The two sisters stood together under the willow1 trees that overhung the little cove2 from which Mary had landed with the missionary3 three years before. Both had grown into girlhood since then, and both had improved in loveliness; Jane in the bloom and symmetry of her person—Mary in that exquisite4 loveliness of countenance5 which touches the soul like music in a sound, or tints6 in a picture. Jane Derwent was just seventeen years old that day.
“And so you will go, Mary, dear—though this is my birthday? I have a great mind to cut the canoe loose and set it adrift.”
“And then how will your company get to the island?” said Mary Derwent, raising her eyes to the blooming face of her sister, while a quiet smile stole out from their blue depths.
“I don’t care for company! I don’t care for anything—you are so contrary—so hateful. You never stay at home when the young folks are coming—it’s too bad!” And Jane flung herself on the grass which surrounded the little cove where a bark canoe lay rocking in the water, and indulged her petulance7 by tearing up the strawberry-vines which her sister had planted there.
“Don’t spoil my strawberry-bed,” said Mary, bending over the wayward girl and kissing her forehead. “Come, be good-natured and let me go; I will bring you some honeysuckle-apples, and a whole canoe full 22of wood-lilies. Do say yes; I can’t bear to see you discontented to-day!”
“I would not care about it so much—though it is hard that you will never go to frolics, nor enjoy yourself like other folks—but Edward Clark made me promise to keep you at home to-day.”
A color, like the delicate tinting9 of a shell, stole into Mary’s cheek as it lay caressingly10 against the rich damask of her sister’s.
“If no one but Edward were coming I should be glad to stay,” she replied, in a soft voice; “but you have invited a great many, haven’t you? Who will be here from the village?”
Jane began to enumerate11 the young men who had been invited to her birthday party; they held precedence in her heart, and consequently in her speech; for, to own the truth, Jane Derwent was a perfect specimen12 of the rustic13 coquette; a beauty, and a spoiled one; but a warm-hearted, kind girl notwithstanding.
Jane stopped, for she felt a shiver run over the form around which her arms were flung as she pronounced the last name and saw the cheek of her sister blanch14 to the whiteness of snow.
“I had forgotten,” she said, timidly, after a moment; “I am sorry I asked him. You are not angry with me, Mary, are you?”
“Angry? No! I never am angry with you, Jane. I don’t want to refuse you anything on your birthday—but I will not meet these people. You cannot guess—you can have no idea of my sufferings when any one looks upon me except those I love very, very dearly.”
“That is just what they say,” replied Jane, while a flush of generous feeling spread over her forehead.
“What, who says?” inquired Mary, for her heart 23trembled with a dread15 that some allusion16 was threatened to her person.
After her question there was a moment’s silence. They had both arisen, and the deformed17 girl stood before her sister with a tremulous lip and a wavering, anxious eye.
Jane was quick-witted, and, with many faults, very kind of heart. When she saw the distress18 visible in her unfortunate sister’s face she formed her reply with more of tact19 and kind feeling than with strict regard to truth.
“Why, it is nothing,” she said; “the girls always loved you, and petted you so much when we were little children in school together that they don’t like it when you go away without seeing them. They think that you are grown proud since you have taken to reading and talking fine language. You don’t have to work like the rest of us, and they feel slighted, and think you put on airs.”
Tears stole into the eyes of the deformed girl, and a sudden light, the sunshine of an affectionate heart, broke over her face as she said:
“It is not that, my sister. I have loved them very much all these years that I have not seen them; but since that day—— Sister, you are very good; and, oh! how beautiful; but you cannot dream how a poor creature like myself feels when happy people are enjoying life together. Without sympathy, without companions, hunchbacked and crooked20. Tell me, Jane, am I not hideous21 to look upon?”
This was the first time in her life that Mary had permitted a consciousness of her malformation to escape her in words. The question was put in a voice of mingled22 agony and bitterness, wrung23 from the very depths of her heart. She fell upon the grass as she spoke24, and with her face to the ground lay grovelling25 at her sister’s feet, like some wounded animal; for 24now that the loveliness of her face was concealed26 her form seemed scarcely human.
All that was generous in the nature of Jane Derwent swelled28 in her heart as she bent29 over her sister. The sudden tears fell like rain, glistening30 in drops upon the warm damask of her cheeks and filling her voice with affectionate sobs31 as she strove to lift her from the ground; but Mary shrunk away with a shudder33, and kneeling down Jane raised her head with gentle violence to her bosom34.
“Hideous! Oh! Mary, how can you talk so? Don’t shake and tremble in this manner. You are not frightful35 nor homely36; only think how beautiful your hair is. Edward Clark says he never saw anything so bright and silky as your curls—he said so; indeed he did, Mary; and the other day when he was reading about Eve, in the little book you love so well, he told grandmother that he fancied Eve must have had a face just like yours.”
“Did Edward say this?” murmured the poor deformed one as Jane half-lifted, half-persuaded her from the ground, and with one arm flung over her neck was pressing the face she had been praising to her own troubled bosom.
Poor Mary, though naturally tall, was so distorted that when she stood upright her head scarcely reached a level with the graceful37 bust38 of her sister, and Jane stooped low to plant reassuring39 kisses upon her forehead.
“Did he say it, Mary? Yes, he certainly did; and so did I say it. Look here.” And eagerly gathering40 the folds of a large shawl over the shoulders of the deformed, she gently drew her to the brink41 of the basin, where the canoes still lay moored42. “Look there!” she exclaimed, as they bent together over the edge of the green sward; “can you wish for anything handsomer than that face? Dear, good Mary, look.”
25An elm-tree waved its branches over them, and the sunshine came shimmering43 through the leaves with a wavy44 light. The river was tranquil45 as a summer sky, and the sisters were still gazing on the lovely faces speaking to theirs from its clear depths, when a canoe swept suddenly round the grassy46 promontory47 which formed one side of the cove.
With a dash of the oar48 the fairy skiff shot, like an arrow, into the basin, and its occupant, a young man of perhaps two-and-twenty, leaped upon the green sward. The sisters started from their embrace. A glad smile dimpled the round cheek of the younger as she stepped forward to meet the newcomer. But Mary drew her shawl more closely over her person, and shrunk timidly back, with a quickened pulse, a soft welcome beaming from her eyes, and her face deluged49 with a flood of soft, rosy50 color, which she strove to conceal27 with the tresses that fell about her like a golden mist.
“I have just come in time to keep you at home for once,” said the youth, approaching the timid girl, after having gaily51 shaken hands with her sister. “I am sure we shall persuade you——”
He was interrupted by a call from Jane, who had run off to the other side of the cove; no doubt with the hope of being speedily followed by her visitor.
“Come here, Edward, do, and break me some of this sweet-brier; it scratches my fingers so.”
Clark dropped Mary’s hand and went to obey this capricious summons.
“Don’t try to persuade Mary to stay,” said Jane, as she took a quantity of the sweet-brier from the hands of her companion. “She is as restless when we have company as the mocking-bird you gave us; and which we never could tame, besides,” she added, with a little hesitation52, “Wintermoot will be here, and she don’t like him.”
“It were strange if she did,” replied the youth; and 26a frown passed over his fine forehead; “but, tell me, Jane, how it happened that you invited Col. Butler when you know that I dislike him almost as much as she does Wintermoot.”
Jane looked confused and, like most people when they intend to persist in a wrong, began to get into a passion.
“I am sure I thought I had the right to ask any one I pleased,” she said, petulantly53 and gathering her forehead into a frown.
“Yes, but one might expect that it would scarcely please you to encourage a man who has so often insulted your house with unwelcome visits; and Wintermoot—my blood boils when I think of the wretch54! Poor Mary! I had hoped to see her enjoy herself to-day; but now she must wander off alone as usual. I have a great mind to go with her.”
And turning swiftly away from the angry beauty, Clark went to Mary, spoke a few words, and they stepped into his canoe together. But he had scarcely pushed it from the shore when Jane ran forward and leaped in after them.
“If you go, so will I!” she said angrily, seating herself in the bottom of the canoe.
Mary was amazed and perplexed55. She looked into the stern, displeased56 face of the young man, and then at the sullen57 brow of her sister.
“What does this mean?” she inquired, gently; “what is the matter, Jane?”
Jane began to sob32, but gave no answer, and they rowed across the river in silence. The canoe landed at the foot of a broken precipice58 that hung over the river like a ruined battlement. Clark assisted Mary to the shore, and was about to accompany her up the footpath59, which wound over the precipice, but Jane, who had angrily refused his help to leave the boat, began to fear that she had carried her resentment60 too far, and timidly called him back.
27A few angry words from the young man—expostulation and tears from the maiden61, all of which a bend in the path prevented Mary observing; and then Clark went up the hill—told the solitary62 girl not to wander far—to be careful and not sit on the damp ground—and that he would come for her by sundown; the young folks would have left the island by that time. They were all going down to Wilkesbarre, to have a dance in the schoolhouse. He and Jane were going, but they would wait and take her home first.
Edward was almost out of breath as he said all this, and he appeared anxious to go back to the canoe. But Mary had not expected him to join her lonely wanderings, and his solicitude63 about her safety, so considerate and kind, went to her heart like a breath of summer air. She turned up the mountain-path, lonely and companionless; but very happy. Her eyes were full of pleasant tears, and her heart was like a flower unfolding to the sunshine. There is pleasure in complying with the slightest request from those we love; and Mary confined her ramble64 to the precipice and the shore, merely because Edward Clark had asked her not to wander far. She saw him land on the island with her sister while half-sitting, half-reclining on a crag of the broken rock, at whose foot she had landed. She saw the boat sent again and again to the opposite shore, returning each time laden65 with her former companions.
She was aroused by the rustling66 of branches over her head, followed by a bounding step, as of a deer in flight; then a young girl sprang out upon a point of rock which shot over the platform on which she lay, and bending over the edge gazed eagerly down upon the river.
Mary held her breath and remained motionless, for her poetical67 fancy was aroused by the singular and picturesque68 attitude of the figure. There was a wildness and grace in it which she had never witnessed before. At the first glance she supposed the stranger 28to be a wandering Indian girl belonging to some of the tribes that roamed the neighboring forests. But her complexion69, though darker than the darkest brunette of our own race, was still too light for any of the savage70 nations yet seen in the wilderness71. It was of a clear, rich, brown, and the blood glowed through the round cheeks like the blush on a ripe peach.
Her hair was long, profusely72 braided, and of a deep black; not the dull, lustreless73 color common to the Indians; but with a bloom upon it like that shed by the sunlight on the wing of a flying raven74. She appeared to be neither Indian nor white, but of a mixed race. The spirited and wild grace of the savage was blended with a delicacy75 of feature and nameless elegance76 more peculiar77 to the whites. In her dress, also, might be traced the same union of barbarism and refinement—a string of bright scarlet78 berries encircling her head, and interwoven with the long braids of her hair, glanced in the sunlight as she moved her head, like a chain of dim rubies79.
A robe of gorgeous chintz, where crimson80 and deep brown were the predominating colors, was confined at the waist by a narrow belt of wampum, and terminated a little below the knee in a double row of heavy fringe, leaving the flexible and slender ankles free and uncovered. Her robe fell open at the shoulders; but the swelling81 outline of her neck, thus exposed, was unbroken, except by a necklace of cherry-colored cornelian, from which a small heart of the same blood-red stone fell to her bosom. The round and tapering82 beauty of her arms was fully83 revealed and unencumbered by a single ornament84. Her moccasins were of dressed deer-skin, fringed and wrought85 with tiny beads86, interwoven with a vine of silk buds and leaves done in such needlework as was, in those days, only taught to the most refined and highly educated class of whites. Mary had never seen anything so exquisitely87 beautiful in its workmanship 29as that embroidery88, or so brightly picturesque as the whole appearance of the stranger.
For more than a minute the wild girl retained the position assumed by her last bounding step. There was something statue-like in the tension of those rounded and slender limbs as she stood on the shelf of rock, bending eagerly over the edge, with her weight thrown on one foot and the other strained back, as if preparing for a spring. All the grace, but not the chilliness89, of marble lived in those boldly poised90 limbs, so full of warm, healthy life. There was spirit and fire in their very repose91, for after an eager glance up and down the river she settled back, and with her arms folded remained for a moment in an attitude of dejection and disappointment.
A merry laugh which came ringing over the waters from the island drew her attention to the group of revellers glancing in and out of the shrubbery which surrounded Mother Derwent’s dwelling92. Flinging back her hair with a gesture of fiery93 impatience94, she sprang upward and dragged down the branch of a young tree, which she grasped for support while throwing herself still more boldly over the very edge of the cliff.
Mary almost screamed with affright. But there was something grand in the daring of the girl, which aroused her admiration95 even more than her fear. She knew that the breaking of that slender branch would precipitate96 her down a sheer descent into the river. But she felt as if the very sound of a human voice would startle her into eternity97.
Motionless with dread, she fixed98 her eyes, like a fascinated bird, on the strange being thus hovering99 over death, so fearless and so beautiful. All at once those bright, dark eyes kindled100, one arm was flung eagerly outward—her red lips parted and a gush101 of music, like the song of a mocking-bird, but louder and richer, burst from them.
30Mary started forward in amazement102. Before she could lift her eyes to the cliff again, a low, shrill103 whistle came sharply up from the direction of the island. She caught one glance of those kindling104 cheeks and flashing eyes as the strange, wild girl leaped back from the cliff—a gleam of sunlight on her long hair as she darted105 into a thicket106 of wild cherry trees—and there was no sign of her remaining, save a rushing sound of the young trees, as the bent limb swayed back to its fellows. Again the notes, as of a wild, eager bird, arose from a hollow bank on the side of the mountain; and, after a moment, that shrill whistle was repeated from the water, and Mary distinctly heard the dipping of an oar.
She crept to the edge of the rock which had formed her concealment107 and looked down upon the river. A canoe rowed by a single oarsman was making its way swiftly to the island. She could not distinguish the face of the occupant; but there was a band of red paint around the edge of the canoe, and she remembered that Edward Clark’s alone was so ornamented109. It was the same that had brought her from the island. Did the signal come from him—from Edward Clark? What had he in common with the wild, strange girl who had broken upon her solitude110? A thrill of pain, such as she had never dreamed of before, shot through her heart as she asked these questions. She would have watched the landing of the canoe, but all strength suddenly left her, and she sunk upon a fragment of stone, almost powerless and in extreme suffering.
In a little more than an hour she saw the same solitary rower crossing the river, but with more deliberate motion. She watched him while he moored the canoe in the little cove, and caught another glimpse of him as he turned a corner of her dwelling and mingled with the group of young persons who were drinking tea on the green sward in front.
It was a weary hour to the deformed girl before the 31party broke up and were transported to the opposite shore, where farm-wagons stood ready to convey them to Wilkesbarre. The sun was almost down, and the island quiet again when she saw two persons coming from the house to the cove. She arose, and folding her shawl about her prepared to descend111 to the shore.
Mary had walked half-way down the ledge112 when she stopped abruptly113 in the path; for sitting on the moss114 beneath one of these pines was the strange girl who had so excited her wonder. Mary’s slow step had not disturbed her, and unconscious of a witness she was unbraiding the string of berries from her hair and supplying their place with a rope of twisted coral. The strings115 of scarlet ribbon with which she knotted it on her temple were bright, and had evidently never been tied before.
Mary’s heart beat painfully and she hurried forward, as if some fierce animal had sprung up in her path. An uncontrollable repulsion to that wild and beautiful girl, which she neither understood nor tried to account for, seized her. When she reached the shore the canoe with Edward Clark and her sister seated in it was making leisurely116 towards the mouth of the ravine, and she sat down on the shadowy side of an oak, to await their coming. Their approach was so noiseless that she did not know they had reached the shore till the voice of Edward Clark apprised117 her of it. He was speaking earnestly to her sister, and there was both agitation118 and deep tenderness in his voice—a breaking forth119 of the heart’s best feelings, which she had never witnessed in him before.
“No, Jane,” he said, in a resolute120 voice, shaken with a sorrowful tremor121; “you must now choose between that man and me; there can be nothing of rivalry122 between us; I heartily123 despise him! I am not jealous—I could not be a creature so unworthy; but it grieves me to feel that you can place him for a moment on a level with 32yourself. If you persist in this degrading coquetry you are unworthy of the love which I have given you. Forgive me, Jane, if I speak harshly; don’t cry—it grieves me to wound your feelings, but——”
He was interrupted by a sound as of some one falling heavily to the ground. He leaped from the canoe, and there, behind the great oak, lay Mary Derwent helpless and insensible.
“She has wandered too far, and exhausted124 herself,” said the agitated125 young man as he bore her to the canoe. “Sit down, Jane, and take her head in your lap—your grandmother will know what to do for her.”
Jane reached forth her arms and received the insensible head on her bosom. She turned her face petulantly away from that of her lover, and repulsed126 him with sullen discontent when, in his attempts to restore Mary, his hand happened to touch hers.
“Set her down,” she said, pushing him indignantly away. “Attend to your oars108; we neither want your help or your ill-natured grumblings. I tell you, Ned Clark, you are just the Grossest creature I ever saw. Take that for your pains!”
They were half-way across the river when Mary began to recover animation128. Edward laid down his oar, and taking her hand in his was about to speak, but she drew it away with a faint shudder, and burying her face in her sister’s bosom remained still and silent as before.
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1
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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2
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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4
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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5
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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6
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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7
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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8
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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9
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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11
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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14
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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16
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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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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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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24
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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25
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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28
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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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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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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40
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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41
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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42
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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44
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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45
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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47
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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48
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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49
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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50
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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51
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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52
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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53
petulantly
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54
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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55
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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56
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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57
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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58
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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59
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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60
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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61
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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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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64
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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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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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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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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69
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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70
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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71
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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73
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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76
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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78
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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79
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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81
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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82
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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83
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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84
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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85
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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86
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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88
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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89
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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90
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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91
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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92
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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93
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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94
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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95
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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96
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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97
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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98
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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99
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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100
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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101
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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102
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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103
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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104
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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105
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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106
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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107
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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108
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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111
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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112
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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115
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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116
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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117
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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118
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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120
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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121
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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122
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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123
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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124
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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125
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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126
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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127
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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128
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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