It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle1 and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer, and in its uncertainty2 inclines now to the one and now to the other, and now to both at once — wooing summer in the sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade — it was, in short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering3 and genial4, in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper5 boiler6, was roused by the sound of a horse’s feet, and glancing out at window, beheld7 a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle8 at the Maypole door.
He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who would even penetrate9 into the bar — that solemn sanctuary10 — and, smiting11 old John upon the back, inquire if there was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature; none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles13 for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid14 gentleman, something past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that, and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut15 cob, and had the graceful16 seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then in vogue17, was handsome and well chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet18 cape19, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs20, all of a jaunty21 fashion; his linen22, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the wrists and throat, and scrupulously23 white. Although he seemed, judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely24 toilet, to sit for an equestrian25 portrait at old John Willet’s gate.
It must not be supposed that John observed these several characteristics by other than very slow degrees, or that he took in more than half a one at a time, or that he even made up his mind upon that, without a great deal of very serious consideration. Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a fortnight to have noted26 what is here set down; but it happened that the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with the tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out of order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music of its own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in silence. Hence John, standing27 with his hand upon the horse’s bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing to divert his thoughts, had really got some of these little circumstances into his brain by the time he was called upon to speak.
‘A quaint28 place this,’ said the gentleman — and his voice was as rich as his dress. ‘Are you the landlord?’
‘At your service, sir,’ replied John Willet.
‘You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be cleanly served), and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this great mansion29,’ said the stranger, again running his eyes over the exterior30.
‘You can have, sir,’ returned John with a readiness quite surprising, ‘anything you please.’
‘It’s well I am easily satisfied,’ returned the other with a smile, ‘or that might prove a hardy31 pledge, my friend.’ And saying so, he dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a twinkling.
‘Halloa there! Hugh!’ roared John. ‘I ask your pardon, sir, for keeping you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I’m rather put out when he’s away. Hugh!— a dreadful idle vagrant32 fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think — always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir — Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!— Hugh! I wish that chap was dead, I do indeed.’
‘Possibly he is,’ returned the other. ‘I should think if he were living, he would have heard you by this time.’
‘In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,’ said the distracted host, ‘that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his ears, it wouldn’t wake him, sir.’
The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness33, and recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his fate, and a half disposition34 to lead him into the house, and shut him up in the parlour, while he waited on his master.
‘Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!’ cried John, in the very height and zenith of his distress35. ‘Did you hear me a calling, villain36?’
The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse’s head towards the stable, and was gone in an instant.
‘Brisk enough when he is awake,’ said the guest.
‘Brisk enough, sir!’ replied John, looking at the place where the horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become of him. ‘He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there he is. You look at him again, and — there he isn’t.’
Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax37 to what he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the whole life and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up his wide dismantled38 staircase into the Maypole’s best apartment.
It was spacious39 enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large as many modern rooms; in which some few panes40 of stained glass, emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting41, by their presence, that the former owner had made the very light subservient42 to his state, and pressed the sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his chamber12, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues43 and colours from their pride.
But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room of the inn, it had the melancholy44 aspect of grandeur45 in decay, and was much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling46 hangings, waving on the walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty’s dress; the light of women’s eyes, outshining the tapers47 and their own rich jewels; the sound of gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden48 feet, had once been there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with them all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there; the fireside had become mercenary — a something to be bought and sold — a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave it, it was still the same — it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!
No effort had been made to furnish this chilly49 waste, but before the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning and grotesque50. After lighting51 with his own hands the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth52, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his cook, touching53 the stranger’s entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant window, and basked54 in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.
Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together, or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet.
‘Sir,’ said John.
He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.
‘There’s a house not far from here,’ said the guest when he had written a few lines, ‘which you call the Warren, I believe?’
As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the question as a thing of course, John contented55 himself with nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.
‘I want this note’— said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and folding it, ‘conveyed there without loss of time, and an answer brought back here. Have you a messenger at hand?’
John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.
‘Let me see him,’ said the guest.
This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand, Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his rambles56, and who, so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious business, would go anywhere.
‘Why the truth is,’ said John after a long pause, ‘that the person who’d go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he’s not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.’
‘You don’t,’ said the guest, raising his eyes to John’s fat face, ‘you don’t mean — what’s the fellow’s name — you don’t mean Barnaby?’
‘Yes, I do,’ returned the landlord, his features turning quite expressive57 with surprise.
‘How comes he to be here?’ inquired the guest, leaning back in his chair; speaking in the bland58, even tone, from which he never varied59; and with the same soft, courteous60, never-changing smile upon his face. ‘I saw him in London last night.’
‘He’s, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,’ returned old John, after the usual pause to get the question in his mind. ‘Sometimes he walks, and sometimes runs. He’s known along the road by everybody, and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double. He comes and goes, through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.’
‘He goes often to the Warren, does he not?’ said the guest carelessly. ‘I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect yesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman much.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ John made answer, ‘he does. His father, sir, was murdered in that house.’
‘So I have heard,’ returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his pocket with the same sweet smile. ‘A very disagreeable circumstance for the family.’
‘Very,’ said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating the subject.
‘All the circumstances after a murder,’ said the guest soliloquising, ‘must be dreadfully unpleasant — so much bustle61 and disturbance62 — no repose63 — a constant dwelling64 upon one subject — and the running in and out, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn’t have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account. ‘Twould be enough to wear one’s life out.— You were going to say, friend —’ he added, turning to John again.
‘Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that Barnaby’s as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,’ answered John. ‘Shall he do your errand, sir?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied the guest. ‘Oh certainly. Let him do it by all means. Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If he objects to come you may tell him it’s Mr Chester. He will remember my name, I dare say.’
John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that he could express no astonishment65 at all, by looks or otherwise, but left the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable66 of all possible conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs, he looked steadily67 at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all that time never once left off shaking his head; for which statement there would seem to be some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch as that interval68 of time did certainly elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest’s apartment.
‘Come hither, lad,’ said Mr Chester. ‘You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?’
Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say, ‘You hear him?’ John, who was greatly shocked at this breach69 of decorum, clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance70.
‘He knows him, sir,’ said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, ‘as well as you or I do.’
‘I haven’t the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,’ returned his guest. ‘YOU may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my friend.’
Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity71 at Barnaby’s door, determined72 to kick his raven73, on the very first opportunity.
‘Give that,’ said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note, and who beckoned74 his messenger towards him as he spoke75, ‘into Mr Haredale’s own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him — can he remember a message, landlord?’
‘When he chooses, sir,’ replied John. ‘He won’t forget this one.’
‘How are you sure of that?’
John merely pointed76 to him as he stood with his head bent77 forward, and his earnest gaze fixed78 closely on his questioner’s face; and nodded sagely79.
‘Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,’ said Mr Chester, ‘that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him (if he will call) at any time this evening.— At the worst I can have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?’
Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in this familiar form of address, answered, with something like a knowing look, ‘I should believe you could, sir,’ and was turning over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed away.
‘Speed!’ said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, ‘Speed! If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!’
With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet’s horror, on the guest’s fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back window.
‘Look down there,’ he said softly; ‘do you mark how they whisper in each other’s ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and gambol80, delighted with the mischief81 they’ve been plotting? Look at ’em now. See how they whirl and plunge82. And now they stop again, and whisper, cautiously together — little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?’
‘They are only clothes,’ returned the guest, ‘such as we wear; hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.’
‘Clothes!’ echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling quickly back. ‘Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as wise as you! You don’t see shadowy people there, like those that live in sleep — not you. Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the air, nor see men stalking in the sky — not you! I lead a merrier life than you, with all your cleverness. You’re the dull men. We’re the bright ones. Ha! ha! I’ll not change with you, clever as you are,— not I!’
With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted83 off.
‘A strange creature, upon my word!’ said the guest, pulling out a handsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.
‘He wants imagination,’ said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a long silence; ‘that’s what he wants. I’ve tried to instil84 it into him, many and many’s the time; but’— John added this in confidence — ‘he an’t made for it; that’s the fact.’
To record that Mr Chester smiled at John’s remark would be little to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant look at all times. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having no reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself.
Very thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was preparing; and if his brain were ever less clear at one time than another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled85 it in no slight degree by shaking his head so much that day. That Mr Chester, between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the neighbourhood, a deep and bitter animosity existed, should come down there for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and should choose the Maypole for their place of meeting, and should send to him express, were stumbling blocks John could not overcome. The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and wait impatiently for Barnaby’s return.
But Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent86. The visitor’s dinner was served, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished87, the hearth clean swept; the light waned88 without, it grew dusk, became quite dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John Willet was full of wonder and misgiving89, his guest sat cross-legged in the easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled90 in his thoughts as in his dress — the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond his golden toothpick.
‘Barnaby’s late,’ John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of tarnished91 candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and snuffed the lights they held.
‘He is rather so,’ replied the guest, sipping92 his wine. ‘He will not be much longer, I dare say.’
John coughed and raked the fire together.
‘As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my son’s mishap93, though,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and as I have no fancy to be knocked on the head — which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who chance to pick one up — I shall stop here to-night. I think you said you had a bed to spare.’
‘Such a bed, sir,’ returned John Willet; ‘ay, such a bed as few, even of the gentry94’s houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I’ve heard say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble son — a fine young gentleman — slept in it last, sir, half a year ago.’
‘Upon my life, a recommendation!’ said the guest, shrugging his shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire. ‘See that it be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there at once. This house is something damp and chilly.’
John raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw, when a bounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came panting in.
‘He’ll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour’s time,’ he cried, advancing. ‘He has been riding hard all day — has just come home — but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to meet his loving friend.’
‘Was that his message?’ asked the visitor, looking up, but without the smallest discomposure — or at least without the show of any.
‘All but the last words,’ Barnaby rejoined. ‘He meant those. I saw that, in his face.’
‘This for your pains,’ said the other, putting money in his hand, and glancing at him steadfastly95.’ This for your pains, sharp Barnaby.’
‘For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,’ he rejoined, putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. ‘Grip one, me two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats — well, we shall spend it pretty soon, I warn you. Stay.— Look. Do you wise men see nothing there, now?’
He bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke, which was rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John Willet, who appeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly referred to under the term wise men, looked that way likewise, and with great solidity of feature.
‘Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,’ asked Barnaby; ‘eh? Why do they tread so closely on each other’s heels, and why are they always in a hurry — which is what you blame me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me? More of ’em! catching96 to each other’s skirts; and as fast as they go, others come! What a merry dance it is! I would that Grip and I could frisk like that!’
‘What has he in that basket at his back?’ asked the guest after a few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.
‘In this?’ he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply — shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen. ‘In this! What is there here? Tell him!’
‘A devil, a devil, a devil!’ cried a hoarse97 voice.
‘Here’s money!’ said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, ‘money for a treat, Grip!’
‘Hurrah98! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ replied the raven, ‘keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow!’
Mr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a customer in a laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have any acquaintance even with the existence of such unpolite gentry as the bird claimed to belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture99, with the view of preventing any other improper100 declarations, and quitted the room with his very best bow.
收听单词发音 |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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beheld
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| 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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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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attesting
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| v.证明( attest的现在分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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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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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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54
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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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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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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83
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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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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88
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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90
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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92
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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93
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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94
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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96
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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97
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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98
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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99
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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100
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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