up her hand and laid it on Philip's chest, as though expostulating, but makes no vehement57 effort to escape from his embrace. Philip, his face lit up with passionate58 admiration, is gazing down into the lovely one so near him, that scarcely seems to shrink from his open homage59. The merciless, cruel moon, betrays them all too surely.
Luttrell's pulses are throbbing60 wildly, while his heart has almost ceased to beat. Half a minute—that is a long hour—passes thus; a few more words from Philip, an answer from Molly. Oh, that he could hear! And then Shadwell stoops until, from where Luttrell stands, his face seems to grow to hers.
Tedcastle's teeth meet in his lip as he gazes spell-bound. A cold shiver runs through him, as when one learns that all one's dearest, most cherished hopes are trampled61 in the dust. A faint moisture stands on his brow. It is the bitterness of death!
Presently a drop of blood trickling62 slowly down—the sickly flavor of it in his mouth—rouses him. Instinctively63 he closes his eyes, as though too late to strive to shut out the torturing sight, and, with a deep curse, he presses his handkerchief to his lips and moves away as one suddenly awakened64 from a ghastly dream.
In the doorway65 he meets Marcia; she, too, has been a witness of the garden scene, and as he passes her she glances up at him with a curious smile.
"If you wish to keep her you should look after her," she whispers, with white lips.
"If she needs looking after, I do not wish for her," he answers, bitterly, and the next moment could kill himself, in that he has been so far wanting in loyalty66 to his most disloyal love.
With his mind quite made up, he waits through two dances silently, almost motionless, with his back against a friendly wall, hardly taking note of anything that is going on around him, until such time as he can claim another dance from Molly.
It comes at last: and, making his way through the throng67 of dancers, he reaches the spot where, breathless, smiling, she sits fanning herself, an adoring partner dropping little honeyed phrases into her willing ear.
"This is our dance," Luttrell says, in a hard tone, standing before her, with compressed lips and a pale face.
"Is it?" with a glance at her card.
"Never mind your card. I know it is ours," he says, and, offering her his arm, leads her, not to the ball-room, but on to a balcony, from which the garden can be reached by means of steps.
Before descending68 he says,—always in the same uncompromising tone:
"Are you cold? Shall I fetch you a shawl?"
And she answers:
"No, thank you. I think the night warm," being, for the moment, carried away by the strangeness and determination of his manner.
When they are in the garden, and still he has not spoken, she breaks the silence.
"What is it, Teddy?" she asks, lightly. "I am all curiosity. I never before saw you look so angry."
"'Angry'?—no,—I hardly think there is room for anger. I have brought you here to tell you—I will not keep to my engagement with you—an hour longer."
Silence follows this declaration,—a dead silence, broken only by the voices of the night and the faint, sweet, dreamy sound of one of Gungl's waltzes as it steals through the air to where they stand.
They have ceased to move, and are facing each other in the narrow pathway. A few beams from the illumined house fall across their feet; one, more adventurous69 than the rest, has lit on Molly's face, and lingers there, regardless of the envious70 moonbeams.
How changed it is! All the soft sweetness, the gladness of it, that characterized it a moment since, is gone. All the girlish happiness and excitement of a first ball have vanished. She is cold, rigid71, as one turned to stone. Indignation lies within her lovely eyes.
"I admit you have taken me by surprise," she says, slowly. "It is customary—is it not?—for the one who breaks an engagement to assign some reason for so doing?"
"It is. You shall have my reason. Half an hour ago I stood at that window,"—pointing to it,—"and saw you in the shrubberies—with—Shadwell!"
"Yes? And then?"
"Then—then!" With a movement full of passion he lays his hands upon her shoulders and turns her slightly, so that the ray which has wandered once more rests upon her face. "Let me look at you," he says; "let me see how bravely you can carry out your deception72 to its end. Its end, mark you; for you shall never again deceive me. I have had enough of it. It is over. My love for you has died."
"Beyond all doubt it had an easy death," replies she, calmly. "There could never have been much life in it. But all this is beside the question. I have yet to learn my crime. I have yet to learn what awful iniquity73 lies in the fact of my being with Philip Shadwell."
"Still I do not understand," she says, drawing herself up, with a little proud gesture. "What is it to me whether you or all the world saw me with Philip? Explain yourself."
"I will." In a low voice, almost choked with passion and despair. "You will understand when I tell you I saw him with his arms around you—you submitting—you—— And then—I saw him—kiss you. That I should live to say it of you!"
"Did you see him kiss me?" still calmly. "Your eyesight is invaluable75."
"Ah! you no longer deny it? In your inmost heart no doubt you are laughing at me, poor fool that I have been. How many other times have you kissed him, I wonder, when I was not by to see?"
"Whatever faults you may have had, I acquitted76 you of brutality," says she, in a low, carefully suppressed tone.
"You never loved me. In that one matter at least you were honest; you never professed77 affection. And yet I was mad enough to think that after a time I should gain the love of a flirt47,—a coquette."
"You were mad to care for the love of 'a flirt,—a coquette.'"
"I have been blind all these past weeks," goes on he, unheeding, "determined not to see (what all the rest of the world, no doubt, too plainly saw) what there was between you and Shadwell. But I am blind no longer. I am glad,—yes, thankful," cries the young man, throwing out one hand, as though desirous of proving by action the truth of his sad falsehood,—"thankful I have found you out at last,—before it was too late."
"I am thankful too; but for another reason. I feel grateful that your suspicions have caused you to break off our engagement. And now that it is broken,—irremediably so,—let me tell you that for once your priceless sight has played you false. I admit that Philip placed his arm around me (but not unrebuked, as you would have it); I admit he stooped to kiss me; but," cries Molly, with sudden passion that leaves her pale as an early snow-drop, "I do not admit he kissed me. Deceitful, worthless, flirt, coquette, as you think me, I have not yet fallen so low as to let one man kiss me while professing78 to keep faith with another."
"You say this—after——"
"I do. And who is there shall dare give me the lie? Beware, Tedcastle; you have gone far enough already. Do not go too far. You have chosen to insult me. Be it so. I forgive you. But, for the future, let me see, and hear, and know as little of you as may be possible."
"Molly, if what you now——"
"Stand back, sir," cries she, with an air of majesty79 and with an imperious gesture, raising one white arm, that gleams like snow in the dark night, to wave him to one side.
"From henceforth remember, I am deaf when you address me!"
She sweeps past him into the house, without further glance or word, leaving him, half mad with doubt and self-reproach, to pace the gardens until far into the morning.
When he does re-enter the ball-room he finds it almost deserted80. Nearly all the guests have taken their departure. Dancing is growing half-hearted; conversation is having greater sway with those that still remain.
The first person he sees—with Philip beside her—is Molly, radiant, sparkling, even more than usually gay. Two crimson81 spots burn upon either cheek, making her large eyes seem larger, and bright as gleaming stars.
Even as Luttrell, with concentrated bitterness, stands transfixed at some little distance from her, realizing how small a thing to her is this rupture82 between them, that is threatening to break his heart, she, looking up, sees him.
Turning to her companion, she whispers something to him in a low tone, and then she laughs,—a soft, rippling83 laugh, full of mirth and music.
"There go the chimes again," says Mr. Potts, who has just come up, alluding84 to Molly's little cruel outburst of merriment. "I never saw Miss Massereene in such good form as she is in to-night. Oh!"—with a suppressed yawn—"'what a day we're 'aving!' I wish it were all to come over again."
"Plantagenet, you grow daily more dissipated," says Cecil Stafford, severely85. "A little boy like you should be in your bed hours ago; instead of which you have been allowed to sit up until half-past four, and——"
"And still I am not 'appy?' How could I be when you did me out of that solitary86 dance you promised me? I really believed, when I asked you with such pathos87 in the early part of the evening to keep that one green spot in your memory for me, you would have done so."
"Did I forget you?" remorsefully88. "Well, don't blame me. Mr. Lowry would keep my card for me, and, as a natural consequence, it was lost. After that, how was it possible for me to keep to my engagements?"
"I think it was a delightful ball," Molly says, with perhaps a shade too much empressement. "I never in all my life enjoyed myself so well."
"Lucky you," says Cecil. "Had I been allowed I should perhaps have been happy too; but"—with a glance at Stafford, who is looking the very personification of languid indifference—"when people allow their tempers to get the better of them——" Here she pauses with an eloquent89 sigh.
"I hope you are not alluding to me," says Lowry, who is at her elbow, with a smile that awakes in Stafford a mild longing90 to strangle him.
"Oh, no!"—sweetly. "How could you think it? I am not ungrateful; and I know how carefully you tried to make my evening a pleasant one."
"If I succeeded it is more than I dare hope for," returns he, in a low tone, intended for her ears alone.
She smiles at him, and holds out her arm, that he may refasten the eighth button of her glove that has mysteriously come undone91. He rather lingers over the doing of it. He is, indeed, strangely awkward, and finds an unaccountable difficulty in inducing the refractory92 button to go into its proper place.
"Shall we bivouac here for the remainder of the night, or seek our beds?" asks Sir Penthony, impatiently. "I honestly confess the charms of that eldest93 Miss Millbanks have completely used me up. Too much of a good thing is good for nothing; and she is tall. Do none of the rest of you feel fatigue94? I know women's passion for conquest is not easily satiated,"—with a slight sneer—"but at five o'clock in the morning one might surely call a truce95."
They agree with him, and separate, even the tardiest96 guest having disappeared by this time, with a last assurance of how intensely they have enjoyed their evening; though when they reach their chambers97 a few of them give way to such despair and disappointment as rather gives the lie to their expressions of pleasure.
Poor Molly, in spite of her false gayety,—put on to mask the wounded pride, the new sensation of blankness that fills her with dismay,—flings herself upon her bed and cries away all the remaining hours that rest between her and her maid's morning visit.
A sigh too much or a kiss too long."
For how much less—for the mere99 suspicion of a kiss—have things gone wrong with her? How meagre is the harvest she has gathered in from all her anticipated pleasure, how poor a fruition has been hers!
Now that she and her lover are irrevocably separated, she remembers, with many pangs100 of self-reproach, how tender and true and honest he has proved himself in all his dealings with her; and, though she cannot accuse herself of actual active disloyalty toward him, a hidden voice reminds her how lightly and with what persistent101 carelessness she accepted all his love, and how indifferently she made return.
With the desire to ease the heartache she is enduring, she tries—in vain—to encourage a wrathful feeling toward him, calling to mind how ready he was to believe her false, how easily he flung her off, for what, after all, was but a fancied offense102. But the very agony of his face as he did so disarms103 her, recollecting104 as she does every change and all the passionate disappointment of it.
Oh that she had repulsed105 Philip on the instant when first he took her hand, as it had been in her heart to do!—but for the misery106 he showed that for the moment softened107 her. Mercy on such occasions is only cruel kindness, so she now thinks,—and has been her own undoing108. And besides, what is his misery to hers?
An intense bitterness, a positive hatred109 toward Shadwell, who has brought all this discord110 into her hitherto happy life, grows within her, filling her with a most unjust longing to see him as wretched as he has unwittingly made her; while yet she shrinks with ever-increasing reluctance111 from the thought that soon she must bring herself to look again upon his dark but handsome face.
Luttrell, too,—she must meet him; and, with such swollen112 eyes and pallid113 cheeks, the bare idea brings a little color into her white face.
As eight o'clock strikes, she rises languidly from her bed, dressed as she is, disrobing hurriedly, lest even her woman should guess how wakeful she had been, throws open her window, and lets the pure cold air beat upon her features.
But when Sarah comes she is not deceived. So distressed114 is she at her young mistress's appearance that she almost weeps aloud, and gives it as her opinion that balls and all such nocturnal entertainments are the invention of the enemy.
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1
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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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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6
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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7
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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abash
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| v.使窘迫，使局促不安 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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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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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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31
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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32
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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33
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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34
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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35
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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36
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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37
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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38
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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39
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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40
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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41
consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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42
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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43
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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44
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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45
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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46
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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47
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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48
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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49
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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50
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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51
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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52
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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54
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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55
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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57
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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58
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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59
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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60
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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61
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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62
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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63
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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64
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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65
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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66
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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67
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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68
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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69
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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70
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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71
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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72
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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73
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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74
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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75
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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76
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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77
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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78
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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79
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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80
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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81
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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82
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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83
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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84
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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85
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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86
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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87
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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88
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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89
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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90
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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91
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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92
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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93
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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94
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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95
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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96
tardiest
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| adj.行动缓慢的( tardy的最高级 )；缓缓移动的；晚的；迟的 | |
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97
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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98
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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101
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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102
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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103
disarms
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| v.裁军( disarm的第三人称单数 )；使息怒 | |
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104
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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105
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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106
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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107
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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108
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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109
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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110
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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111
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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112
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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113
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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114
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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