A month has elapsed,— and we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John Chester. Through the half-opened window, the Temple Garden looks green and pleasant; the placid1 river, gay with boat and barge2, and dimpled with the plash of many an oar3, sparkles in the distance; the sky is blue and clear; and the summer air steals gently in, filling the room with perfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High roofs and steeple-tops, wont4 to look black and sullen5, smile a cheerful grey; every old gilded6 vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright morning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul’s towers up, showing its lofty crest7 in burnished8 gold.
Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand, upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of tranquil9 satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to gaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news luxuriously10.
The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He laid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his pillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming recollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:
‘And my friend the centaur12, goes the way of his mamma! I am not surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It’s the very best thing that could possibly happen to him.’
After delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his smiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for more.
The new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant’s hand; and saying, with a charming affability, ‘I am obliged to you, Peak,’ dismissed him.
‘It is a remarkable13 circumstance,’ he mused14, dallying15 lazily with the teaspoon16, ‘that my friend the madman should have been within an ace17 of escaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the world would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord Mayor should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose very dense18 heads curiosity had penetrated19. For though the brother of my Lord Mayor was decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship to that amusing person beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend was sane20, and had, to his knowledge, wandered about the country with a vagabond parent, avowing21 revolutionary and rebellious22 sentiments; I am not the less obliged to him for volunteering that evidence. These insane creatures make such very odd and embarrassing remarks, that they really ought to be hanged for the comfort of society.’
The country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against poor Barnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little thought how much he had to answer for.
‘They will be a singular party,’ said Sir John, leaning his head upon his hand, and sipping23 his chocolate; ‘a very curious party. The hangman himself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur would make a very handsome preparation in Surgeons’ Hall, and would benefit science extremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak24 him.— Peak, I am not at home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.’
This reminder25 to his servant was called forth26 by a knock at the door, which the man hastened to open. After a prolonged murmur27 of question and answer, he returned; and as he cautiously closed the room-door behind him, a man was heard to cough in the passage.
‘Now, it is of no use, Peak,’ said Sir John, raising his hand in deprecation of his delivering any message; ‘I am not at home. I cannot possibly hear you. I told you I was not at home, and my word is sacred. Will you never do as you are desired?’
Having nothing to oppose to this reproof28, the man was about to withdraw, when the visitor who had given occasion to it, probably rendered impatient by delay, knocked with his knuckles29 at the chamber-door, and called out that he had urgent business with Sir John Chester, which admitted of no delay.
‘Let him in,’ said Sir John. ‘My good fellow,’ he added, when the door was opened, ‘how come you to intrude30 yourself in this extraordinary manner upon the privacy of a gentleman? How can you be so wholly destitute31 of self-respect as to be guilty of such remarkable ill-breeding?’
‘My business, Sir John, is not of a common kind, I do assure you,’ returned the person he addressed. ‘If I have taken any uncommon32 course to get admission to you, I hope I shall be pardoned on that account.’
‘Well! we shall see; we shall see,’ returned Sir John, whose face cleared up when he saw who it was, and whose prepossessing smile was now restored. ‘I am sure we have met before,’ he added in his winning tone, ‘but really I forget your name?’
‘My name is Gabriel Varden, sir.’
‘Varden, of course, Varden,’ returned Sir John, tapping his forehead. ‘Dear me, how very defective33 my memory becomes! Varden to be sure — Mr Varden the locksmith. You have a charming wife, Mr Varden, and a most beautiful daughter. They are well?’
Gabriel thanked him, and said they were.
‘I rejoice to hear it,’ said Sir John. ‘Commend me to them when you return, and say that I wished I were fortunate enough to convey, myself, the salute34 which I entrust35 you to deliver. And what,’ he asked very sweetly, after a moment’s pause, ‘can I do for you? You may command me freely.’
‘I thank you, Sir John,’ said Gabriel, with some pride in his manner, ‘but I have come to ask no favour of you, though I come on business.— Private,’ he added, with a glance at the man who stood looking on, ‘and very pressing business.’
‘I cannot say you are the more welcome for being independent, and having nothing to ask of me,’ returned Sir John, graciously, ‘for I should have been happy to render you a service; still, you are welcome on any terms. Oblige me with some more chocolate, Peak, and don’t wait.’
The man retired36, and left them alone.
‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, ‘I am a working-man, and have been so, all my life. If I don’t prepare you enough for what I have to tell; if I come to the point too abruptly37; and give you a shock, which a gentleman could have spared you, or at all events lessened38 very much; I hope you will give me credit for meaning well. I wish to be careful and considerate, and I trust that in a straightforward39 person like me, you’ll take the will for the deed.’
‘Mr Varden,’ returned the other, perfectly40 composed under this exordium; ‘I beg you’ll take a chair. Chocolate, perhaps, you don’t relish41? Well! it IS an acquired taste, no doubt.’
‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, who had acknowledged with a bow the invitation to be seated, but had not availed himself of it. ‘Sir John’— he dropped his voice and drew nearer to the bed —‘I am just now come from Newgate —’
‘Good Gad42!’ cried Sir John, hastily sitting up in bed; ‘from Newgate, Mr Varden! How could you be so very imprudent as to come from Newgate! Newgate, where there are jail-fevers, and ragged43 people, and bare-footed men and women, and a thousand horrors! Peak, bring the camphor, quick! Heaven and earth, Mr Varden, my dear, good soul, how COULD you come from Newgate?’
Gabriel returned no answer, but looked on in silence while Peak (who had entered with the hot chocolate) ran to a drawer, and returning with a bottle, sprinkled his master’s dressing-gown and the bedding; and besides moistening the locksmith himself, plentifully44, described a circle round about him on the carpet. When he had done this, he again retired; and Sir John, reclining in an easy attitude upon his pillow, once more turned a smiling face towards his visitor.
‘You will forgive me, Mr Varden, I am sure, for being at first a little sensitive both on your account and my own. I confess I was startled, notwithstanding your delicate exordium. Might I ask you to do me the favour not to approach any nearer?— You have really come from Newgate!’
The locksmith inclined his head.
‘In-deed! And now, Mr Varden, all exaggeration and embellishment apart,’ said Sir John Chester, confidentially46, as he sipped47 his chocolate, ‘what kind of place IS Newgate?’
‘A strange place, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘of a sad and doleful kind. A strange place, where many strange things are heard and seen; but few more strange than that I come to tell you of. The case is urgent. I am sent here.’
‘Not — no, no — not from the jail?’
‘Yes, Sir John; from the jail.’
‘And my good, credulous48, open-hearted friend,’ said Sir John, setting down his cup, and laughing,—‘by whom?’
‘By a man called Dennis — for many years the hangman, and to-morrow morning the hanged,’ returned the locksmith.
Sir John had expected — had been quite certain from the first — that he would say he had come from Hugh, and was prepared to meet him on that point. But this answer occasioned him a degree of astonishment49, which, for the moment, he could not, with all his command of feature, prevent his face from expressing. He quickly subdued50 it, however, and said in the same light tone:
‘And what does the gentleman require of me? My memory may be at fault again, but I don’t recollect11 that I ever had the pleasure of an introduction to him, or that I ever numbered him among my personal friends, I do assure you, Mr Varden.’
‘Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, gravely, ‘I will tell you, as nearly as I can, in the words he used to me, what he desires that you should know, and what you ought to know without a moment’s loss of time.’
Sir John Chester settled himself in a position of greater repose51, and looked at his visitor with an expression of face which seemed to say, ‘This is an amusing fellow! I’ll hear him out.’
‘You may have seen in the newspapers, sir,’ said Gabriel, pointing to the one which lay by his side, ‘that I was a witness against this man upon his trial some days since; and that it was not his fault I was alive, and able to speak to what I knew.’
‘MAY have seen!’ cried Sir John. ‘My dear Mr Varden, you are quite a public character, and live in all men’s thoughts most deservedly. Nothing can exceed the interest with which I read your testimony52, and remembered that I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with you.—-I hope we shall have your portrait published?’
‘This morning, sir,’ said the locksmith, taking no notice of these compliments, ‘early this morning, a message was brought to me from Newgate, at this man’s request, desiring that I would go and see him, for he had something particular to communicate. I needn’t tell you that he is no friend of mine, and that I had never seen him, until the rioters beset53 my house.’
Sir John fanned himself gently with the newspaper, and nodded.
‘I knew, however, from the general report,’ resumed Gabriel, ‘that the order for his execution to-morrow, went down to the prison last night; and looking upon him as a dying man, I complied with his request.’
‘You are quite a Christian54, Mr Varden,’ said Sir John; ‘and in that amiable55 capacity, you increase my desire that you should take a chair.’
‘He said,’ continued Gabriel, looking steadily56 at the knight57, ‘that he had sent to me, because he had no friend or companion in the whole world (being the common hangman), and because he believed, from the way in which I had given my evidence, that I was an honest man, and would act truly by him. He said that, being shunned58 by every one who knew his calling, even by people of the lowest and most wretched grade, and finding, when he joined the rioters, that the men he acted with had no suspicion of it (which I believe is true enough, for a poor fool of an old ‘prentice of mine was one of them), he had kept his own counsel, up to the time of his being taken and put in jail.’
‘Very discreet59 of Mr Dennis,’ observed Sir John with a slight yawn, though still with the utmost affability, ‘but — except for your admirable and lucid60 manner of telling it, which is perfect — not very interesting to me.’
‘When,’ pursued the locksmith, quite unabashed and wholly regardless of these interruptions, ‘when he was taken to the jail, he found that his fellow-prisoner, in the same room, was a young man, Hugh by name, a leader in the riots, who had been betrayed and given up by himself. From something which fell from this unhappy creature in the course of the angry words they had at meeting, he discovered that his mother had suffered the death to which they both are now condemned61.— The time is very short, Sir John.’
The knight laid down his paper fan, replaced his cup upon the table at his side, and, saving for the smile that lurked62 about his mouth, looked at the locksmith with as much steadiness as the locksmith looked at him.
‘They have been in prison now, a month. One conversation led to many more; and the hangman soon found, from a comparison of time, and place, and dates, that he had executed the sentence of the law upon this woman, himself. She had been tempted63 by want — as so many people are — into the easy crime of passing forged notes. She was young and handsome; and the traders who employ men, women, and children in this traffic, looked upon her as one who was well adapted for their business, and who would probably go on without suspicion for a long time. But they were mistaken; for she was stopped in the commission of her very first offence, and died for it. She was of gipsy blood, Sir John —’
It might have been the effect of a passing cloud which obscured the sun, and cast a shadow on his face; but the knight turned deadly pale. Still he met the locksmith’s eye, as before.
‘She was of gipsy blood, Sir John,’ repeated Gabriel, ‘and had a high, free spirit. This, and her good looks, and her lofty manner, interested some gentlemen who were easily moved by dark eyes; and efforts were made to save her. They might have been successful, if she would have given them any clue to her history. But she never would, or did. There was reason to suspect that she would make an attempt upon her life. A watch was set upon her night and day; and from that time she never spoke64 again —’
Sir John stretched out his hand towards his cup. The locksmith going on, arrested it half-way.
—‘Until she had but a minute to live. Then she broke silence, and said, in a low firm voice which no one heard but this executioner, for all other living creatures had retired and left her to her fate, “If I had a dagger65 within these fingers and he was within my reach, I would strike him dead before me, even now!” The man asked “Who?” She said, “The father of her boy.”’
Sir John drew back his outstretched hand, and seeing that the locksmith paused, signed to him with easy politeness and without any new appearance of emotion, to proceed.
‘It was the first word she had ever spoken, from which it could be understood that she had any relative on earth. “Was the child alive?” he asked. “Yes.” He asked her where it was, its name, and whether she had any wish respecting it. She had but one, she said. It was that the boy might live and grow, in utter ignorance of his father, so that no arts might teach him to be gentle and forgiving. When he became a man, she trusted to the God of their tribe to bring the father and the son together, and revenge her through her child. He asked her other questions, but she spoke no more. Indeed, he says, she scarcely said this much, to him, but stood with her face turned upwards66 to the sky, and never looked towards him once.’
Sir John took a pinch of snuff; glanced approvingly at an elegant little sketch67, entitled ‘Nature,’ on the wall; and raising his eyes to the locksmith’s face again, said, with an air of courtesy and patronage68, ‘You were observing, Mr Varden —’
‘That she never,’ returned the locksmith, who was not to be diverted by any artifice69 from his firm manner, and his steady gaze, ‘that she never looked towards him once, Sir John; and so she died, and he forgot her. But, some years afterwards, a man was sentenced to die the same death, who was a gipsy too; a sunburnt, swarthy fellow, almost a wild man; and while he lay in prison, under sentence, he, who had seen the hangman more than once while he was free, cut an image of him on his stick, by way of braving death, and showing those who attended on him, how little he cared or thought about it. He gave this stick into his hands at Tyburn, and told him then, that the woman I have spoken of had left her own people to join a fine gentleman, and that, being deserted70 by him, and cast off by her old friends, she had sworn within her own proud breast, that whatever her misery71 might be, she would ask no help of any human being. He told him that she had kept her word to the last; and that, meeting even him in the streets — he had been fond of her once, it seems — she had slipped from him by a trick, and he never saw her again, until, being in one of the frequent crowds at Tyburn, with some of his rough companions, he had been driven almost mad by seeing, in the criminal under another name, whose death he had come to witness, herself. Standing45 in the same place in which she had stood, he told the hangman this, and told him, too, her real name, which only her own people and the gentleman for whose sake she had left them, knew. That name he will tell again, Sir John, to none but you.’
‘To none but me!’ exclaimed the knight, pausing in the act of raising his cup to his lips with a perfectly steady hand, and curling up his little finger for the better display of a brilliant ring with which it was ornamented72: ‘but me!— My dear Mr Varden, how very preposterous73, to select me for his confidence! With you at his elbow, too, who are so perfectly trustworthy!’
‘Sir John, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘at twelve tomorrow, these men die. Hear the few words I have to add, and do not hope to deceive me; for though I am a plain man of humble74 station, and you are a gentleman of rank and learning, the truth raises me to your level, and I KNOW that you anticipate the disclosure with which I am about to end, and that you believe this doomed75 man, Hugh, to be your son.’
‘Nay,’ said Sir John, bantering76 him with a gay air; ‘the wild gentleman, who died so suddenly, scarcely went as far as that, I think?’
‘He did not,’ returned the locksmith, ‘for she had bound him by some pledge, known only to these people, and which the worst among them respect, not to tell your name: but, in a fantastic pattern on the stick, he had carved some letters, and when the hangman asked it, he bade him, especially if he should ever meet with her son in after life, remember that place well.’
‘What place?’
‘Chester.’
The knight finished his cup of chocolate with an appearance of infinite relish, and carefully wiped his lips upon his handkerchief.
‘Sir John,’ said the locksmith, ‘this is all that has been told to me; but since these two men have been left for death, they have conferred together closely. See them, and hear what they can add. See this Dennis, and learn from him what he has not trusted to me. If you, who hold the clue to all, want corroboration77 (which you do not), the means are easy.’
‘And to what,’ said Sir John Chester, rising on his elbow, after smoothing the pillow for its reception; ‘my dear, good-natured, estimable Mr Varden — with whom I cannot be angry if I would — to what does all this tend?’
‘I take you for a man, Sir John, and I suppose it tends to some pleading of natural affection in your breast,’ returned the locksmith. ‘I suppose to the straining of every nerve, and the exertion78 of all the influence you have, or can make, in behalf of your miserable79 son, and the man who has disclosed his existence to you. At the worst, I suppose to your seeing your son, and awakening80 him to a sense of his crime and danger. He has no such sense now. Think what his life must have been, when he said in my hearing, that if I moved you to anything, it would be to hastening his death, and ensuring his silence, if you had it in your power!’
‘And have you, my good Mr Varden,’ said Sir John in a tone of mild reproof, ‘have you really lived to your present age, and remained so very simple and credulous, as to approach a gentleman of established character with such credentials81 as these, from desperate men in their last extremity82, catching83 at any straw? Oh dear! Oh fie, fie!’
The locksmith was going to interpose, but he stopped him:
‘On any other subject, Mr Varden, I shall be delighted — I shall be charmed — to converse84 with you, but I owe it to my own character not to pursue this topic for another moment.’
‘Think better of it, sir, when I am gone,’ returned the locksmith; ‘think better of it, sir. Although you have, thrice within as many weeks, turned your lawful85 son, Mr Edward, from your door, you may have time, you may have years to make your peace with HIM, Sir John: but that twelve o’clock will soon be here, and soon be past for ever.’
‘I thank you very much,’ returned the knight, kissing his delicate hand to the locksmith, ‘for your guileless advice; and I only wish, my good soul, although your simplicity86 is quite captivating, that you had a little more worldly wisdom. I never so much regretted the arrival of my hairdresser as I do at this moment. God bless you! Good morning! You’ll not forget my message to the ladies, Mr Varden? Peak, show Mr Varden to the door.’
Gabriel said no more, but gave the knight a parting look, and left him. As he quitted the room, Sir John’s face changed; and the smile gave place to a haggard and anxious expression, like that of a weary actor jaded87 by the performance of a difficult part. He rose from his bed with a heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning-gown.
‘So she kept her word,’ he said, ‘and was constant to her threat! I would I had never seen that dark face of hers,— I might have read these consequences in it, from the first. This affair would make a noise abroad, if it rested on better evidence; but, as it is, and by not joining the scattered88 links of the chain, I can afford to slight it.— Extremely distressing89 to be the parent of such an uncouth90 creature! Still, I gave him very good advice. I told him he would certainly be hanged. I could have done no more if I had known of our relationship; and there are a great many fathers who have never done as much for THEIR natural children.— The hairdresser may come in, Peak!’
The hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester (whose accommodating conscience was soon quieted by the numerous precedents91 that occurred to him in support of his last observation), the same imperturbable92, fascinating, elegant gentleman he had seen yesterday, and many yesterdays before.
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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centaur
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| n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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avowing
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rebellious
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sipping
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bespeak
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reminder
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forth
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murmur
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reproof
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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retired
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abruptly
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lessened
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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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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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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42
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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43
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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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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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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47
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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49
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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50
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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52
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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53
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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83
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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84
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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85
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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86
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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87
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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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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89
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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90
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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91
precedents
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| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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