Like those we have known of old,
When past shadows round you gather,
And your present friends grow cold,
You may stretch your hands out towards me.
Ah! you will—I know not when.
I shall nurse my love, and keep it
Faithfully for you till then.
A. A. Proctor.
Lilith found her new home a safe enough retreat. Let any young woman go into a strange house, in 74a strange city, under the circumstances in which Lilith entered the Widow Downie’s, and if she feel compelled to observe a strict silence concerning her own past life, she need not tell her story. Her neighbors will make up one to fit her, and, what is more, will believe in it.
Try to get at the origin of such a story, and you may trace it to “They say,” but no farther.
The advent3 of Lilith in the boarding-house of Mrs. Downie caused a great deal of gossip, in which, strange to say, there was not a word of ill-nature, of criticism, or of adverse4 reflection upon the young creature.
She was so child-like, so pretty, and so desolate5, that the hearts of all her fellow-lodgers6 were drawn7 towards her.
By “putting this and that” together, by unconsciously exaggerating all they heard, and by involuntarily drawing upon their imaginations, they had formed a theory, which they took for fact, in regard to Lilith.
The talk ran something like this:
“Mrs. Ponsonby, a very dear friend of Mrs. Downie, brought her from the South, to try to get something to do in New York.”
“They say her father was a rich planter, who was totally ruined in the late war.”
“Not at all. He was a wealthy banker of Richmond, who failed in ’65.”
“Oh, no! A Washington merchant, who became a bankrupt last year, and——”
Miss Wilding—for that was the way in which Mrs. 75Downie had heard and repeated the word when Lilith, remembering that her husband had forbidden her to use his name, had replied to the landlady11’s inquiries12 by giving the one to which she had the next best right, and saying, “My name is Wyvil,” whereupon the landlady thought she said, “Wilding,” and thought, from her child-like appearance, that she was, of course, a single woman, and reported her as Miss Wilding—Miss Wilding, then, according to the crystalized gossip of the house, was the only child of a wealthy Virginia planter, who had been ruined by the war, and had died, leaving his motherless daughter entirely13 destitute14. Mrs. Ponsonby had become so much interested in the young orphan15 that she had brought her to New York to get something to do, and had very wisely brought her straight to Mrs. Downie’s boarding-house, and had very properly become surety for her board, for Mrs. Downie, with all her goodness of heart, was too poor to lose the board money, which Mrs. Ponsonby was quite rich enough to pay without feeling it.
Lilith was also spared troublesome questions, because the inmates16 of the house, though poor enough in this world’s goods, were too refined openly to intrude17 upon the reserve of the young stranger; and also because, when once the good landlady, in the motherly kindness of her heart, had questioned Lilith concerning her troubles, the poor girl had burst into such a passion of tears that Mrs. Downie became very much distressed18, and after doing all she could to soothe19 the mourner’s sorrow, she not only resolved never again to allude20 to the subject, but she warned all her young inmates to observe the same caution.
“’Cause she can’t bear it, my dears. She can’t, indeed. It ’most kills her to hear it mentioned. And no wonder. Them tender Southern girls as has never been used to anything but love and softness and 76sweetness all their lives, to be suddenly thrown upon a rough, hard, bitter world, you know, my dears, it is very trying. We must never speak to her about the past, and never breathe a word before her about the war. I dare say her poor father was killed in battle, or died in one of them military prisons, or something like that, which it breaks her heart to think about. We must just try to make her forget it, my dears,” concluded Mrs. Downie.
And her sympathetic hearers promised all she required, and from that time emulated21 each other in their kindness to the young stranger.
Mrs. Downie’s household were in some respects a peculiar22 people, of whom the gentle landlady was the controlling spirit.
One word about Sophie Downie. She had been a wife, and was now a widow only in name.
Her late husband, William Downie, had been a Methodist minister of sincere piety23 and much eloquence24.
They had been neighbors’ children in a country village, and had been engaged to each other almost from their childhood.
He was “called” to the service of the Lord from his boyhood, and the two widows, Sophie’s mother and his own mother, had joined their slender means to send him to college, to be educated for the ministry25.
“For,” said his own mother, “he is all that I have in the world, and why shouldn’t I spend all that I can on him?”
“And,” said Sophie’s mother, “he is just the same as my own son, and he’ll marry Sophie and take care of me when I get old, so why shouldn’t I spend all that I can spare in helping26 him?”
So the boy was sent to college, and in due time went honorably through his course, graduated and was ordained27.
77He was to marry Sophie as soon as he should obtain his first parish.
Within a few months after his ordination28 he was appointed by the convention to the Methodist church in New York City near which his widow now kept her boarding-house.
He had held his pulpit but a few weeks, during which Sophie was busily engaged in preparing for their wedding and their housekeeping, when he was suddenly stricken down with a disease known to be fatal from its onset29.
As soon as he knew that he was to leave this world he sent for his promised bride, and she came to him, accompanied by their two mothers.
And in the sick-chamber the long-engaged, faithful lovers were united.
He lingered a few days after his marriage, constantly attended by Sophie and the two mothers, and then passed peacefully away to the better world.
The three grieving women took his remains30 to their native village and laid them in their last resting place in the old church-yard.
“For she is all the same as a daughter to me, and I have no other child,” said the poor widow to the lawyer who drew up the will.
We live in a changeful country. Few of us have the good or the bad fortune to
“Live where our fathers lived
And die where they died.”
It would be tedious and irrelevant32 to this story to tell of the various circumstances that finally led Sophie and her mother to sell out all their possessions in the little country village, and to open a boarding-house in New York, in the immediate33 vicinity of 78that church which had been the scene of William Downie’s short ministry.
For many years the house was nominally34 kept by the elder lady; but it was entirely managed by the younger.
Many opportunities had the pretty little widow of marrying a second time; but she remained faithful to the memory of her first love.
She had never even permitted a lover to become a suitor; for as soon as her delicate perceptions discovered that this or that young “brother” in the church, or boarder in the house, had cast an eye of “favor” on her, the very shrinking of her nature threw such a sphere of coldness around her that, however gentle and courteous36 her manner might be to the aspirant37, he dared not cross the invisible boundary of that circle.
“She is as sweet and gentle, as kind and courteous as it is possible for woman to be; but it would take a fellow with more impudence39 than I possess to make love to her, or to ask her to marry him. There is a sort of ‘Thus far, no farther shalt thou go’ about her that I defy any man to transgress40.”
He was right.
And so, without any second love, without coquetry, and without vanity, the pretty, gentle girl-widow grew from youth to middle age. Then she lost her mother, and became the nominal35, as she had long been the actual, head of the boarding-house.
It would be difficult to explain or even to understand how Mrs. Downie had managed to succeed in eliminating from the house and from her circle of acquaintances all persons who were uncongenial to her own gentle and generous spirit, and in filling them with those who were in perfect accord with her, and 79with each other. It was the progressive work of years, however.
But now, at the time that Lilith first entered her house, it was filled with a little society to whom she seemed less a landlady than a loving mother, and whom she absolutely ruled—not by force of intellect, or position, or power, but by unselfish goodness. Always, since her mother’s departure, she had one or more of adopted children—little waifs, picked up in the streets of New York, and whom she lodged41, fed and clothed, and sent to the public schools until they were old enough to be put out to learn trades.
When any hard-headed, practical brother or sister would expostulate with her on the extravagance of her benevolence42 and the imprudence of her neglect to provide comfortably for her old age, she would answer, simply:
“Why, Lor’s, you know if my poor, dear husband had lived we should have had a large family of children by this time, most like. But as I haven43’t got none of my own, I feel as if I ought to take care of other people’s orphans44. Seems to me that people without children should take care of children without parents, so far as they can. And as for the rest of it, I know that if I take care of the destitute the Lord will take care of me.”
Acting45 on this simple faith, the gentle little widow had brought up and provided for no less than seven girls and five boys.
And that is the reason why, at the age of sixty, she had not a dollar in the savings bank.
But oh! the treasure she had laid up in heaven!
At the present time she had a boy and girl, nearly grown up, and when these should be well provided for, by being put in the way of getting their own living, she meant to take two more to bring up—if she should live long enough to do so.
Her circle of lodgers consisted of seven persons. First, there was the young Methodist minister, John Moore, who occupied the same pulpit that had once been filled for a few weeks by William Downie. And here let it be explained, that whenever there came to that church a young unmarried minister, he was always recommended to Mrs. Downie’s boarding-house as to a haven where he would be perfectly47 safe not only from the harpies of business, but from the harpies of matrimony, where he would really find “the comforts of a home,” and possibly the society of some fair, good girl, suitable to be the companion of his life and labor48.
Next there was Mrs. Lane, the widow of an officer in the union army, who had fallen in the battle of the Wilderness49, and who eked50 out her small pension by decorating china for a large wholesale51 house, and supported a son at Yale College.
Then there was a Mrs. Farquier—the widow of a colonel in the Confederate army. She was an artist, and made drawings for the illustrated52 papers and magazines.
These two women, whose husbands had fallen on opposite sides of the same war, were great friends.
Lastly, there was Lilith, who shared the landlady’s room, and was expected to share it until the young Methodist minister should marry and take possession of the parsonage that was being fitted up for him.
“I never loved you! I married you only to please my dying father. In a very few hours I shall leave this house, never to return while you desecrate54 it with your presence!”
81Lilith, who had fled away, without any definite purpose but to escape from the humiliations that had been heaped upon her, and to support her life, until she should die, by some honest toil—Lilith had now ample leisure to come to her senses and to reflect upon her past and her future.
Ample leisure indeed! Her days and nights were spent in solitude56 and meditation57, for immediately after breakfast, every morning, her fellow-lodgers, workers all of them, scattered58 to their various occupations—the minister to study, to write, or to make duty calls; the two widows to their rooms to work at their arts; the two young teachers to their schoolrooms, and the good landlady to market, and then to her household duties.
Lilith, left alone, would wander through the parlor59, up the stairs and into the room she shared with Mrs. Downie, and then back again, in an aimless, dreary60 manner. She could settle herself to nothing, take interest in nothing—
“Her past a waste, her future void.”
Her life seemed to have come to a standstill. There seemed nothing to hope for in heaven or on earth.
There were days of such deep despondency that life seemed a burden too heavy to be borne, and she longed for death—days when the unrest of her soul craved61 the rest of oblivion in the grave.
There were moments, too, when athwart the utter darkness of her soul flashed the lightning of consciousness that she might change all this and bring renewed life, action and happiness to herself; that she might write to her husband, or return to her home and implore62 him to believe in her and to bear with her until she should be at liberty to clear up 82the mystery that rested as a cold, dark storm-cloud between them.
And at such moments she might have acted on the impulse and hastened back to Cloud Cliffs, but for the memory of his fierce, cruel, stinging words:
“I never loved you! I married you only to please my dying father. In a very few hours I shall leave this house, never to return while you desecrate it with your presence!”
Every time these words recurred63 to her mind they overwhelmed her with a fresh sense of unspeakable humiliation55.
“Oh, no!” she said to herself—“no! my heart seems dying in my bosom64, but I must not listen to its moan! I must not go back until he himself shall repent65 and retract66 and entreat67 me to return! I can die, but I cannot go back. I cannot.”
All her efforts to obtain employment by advertising69 and by answering advertisements had signally failed. There seemed to be no use for her in the whole world. No one on earth seemed to want her in any capacity.
Mrs. Downie, watching her with motherly tenderness, ventured one day to say:
“Honey, you must be awful lonesome here days, when everybody has gone about their business and left you by yourself.”
“It does not matter, Mrs. Downie. Don’t trouble yourself about me, dear heart,” said Lilith.
“But I must! I can’t help it! Emmy Ponsonby has never been to see you since that night she fetched you here, nyther, has she?”
“No, Mrs. Downie!”
“Well, I reckon she’s still with the weddingers in Boston, or else there’s another baby coming around 83somewheres. ’Mong so many married daughters there’s always a baby coming ’round in Emmy’s family, sometimes two or three of ’em in a year, and I reckon that is what’s the matter now. ’Cause Emmy Ponsonby never forgets her friends or her promises.”
“She was very, very good to me, and I had no claim on her,” sighed Lilith.
“Oh, yes, but you had a claim on her, honey; as you have on me and on every grown-up woman as is able to help a motherless child like you,” said Mrs. Downie, so tenderly that Lilith’s eyes filled with tears.
“Mrs. Downie,” she said, “I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, honey.”
“You have taken me here a stranger in your house. I have been here four weeks and you have never given me your bill——”
“I was waiting till you got something to do, honey,” interrupted the landlady.
“And—this is what I wanted to ask you: Suppose I should be here for eight weeks or for twelve weeks, without paying you?”
“Well, honey, it wouldn’t so much matter as you might think; because, you see, dear, you don’t occupy a room. You only sleep on a little bed in my room; so really your being here don’t make no odds70. I have six rooms as I let to boarders, and that is what supports the house. They are all let, and you don’t take up none of them, so your being in the house don’t make no odds at all, let alone it being a comfort to have you.”
“Dear Mrs. Downie——” began Lilith, with the tears running over her eyes; but her voice faltered71 and her words died in silence.
“Look here, honey, it is borne in on me as if you would just stop calling me Mrs. Downie—not but what I am fond of the name, and proud of it for 84poor, dear Will’s sake—but if you would just stop ceremonials and call me Aunt Sophie, like the rest of the children do, and would come closer up to me, in your heart, like you would feel more at home with me, and would be more better satisfied, and wouldn’t have no doubts nor troubles about board and such. Couldn’t you now, honey?”
Lilith left her chair and came and sat down in the good woman’s lap, dropped her head upon her bosom, and put her arms around her neck.
“That’s right, dearie. Now remember, I am your Aunt Sophie,” said Mrs. Downie, folding the young creature in a close embrace.
“I never knew a mother or a sister or an aunt. It comforts me to be allowed to call you aunt.”
“That is right, dear. Now I’m going to propose another thing; that is, for you to go to market with me every morning, when you feel like it. It will amuse you, and take your thoughts offen troubles it is unprofitable to dwell on. And then, dearie, sometimes you might go to meeting with me in week evenings. We often have a real good, warm time at our meetings,” said the good woman, with a cheerful glow in her gentle countenance72.
“I thank you, dear, dear Aunt Sophie. I should like to go anywhere with you,” said Lilith, as she kissed her friend, and arose to her feet.
No more was said about the board bill, the subject of which had been introduced by Lilith herself.
But the next morning, as Mrs. Downie was putting on her bonnet73 to go to market, she spied an envelope directed as follows:
“To Aunt Sophie, from Lilith.”
She took it from the toilet cushion upon which it was pinned, and found three ten-dollar greenbacks inclosed in a short letter, which she read:
85“Dear Aunt Sophie: If I were in need, there is no one in this whole world to whom I should be so entirely willing to be indebted as to yourself. And if I were in want, it would be to you, first of all, to whom I should come for help, feeling sure of obtaining it. But, dear friend, I am not so poor in funds as I am supposed to be. I have enough to keep me for a year at least, even if I should get no work to do. So, please take the inclosed without any qualms74 to your benevolent75 heart. I shall still be infinitely76 indebted to you for love, sympathy and protection. Lilith.”
Mrs. Downie read the note, looked at the money, and communed with herself:
“Now what did the child go and do that sort of thing in that way for? Trapping me into taking the money in that manner. She knew very well that if she had handed it to me I wouldn’t have touched it. She a gallant77 soldier’s orphan, too. And now I s’pose if I hand it to her she won’t take it back, no way! Now I wonder if she has got a plenty of money, sure enough? Sufficient to keep her for a whole year, as she says? If she has, this would be a convenience, and a real godsend, just at this time, too, when I am trying to make up the rent. Yet I don’t like to take it offen that poor child, nyther, and she only occupying a cot in my bed-room. Well, I’ll go and try to make her take it back, and if she won’t, why, she won’t, and I’ll put it to the rent money, and get that off my mind to-day.”
So saying, the landlady went in search of Lilith, whom she found in the parlor, ready and waiting to go to market with her friend.
“Well, Aunt Sophie, we have a fine day for our walk,” began Lilith.
“Yes, honey; but before we go you must take this back again,” said the good woman, trying to force 86the money into Lilith’s hand, “’cause I don’t want to charge you any board until I can give you a room, my dear; and that won’t be until Brother Moore gets married and goes. And then I will take pay.”
Lilith opened her hand with the palm down, so that it could hold nothing, saying, at the same time:
“And I will not impose myself on you, dear Aunt Sophie, until all my funds are spent, and then—I shall continue to stay with you—perhaps—until you turn me out.”
“That would be forever, then, honey; or, leastways, it would be as long as I should live, for I should never do that cruel thing on no account,” said the old lady.
As they walked down the avenue, Mrs. Downie said:
“I think, dear, as you would be a great deal happier if you were to have some regular employment. You came here to get something to do, didn’t you, now?”
“Yes, Aunt Sophie,” said Lilith, sadly.
“Well, have you tried?”
“Yes, Aunt Sophie. I have advertised in the New York papers, and I have answered advertisements, but have not yet succeeded in getting anything to do.”
“What did you advertise for?”
“For the situation of private governess in a family, or assistant teacher in a school, or translator, or copyist, or as companion for an invalid80 lady or an elderly lady, or as amanuensis to a literary lady. For all these situations I have advertised at various times, and have received not one reply.”
“Ah, dearie me! Every road to business is so overcrowded! But you said you answered some of the advertisements of such places as you would like to take.”
87“Yes, but no notice was taken of any of my letters.”
“Ah, you see, child, I suppose there were hundreds of applications for every place, and they couldn’t answer all the applicants81.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Lilith, patiently.
“And it costs so much to advertise,” sighed Mrs. Downie.
“Yes,” said Lilith. “And so I have given up advertising on my own account, and I only answer the advertisements of others. That does not cost so much; only the paper and postage stamp.”
“Well, dear, I hope you will succeed at last,” said the old lady.
“Yes, dear, I know it. ‘It is a long lane that has no turning,’ and the worst of it is that when the lane does turn it doesn’t always turn into
‘Fresh fields and pastures green,’
but into some dusty highway a deal harder to travel than was the long lane itself! But there! I ought not to have said that. I don’t want to discourage you, dearie,” suddenly said Aunt Sophie, with a qualm of compunction.
“I saw an advertisement in this morning’s Pursuivant that pleased me and that I have answered. I have brought my answer to drop it into the post. But I scarcely hope that anything will come of it.”
“What was it for, dearie?”
“A companion for a widow going abroad. The applicant82 must be a young lady, healthy, agreeable, well educated, competent to speak French, Italian and Spanish. Oh, I have all the list of requirements at my fingers’ ends, you see.”
88Aunt Sophie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, to the great annoyance84 of other foot-passengers, and stared in mild wonder at her companion.
“Now, where in all this wide world do that widow expect to find a young lady, accomplished85 as all that comes to, who is in need to go out and get her living?” she inquired.
“Oh, dear Aunt Sophie, there are many, many among the impoverished86 children of the South who, in the days of their prosperity, had received such education.”
“And do you think you would suit, my dear?”
“I can but try. I must try, you know.”
“Well, I hope that widow will be willing to give a high salary for all that she wants.”
“The advertisement says that a liberal salary will be given; but also adds that the highest testimonials of character and competency will be required.”
“Well, my dear, you can furnish them, anyhow.”
“I don’t know. I have my college testimonials, or could get them; but for the rest—”
“Well, you have Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“But she knows so little of me,” sighed Lilith, as she reflected how that good, credulous87 woman had come to her side in the spirit of compassion88 and had taken her respectability quite for granted.
“Well, honey, don’t sigh, that’s a dearie; because if you don’t get the place it makes no odds. I dare say that widow is some poor, infirm old lady going to travel for her health, who would be no end of a trial to you. And you know if you never get nothing to do, you can always live long o’ me and be comfortable always. ’Deed I feel so drawn to you, dearie, that I would like to adopt you if you would let me. It would make no odds, leastways not much at the end of the year. And I meant to adopt two more as soon as ever John and Mary are provided 89for. And I reckon I had better adopt one like you than another child. I mightn’t live to see the child grow up, for I am getting old. Will you think of what I tell you, dearie?”
“Think of it? I shall never forget it so long as I live, dear Aunt Sophie,” warmly responded Lilith.
“Here is the post,” said Mrs. Downie, pausing at the pillar box, into which Lilith dropped her letter.
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收听单词发音
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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2
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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3
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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5
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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8
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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emulated
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的过去式和过去分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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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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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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30
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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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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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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83
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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84
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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86
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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88
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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