Something had on that particular day, at that special hour occurred to disturb the customary serenity1 of Kingslough. Spite of the sun which flared3 upon the terrace, blinds were drawn4 up and heads thrust out.
People stood in knots upon the Glendare Parade talking eagerly together, and looking down into the sea. At the doors of the houses in Main Street servants occupied the door-steps and gaped5 vaguely6 to right and left as though expecting the coming of some strange spectacle.
In the middle of the horse-ways poodles, unexpectedly released from durance in stuffy7 24parlours, yelped8 at other poodles, and fought and ran or were carried away. The young ladies who attended as day-boarders that select establishment presided over by the Misses Chesterfield having been accorded a half-holiday, came walking through the town to their respective homes, thereby9 adding to the tumult10. Thundering double knocks resounded11 momentarily at the door of an insignificant-looking three-storey house on the parade, in the lower room of which a very old lady, feeble though voluble, sat wringing12 her hand, bemoaning13 her fate, and appealing in turn to each of her visitors to “do something.”
“They are turning the water out of Hay’s mill-pond, and all the fishermen are down on the shore, and Colonel Perris has taken his groom14 and gardener to the Black Stream, and oh! my dear friend, let us try to hope for the best,” said Mrs. Lefroy, one of the annual visitors to Kingslough, acting15 with a wonderful naturalness the part of Job’s comforter to the decrepit16, broken woman she addressed.
“You may be quite sure, dear Miss Riley, 25that everybody is doing their best,” added Mrs. Mynton kindly17, if ungrammatically.
“And whatever may have happened,” broke in the clergyman who did not reside in his parish, and never visited it save on Sunday mornings, “whatever may have happened I need not remind so thorough a Christian18 that—”
“How can you all be so silly as to frighten the poor old lady in this absurd manner,” said a deep stern female voice at this juncture19; “the girl will come back safe and sound, never fear. Girls do not get murdered, or drowned, or kidnapped so easily at this age of the world; she will return about dinner-time, if not before, mark my words.” And the speaker a hard-featured woman of more than middle age, who possessed20 a kindly eye as well as decided21 manners, looked round the persons assembled as she finished, as though to inquire “Who is there amongst you that shall dare contradict me?”
For a moment there was silence, and then uprose a confused murmur22 of many voices—amongst 26which one sounded shrill23 above the rest.
“If ye think ye are in England still, Mrs. Hartley—” commenced the owner of that cracked treble in a brogue which made one at least of her auditors24 shiver.
“Pardon me, Miss Tracey, I never indulge in day-dreams,” interposed Mrs. Hartley, rustling26 across the room in one of those stiff black silks, which were at once the envy and the condemnation27 of feminine Kingslough, “but whether people are in England or Ireland, I consider it very foolish to meet trouble half way. Particularly in this case, where I hope and believe the trouble is all imaginary.”
“Ah! and indeed we hope that too, every one of us,” said Mrs. Mynton, who was regarded in Kingslough as a sort of peace-making chorus.
“Perhaps you know where Nettie is, Mrs. Hartley,” suggested Mrs. Lefroy, who on the score of her husband’s name claimed a relationship with various distinguished28 members of 27the bar which it would have puzzled the king-at-arms to trace, and adopted in consequence a severe and judicial29 deportment amongst her acquaintances.
“I know no more of Miss O’Hara’s movements than you do, perhaps rather less,” replied the lady addressed, “but until I am positively30 assured some accident has happened to her, I prefer to believe that, finding she was too late for school, she took a holiday, and has walked up to the Abbey to sketch31, or gone to see some of her young friends, who may perhaps have induced her to spend the remainder of the day in forgetfulness of backboards and Cramer’s exercises.”
“Ah! you don’t know Nettie.”
“Indeed, you don’t know Nettie.”
“You know nothing at all about Nettie,” broke forth32 Miss Riley’s visitors, whilst Miss Riley herself, shaking her poor old head, mumbled33 out from jaws34 that were almost toothless, “Nettie would not do such a thing, not for the world.”
For a moment Mrs. Hartley remained silent; 28but she was a person who did not like to be beaten or to seem beaten, and accordingly, with a sudden rally of her forces, she inquired,—
“Had the girl any lover?”
Now this was in reality the question which every woman in the room had been dying to put; and yet so unquestioned was Miss Riley’s respectability of position and propriety35 of demeanour during seventy years or thereabouts of maidenhood36, that no one impressed by the Hibernian unities37 had ventured to put it. Mrs. Hartley was however a “foreigner” and audacious. “Had the girl a lover?” she asked, and at the mere38 suggestion of such a possibility, the curls in Miss Riley’s brown front began slowly to slip from their tortoiseshell moorings, whilst her wrinkled old cheeks became suffused39 with a pale pink glow, just as though she were eighteen again, young enough to be wooed, and won, and wed40.
“I am astonished at such an idea entering into the mind of any one who ever beheld41 my grand-niece,” she remarked, the very bows 29in her cap trembling with indignation and palsy. “Nettie is only sixteen—a mere child—”
“Who has never, so far as I know,” went on the octogenarian, “spoken half-a-dozen words to a—a—gentleman since she was ten years old.”
“And pray, my dear Miss Riley, how far do you know about it,” retorted that irrepressible Englishwoman. “How can you, who never stir out of your house except for an hour in the sun, tell how many half-a-dozen words a young girl may have spoken to a young man. Have you asked that delightful42 Jane of yours if she ever suspected a love affair?”
“You can have in Jane, if you like,” said Miss Riley. “If anything of that sort had been going on, Mrs. Hartley, Jane was too old and faithful a servant to have kept it from me.”
“I wish we were all as sure Nettie has met with no accident, as we are that she has always 30behaved, and always will behave, like the good little girl we know her to be,” remarked Mrs. Mynton.
“It is natural though,” began Miss Tracey, “that seeing Mrs. Hartley is an Englishwoman, she—”
“Nonsense,” interposed the lady, thus disparagingly43 referred to. “No one can think more highly of Nettie than I; indeed if I had a fault to find with her manners, it was only that they were too sedate44 and quiet for such a young creature—such a very pretty young creature,” added Mrs. Hartley reflectively.
“It is very hard upon me at my time of life,” said Miss Riley with a helpless whimper, and the irrelevance45 of incipient46 dotage47.
“Indeed it is; indeed we all feel that, but you must hope for the best. We shall see Nettie come back yet safe and sound.” Thus the chorus, while Mrs. Hartley walked to the window and looked out upon the sea, a puzzled expression lurking48 in her brown eyes, and an almost contemptuous smile lingering about her mouth.
31“Can you not throw any further light on this matter, Grace,” she asked at last turning towards a young girl who sat silent in one corner of the room.
“I never saw Nettie after she left our gate at nine o’clock this morning,” was the reply accompanied by a vivid blush. “I wanted her to come in, but she said she was in a hurry; that she wished to get to school early, so as to speak to Miss Emily about a French exercise she did not quite understand.”
“And when you reached Kingslough House she had not arrived?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I believe Miss Moffat has already told us all she knows on the subject,” interposed a lady who had not hitherto entered into the conversation.
“I believe Miss Moffat knows more than she chooses to tell,” retorted Mrs. Hartley, with a brusqueness which caused the eyes of every person to turn towards the girl, who in a perfect agony of confusion exclaimed,—
32“Oh! Mrs. Hartley, I have not the remotest idea where Nettie is. I am quite positive she had not another thought in her mind when she left me, but to go straight to Kingslough House.”
“The first remark you made when you heard she had not reached school was, that some accident must have happened to her.”
“Allow me to correct you, Mrs. Hartley,” said Miss Chesterfield. “Miss Moffat’s words were, ‘something must have happened,’ meaning, as I understood, that something must have happened to prevent her attending as usual to her duties; that was what you intended to imply, my dear,” added the lady, addressing her pupil, “is it not so?”
“Yes, that was what I intended to say,” the girl eagerly agreed.
“And when the man brought in her scarf, which he saw floating on the pond, you thought she must have met with an accident?”
“Please, Mrs. Hartley, do not ask me any more,” pleaded the witness. “We are making Miss Riley wretched. I cannot tell what 33to think. Very likely her scarf blew off as she crossed the plank49. It was not in the least degree slippery this morning. I went that way myself. Besides the water there is not deep enough to drown any person.”
A long sentence for a young lady of that day to utter in public. The gift of tongues had not then been so freely vouchsafed50 to damsels under twenty, as it has in these later times. And after listening to Miss Grace’s little speech, Mrs. Hartley turned once more towards the window, and looked again over the sea.
With a different expression, however, to that her face had worn previously51. She looked anxious and troubled. Nettie O’Hara’s beauty was too pleasant a remembrance for this middle-aged52 lady to be able to contemplate53 without dismay, the possibility of harm having come to her. And that harm had come to her she began to fear, not in the way suggested by the Job’s comforters who surrounded Miss Riley, but in a manner which might make the dripping corpse54 and long fair hair rendered unlovely by 34clinging sand, a welcome and happy memory by comparison.
No visitor who entered Miss Riley’s house that day, had been so much inclined to pooh-pooh the alarm excited by the girl’s disappearance55 as that remarkably56 sensible and matter-of-fact English lady, who now stood silently looking out over the sea; but as that sweet young face, innocent and guileless, and yet not quite happy, rose up before the eyes of her memory, she felt as though she should like to go forth and assist herself in the search foolish, kindly, incompetent57, well-meaning friends and acquaintances were making for the girl.
While she stood there she heard vaguely as one hears the sound of running water, the stream of consolation58 and condolence flow on. They were good people all, those friends of the poor palsied lady, who with shaking head and trembling hands sat listening to their reiterated59 assurances that she need not be uneasy, there would be good news of Nettie soon; but not a competent counsellor could be reckoned 35amongst them. That at least was Mrs. Hartley’s opinion when she turned and surveyed the group, and her opinion took the form of words in this wise:—
“If you hear nothing of Nettie before the post goes out to-night, Miss Riley, I should advise you to write and ask your nephew, the General, to come and see you without delay. I hope and trust, however, there may be no necessity for you to write. I shall send this evening to know if your anxiety is at an end.”
And so saying, Mrs. Hartley took the old lady’s hand, and held it for a moment sympathizingly; then with a general curtsey and good morning to an assemblage so large as to render a more friendly leave-taking well-nigh impossible, she passed from the room, her silk dress rustling as she went.
“That delightful Jane,” as Mrs. Hartley called her, was in waiting to let the visitor out. She was a woman of thirty or thereabouts, ruddy complexioned60, and of a comely62 countenance63. She was arrayed in decent black. 36Some one or other of the Riley family was always dying, and her mistress liked to see Jane in black, though the mistress could not perhaps well have afforded to provide mourning for the maid.
Mourning was tidy and respectable, further it enabled Jane to wear out Miss Riley’s tardily64 laid aside sable65 garments; but a better dressed servant could not have been found in Kingslough than Jane M’Bride, who now stood apron66 at her eye ready to open the door for Mrs. Hartley.
“My good Jane,” said that lady, pausing, “what do you think of all this?”
“If anything has happened to Miss Nettie, it will break the mistress’s heart altogether,” answered the servant.
“But what can have happened?” asked Mrs. Hartley.
“Nothin’ plaze God,” replied Jane, with that ready invocation of the sacred name, which is an Hibernian peculiarity68, and yet apparently69 with a secret misgiving70, that her own views and those of Providence71 might on 37the special occasion in question have chanced to be at variance72.
“Jane,” said Mrs. Hartley, unmoved by the solemnity of the adjuration—perhaps because she was too much accustomed to hear it used—“has it occurred to you that Miss Nettie might have gone off with a—lover?”
“No, ma’am; oh! presarve us all, no; Miss Nettie had no lover, nor thought of one.”
“You are quite certain of that? I speak to you as a friend of the family.”
“Certain sure; it is as sure as death, Miss Nettie had no lover.”
“Then as sure as death, if Miss Nettie had not a lover, she will be back here before the sun sets,” and adown the parade sailed Mrs. Hartley, all her silken flags and streamers flying in the light summer breeze.
Before, however, she reached Glendare Terrace, came a soft voice in her ear, and a light touch on her arm.
“May I walk with you, Mrs. Hartley?” said the voice.
“You here, Grace?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley stopping and looking her young companion straight in the face. “Most decidedly you may walk with me, you know I am always glad of your company.”
And then they went on in silence. “Surely she will ask me some question,” thought Grace. “I will give my lady line enough,” decided the older woman—and the latter won.
“I have so wanted to speak to you, dear Mrs. Hartley,” said the girl, after they had paced along a few minutes in silence.
“I like to hear you speak, Grace,” was the calm reply.
“But about Nettie—”
“I understood you to say, my love, that you had told us all there was to tell.”
“And so I have—told all I had to tell, but surely, surely—you know—that is—I mean—dear Mrs. Hartley,” and the timid hand clasped the widow’s well-developed arm more 39tightly, “I may trust you implicitly74, may I not?”
There was a second’s pause, then Mrs. Hartley said,—
“I hope you may trust me, Grace.”
“I have told all I know about Nettie,” went on the girl vehemently75, “but not all I suspect. Oh! Mrs. Hartley, when I heard you advise Miss Riley to send for the General, I could have blessed you. If ever Nettie comes back, you must never tell, never, what I am saying to you now. Nettie was miserable76 and discontented, and—and wicked. She used to wish she was dead. Oh! how she used to cry at the prospect77 of being a governess for life; and it was hard, was it not, poor dear? I cannot bear to think about it. She seemed good and kind to Miss Riley, but she was not a bit grateful, really. Papa never liked Nettie. I did, and I like her still, but somehow, try her as one would, soft and sweet as she appeared, one always seemed to be getting one’s teeth on a stone. I am afraid you will think me dreadfully unkind, but I 40must talk to somebody, and, may I, please, talk to you?”
“Certainly, Grace, if you will make yourself intelligible,” was the reply; “but I want to understand. Not fifteen minutes since you said you were certain that when Nettie parted company with you, she had, to use your own expression, which, if you were my child, I should beg of you never to use again, ‘not another thought in her mind but to go straight to Kingslough House.’”
“If I talked English, like you,” retorted Grace, “everybody in Ireland would laugh at me.”
“Do you talk Irish, then?” asked Mrs. Hartley.
“You know what I mean,” was the answer, and once again Mrs. Hartley felt the soft hand clasping her arm.
“My love, I do know what your Irish-English means, but not in the slightest degree do I comprehend your mystery. Do you believe Nettie has committed suicide?”
41“Suicide!” with a shiver, “why should she?”
“Do you believe she is drowned?”
“No! oh, no!”
“Will she return to the Parade to-night?”
“I hope she may. How can I tell?”
At this juncture Mrs. Hartley freed her arm from Miss Moffat’s grasp.
“My dear child,” she said, “you had better go home to your father. He is a man of mature years, and may like to be fooled. I am a woman of mature years, and the bare suspicion of being fooled is intolerable to me—good-bye.”
Then Miss Moffat suddenly brought to book, exclaimed,—
“I have no mother, Mrs. Hartley, and my father never liked Nettie, and I liked her so—so much.”
“And therefore you know what has become of her—where she has gone?”—a sentence severely80 uttered as an interrogative.
“No! I wish I did—I wish I did.”
42“What do you suspect? you may be quite frank, Grace, with me.”
“She had a locket she wore inside her dress, a ring she put on sometimes and said belonged to her grandfather; but it was quite a new ring, and the hair in the locket was black as jet. The locket fell out of her dress one day, and she invented in her confusion two or three stories about it. If she had only told me—if she had only said one word—Nettie, Nettie,” wailed81 the girl, extinguishing with that cry the last ray of hope Mrs. Hartley’s horizon had contained.
“Grace,” began that lady, after a long and painful pause, “you reminded me a little time since that you have no mother. May I talk to you like one?”
“Dear Mrs. Hartley, yes! what have I done wrong?” and Grace’s hand stole back to its accustomed place, and for once Mrs. Hartley thought her companion’s accent more than pretty, something which might even have attracted admirers at “the West End.”
“Nothing, I hope; I trust you never will; 43but does your great interest in Nettie O’Hara arise from the fact that you and John Riley are likely to be much hereafter one to another?”
“John and I are nothing to each other but very good friends. He does not care enough for me, and I do not care enough for him, for things to be different. I only wish Nettie and he could have liked each other, and made a match. Perhaps in time she would have grown good enough for him.”
“You think John Riley a very good man, then?”
“Yes, too good and rare—” began the girl, when her companion interrupted her with—
“You little simpleton, run home, and to-night when you say your prayers, entreat83 that if you ever marry, you may have just such a good and rare (though foolish and capable of improvement) husband as John Riley. In all human probability you never will be anything 44more to each other than you are now; but still keep him as a friend, and you shall have me too, Grace, if you care for an old woman’s liking84.”
“Though I am not pretty like Nettie,” added the girl.
“You are pretty, though not like Nettie. Ah! child, when you are my age you will understand why we, for whom admiration85, if we ever had the power to attract it, is a forgotten story, are so tender to girls. Oh! I wish I had that fair-haired Nettie beside me now. How shall I sleep if no tidings come of her to-night?”
“Surely there will,” said Grace softly.
“Surely there will not,” considered Mrs. Hartley; and so the pair parted, Miss Moffat with the hope that although Nettie might have “gone off” with somebody she would repent86 by the way and turn back, Mrs. Hartley wondering who in the world that “somebody” might be with whom the young lady had chosen to elope.
Could it be Mr. John Riley; that same John to whom Grace Moffat had, by popular consent, 45been long assigned? Grace was young, but young people grow older in a judicious87 course of years. John likewise had not yet that head on his shoulders which is popularly supposed to bestow88 wisdom on its possessor; but he was an honest, honourable89, good-looking, sufficiently90 clever young man, and as both families approved of the suggested alliance (had done so indeed since Grace wore a coral and bells), Kingslough considered the marriage as well-nigh un fait accompli.
True, Grace had been known to declare “she never meant to leave her father, that she did not think much of love or lovers, of marrying or giving in marriage. Why could not girls let well alone, and when they were happy at home, stay there? She was happy; she would always remain at Bayview; she was well; she did wish people would leave her alone.” Thus Grace, whilst John, when gracefully91 rallied on the subject by acquaintances who never could be made to understand that if a man has lost his heart, he does not care to talk about the fact, was wont92 laughingly to quote the 46Scotch ballad93, and say, “‘Gracie is ower young to marry yet,’ and when she is old enough it is not likely she would throw herself away upon a poor fellow like me.”
For Grace had a large fortune in her own right, and expectations worthy94 of consideration, and she came of a good old family, and persons who were supposed to understand such matters declared that eventually Grace would be a very attractive woman.
But then that time was the paradise of girls; they held the place in masculine estimation now unhappily monopolized95 by more mature sirens, and if a girl failed in her early teens to develope beauty after the fashion of Nettie O’Hara, her chances in the matrimonial market were not considered promising96.
Curls, book-muslin, blue eyes, sashes to match, blushes when spoken to, no original or commonplace observations to advance when invited out to the mild dissipation of tea, and a carpet-dance; such was the raw material from which men of that generation chose wives for themselves, mothers for their children.
Such is not the fashion now; and yet who, looking around, shall dare to say that the old curl and crook98 and shepherdess business had not, spite of its folly99, much to recommend it?
Men made mistakes then no doubt, but they were surely less costly100 mistakes than are made nowadays. If a husband take to wife the wrong woman—and this is an error which has not even the charm of novelty to recommend it—he had surely a better chance for happiness with natural hair, virgin101 white dresses made after simplicity’s own device, innocent blue eyes, and cheeks whose roses bloomed at a moment’s notice, than with the powders, paints, and frizettes of our own enchanting102 maidens103.
We are concerned now, however, with the girl of that period. According to the then standard of beauty, as by society established, Grace Moffat was not lovely. With Nettie O’Hara the case stood widely different.
48Had her portrait ever been painted, it might now have been exhibited as the type of that in woman which took men’s hearts captive in those old world days; golden hair hanging in thick curls almost to her waist; large blue eyes, with iris79 that dilated104 till at times it made the pupil seem nearly black; long, tender lashes105; a broad white forehead; a complexion61 pure pink, pure white; dimpled cheeks; soft tender throat; slight figure, undeveloped; brains undeveloped also; temper, perhaps, ditto.
A face without a line; eyes without even a passing cloud; an expression perfectly106 free from shadow; and yet Grace Moffat described her favourite companion accurately107, when in vague language she likened her to some fair tempting108 fruit, inside whereof there lurked109 a hardness, which friend, relative, and acquaintance, tried in vain to overcome. It had been the custom at Kingslough to regard Nettie as a limpid110 brook111, through the clean waters of which every pebble112, every grain of sand was to be plainly discerned. Now as Mrs. Hartley 49sat and pondered over the girl’s mysterious disappearance, she marvelled113 whether Miss Nettie’s innocent transparency might not rather have been that of a mirror; in other words, whether, while showing nothing much of her own thoughts, the young lady merely reflected back those of others.
She had been unhappy, yet who save Grace was cognizant of the fact? The outside world always imagined she was interested and absorbed in those studies, which were to fit her to fill a responsible position—perhaps eventually at a salary of eighty pounds a year; such things were amongst the chronicles of society—in that state of life in which strangely enough Providence had seen fit to place an O’Hara. And yet what was the truth? the position had been unendurable to her, and most probably the studies likewise.
“Oh!” sighed Mrs. Hartley, sinking into the depths of a comfortable easy-chair, “is truth to be found nowhere save at the bottom of a well? and has John Riley anything to do 50with Nettie’s disappearance? If I find he has, I shall renounce114 humanity.”
Nevertheless, how was she to retain her faith intact even in John Riley? Not for one moment did she now imagine that if Nettie were actually gone, and she believed this to be the case, she had gone alone. No relative, Mrs. Hartley well knew, would welcome this prodigal115 with tears of rejoicing—with outstretched arms of love. She had been slow to share in the alarm caused by Nettie’s disappearance, by Nettie’s saturated116 scarf; now she could not resist a gradually increasing conviction that the girl’s conduct had belied117 her face, and brought discredit118 on her family; that she had stolen away with some one who, fancying the match would not be approved of by his own relatives, possessed power enough over her affections to induce her to consent to a secret marriage.
A deeper depth of misfortune than a runaway119 match Mrs. Hartley had indeed for a moment contemplated120, as whilst the talk in Miss Riley’s parlour ran on, her eyes looked over 51the sun-lit sea; but seated in her own pleasant drawing-room, her reason refused to let her fears venture again to the brink121 of so terrible an abyss. No; Nettie had always been surrounded by honest and honourable men and women; women, who though they might be at times malicious122, fond of scandal, given to tattling concerning the offences of their neighbours, would yet have done their best to keep a girl from wrong, or the knowledge of wrong; men, who let their sins of omission123 and commission be in other respects what they would, had yet a high standard of morality, as morality concerned their wives, mothers, sisters, children, and female relatives generally.
Had Nettie been one of the royal family, fenced round by all sorts of forms and ceremonies, by state etiquette124, and the traditions of a line of kings, she could not, in Mrs. Hartley’s opinion, have breathed an atmosphere more free from taint125 of evil, than that in which she had hitherto lived and had her being.
It might be John Riley—incited thereto 52by love of her pretty face, and fear of opposition126 from his family—had persuaded the girl to run off with him. If this were so, the greater pity for both. He was poor and struggling; her worldly fortune consisted of those personal charms already duly chronicled, a very little learning, and a smattering of a few accomplishments127.
She knew as much as other young ladies of her age of that period; but after all, “La Clochette,” the “Battle of Prague,” and other such triumphs of musical execution were not serviceable articles with which to set up house.
She had been in training for a governess, and why, oh! why, could not John Riley have left her in peace to follow that eminently128 respectable, if somewhat monotonous129 vocation67?
“It must be John Riley;” that Mrs. Hartley decided with a sorrowful shake of her head. Thanks to the blindness, or folly, or design of Grace Moffat, the young man had been afforded ample opportunities of contemplating130 Nettie’s 53pink cheeks, and blue eyes, and golden curls, in the old-fashioned garden at Bayview.
She had counted there as nobody, no doubt, the demure131 little chit. She had been still and proper, Mrs. Hartley could well understand. At a very early period of her young life, Nettie was taught in a bitter enough school the truth, that speech is silver, but silence gold.
Nevertheless, young men have eyes, and John Riley was at least as likely as Mrs. Hartley to realize the fact that Nettie was a very pretty girl.
“And it will be misery132 for both of them,” decided the lady; “but there, what can it signify to me, who have no reason to trouble myself about the matter, to whom they are neither kith nor kin2? I shall never believe in an honest face again Mr. John Riley, nor in a blundering, stupid schoolboy manner. There, I wash my hands of the whole matter; I only wish they were both young enough to be whipped and put in the corner, couple of babies.”
And then as a fitting result of her sentence, 54Mrs. Hartley sent up this message to the Parade: “Mrs. Hartley’s kind love, and has Miss Riley heard any tidings of her niece?” as by a convenient fiction Miss O’Hara was called.
The answer which came back was, “Miss Riley’s best love to Mrs. Hartley. She is very poorly, and has sent for the General. No news of Miss Nettie.”
“What a shame,” thought Mrs. Hartley, “for them to keep the poor old lady in such a state of suspense133!” and she went to bed, having previously corked134 up all the vials of her wrath135, with the intention of opening them sooner or later for the benefit of John Riley.
Alas136! however, for the best laid schemes of humanity. Next morning, when Dodson, Mrs. Hartley’s highly respectable and eminently disagreeable maid, called her mistress, she brought with her into the room the following announcement:—
“It is nine o’clock’ ’m, and if you please, ’m, Mr. Riley, ’m, is in the drawing-room, ’m, and Miss O’Hara—”
55“What of her, woman?” demanded Mrs. Hartley, in a tone Mrs. Siddons might have envied, sitting bolt upright in bed and looking in her toilette de nuit a very different person indeed from the stately widow whose dress was the envy and whose tongue was the dread78 of all the ladies in Kingslough, whether married or single. “Don’t stand there silent, as if you were an idiot.”
“Miss O’Hara have gone off with Mr. Daniel Brady, ’m, if you please, ’m,” and Dodson the imperturbable137, having made this little speech, turned discreetly138 to leave the room.
“If she pleased, indeed!” Whether she pleased or not the deed was done and irrevocable.
For blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and golden hair there was in this world no hope, no pardon, no chance of social or family rehabiliment; not even when the eyes were bleared and glassy, not when the cheeks were pale and furrowed139, not when the thick, bright hair was thin and grey, might Nettie ever imagine this 56sin of her youth would be forgiven and forgotten.
An hour had been enough for the sowing, years would scarcely suffice for the in-gathering.
All this Mrs. Hartley foresaw as she laid her head again on the pillow and turned her eyes away from the sight of the bright sunbeams dancing on the sea.
Meantime the door had closed behind her immaculate and most unpleasant maid.
点击收听单词发音
1 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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2 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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3 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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4 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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5 gaped | |
v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 );张开,张大 | |
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6 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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7 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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8 yelped | |
v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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10 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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11 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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12 wringing | |
淋湿的,湿透的 | |
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13 bemoaning | |
v.为(某人或某事)抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 );悲悼;为…恸哭;哀叹 | |
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14 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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15 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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16 decrepit | |
adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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17 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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18 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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19 juncture | |
n.时刻,关键时刻,紧要关头 | |
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20 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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21 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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22 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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23 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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24 auditors | |
n.审计员,稽核员( auditor的名词复数 );(大学课程的)旁听生 | |
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25 inter | |
v.埋葬 | |
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26 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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27 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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28 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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29 judicial | |
adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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30 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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31 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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32 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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33 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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35 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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36 maidenhood | |
n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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37 unities | |
n.统一体( unity的名词复数 );(艺术等) 完整;(文学、戏剧) (情节、时间和地点的)统一性;团结一致 | |
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38 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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39 suffused | |
v.(指颜色、水气等)弥漫于,布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 wed | |
v.娶,嫁,与…结婚 | |
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41 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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42 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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43 disparagingly | |
adv.以贬抑的口吻,以轻视的态度 | |
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44 sedate | |
adj.沉着的,镇静的,安静的 | |
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45 irrelevance | |
n.无关紧要;不相关;不相关的事物 | |
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46 incipient | |
adj.起初的,发端的,初期的 | |
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47 dotage | |
n.年老体衰;年老昏聩 | |
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48 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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49 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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50 vouchsafed | |
v.给予,赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 );允诺 | |
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51 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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52 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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53 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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54 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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55 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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56 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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57 incompetent | |
adj.无能力的,不能胜任的 | |
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58 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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59 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 complexioned | |
脸色…的 | |
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61 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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62 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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63 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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64 tardily | |
adv.缓慢 | |
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65 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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66 apron | |
n.围裙;工作裙 | |
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67 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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68 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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69 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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70 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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71 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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72 variance | |
n.矛盾,不同 | |
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73 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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74 implicitly | |
adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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75 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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76 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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77 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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78 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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79 iris | |
n.虹膜,彩虹 | |
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80 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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81 wailed | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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83 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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84 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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85 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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86 repent | |
v.悔悟,悔改,忏悔,后悔 | |
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87 judicious | |
adj.明智的,明断的,能作出明智决定的 | |
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88 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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89 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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90 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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91 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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92 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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93 ballad | |
n.歌谣,民谣,流行爱情歌曲 | |
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94 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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95 monopolized | |
v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 );独占;专卖;专营 | |
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96 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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97 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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98 crook | |
v.使弯曲;n.小偷,骗子,贼;弯曲(处) | |
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99 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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100 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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101 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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102 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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103 maidens | |
处女( maiden的名词复数 ); 少女; 未婚女子; (板球运动)未得分的一轮投球 | |
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104 dilated | |
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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105 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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106 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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107 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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108 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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109 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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110 limpid | |
adj.清澈的,透明的 | |
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111 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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112 pebble | |
n.卵石,小圆石 | |
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113 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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115 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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116 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
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117 belied | |
v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 );证明(或显示)…为虚假;辜负;就…扯谎 | |
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118 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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119 runaway | |
n.逃走的人,逃亡,亡命者;adj.逃亡的,逃走的 | |
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120 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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121 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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122 malicious | |
adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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123 omission | |
n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
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124 etiquette | |
n.礼仪,礼节;规矩 | |
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125 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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126 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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127 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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128 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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129 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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130 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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131 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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132 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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133 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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134 corked | |
adj.带木塞气味的,塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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135 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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136 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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137 imperturbable | |
adj.镇静的 | |
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138 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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139 furrowed | |
v.犁田,开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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