In the course of the afternoon, Godwin sat down to pen the rough draft of a letter to Lady Whitelaw. When the first difficulties were surmounted1, he wrote rapidly, and at considerable length. It was not easy, at his time of life, to compress into the limits of an ordinary epistle all he wished to say to the widow of his benefactor2. His purpose was, with all possible respect yet as firmly as might be, to inform Lady Whitelaw that he could not spend the last of his proposed three years at the College in Kingsmill, and furthermore to request of her that she would permit his using the promised sum of money as a student at the Royal School of Mines. This had to be done without confession4 of the reasons for his change of plan; he could not even hint at them. Yet cause must be assigned, and the best form of words he could excogitate ran thus: ‘Family circumstances render it desirable—almost necessary—that I should spend the next twelve months in London. In spite of sincere reluctance5 to leave Whitelaw College, I am compelled to take this step.’ The lady must interpret that as best she might. Very hard indeed was the task of begging a continuance of her bounty6 under these changed conditions. Could he but have resigned the money, all had been well; his tone might then have been dignified7 without effort. But such disinterestedness8 he could not afford. His mother might grant him money enough barely to live upon until he discovered means of support—for his education she was unable to pay. After more than an hour’s work he had moderately satisfied himself; indeed, several portions of the letter struck him as well composed, and he felt that they must heighten the reader’s interest in him. With an author’s pleasure (though at the same time with much uneasiness) he perused9 the appeal again and again.
Late in the evening, when he was alone with his mother, he told her what he had done, and read the letter for her opinion. Mrs. Peak was gravely troubled.
‘Lady Whitelaw will ask her sisters for an explanation,’ she said.
‘I have thought of that,’ Godwin replied, with the confident, cheerful air he had assumed from the first. ‘If the Miss Lumbs go to aunt, she must be prepared to put them off in some way. But look here, mother, when uncle has opened his shop, it’s pretty certain that some one or other will hit on the true explanation of my disappearance10. Let them. Then Lady Whitelaw will understand and forgive me.’
After much musing11, the mother ventured a timid question, the result of her anxieties rather than of her judgment12 on the point at issue.
‘Godwin, dear, are you quite sure that his shop would make so much difference?’
The young man gave a passionate13 start.
‘What! To have the fellows going there to eat, and hearing his talk, and—? Not for a day could I bear it! Not for an hour!’
He was red with anticipated shame, and his voice shook with indignation at the suggested martyrdom. Mrs. Peak dried a tear.
‘You would be so alone in London, Godwin.’
‘Not a bit of it. Young Mr. Moxey will be a useful friend, I am convinced he will. To tell you the whole truth, I aim at getting a place at the works in Rotherhithe, where he no doubt has influence. You see, mother, I might manage it even before the end of the year. Our Mr. Moxey will be disposed to help me with his recommendation.’
‘But, my dear, wouldn’t it come to the same thing, then, if you went back to Mr. Moxey’s?’
He made a gesture of impatience14.
‘No, no, no! I couldn’t live at Twybridge. I have my way to make, mother, and the place for that is London. You know I am ambitious. Trust me for a year or two, and see the result. I depend upon your help in this whole affair. Don’t refuse it me. I have done with Whitelaw, and I have done with Twybridge: now comes London. You can’t regard me as a boy, you know.’
‘No—but’—
‘But me no buts!’ he cried, laughing excitedly. ‘The thing is settled. As soon as possible in the morning I post this letter. I feel it will be successful. See aunt tomorrow, and get her support. Mind that Charlotte and Oliver don’t talk to people. If you all use discretion15, there’s no need for any curiosity to be excited.’
When Godwin had taken a resolve, there was no domestic influence strong enough to prevent his acting16 upon it. Mrs. Peak’s ignorance of the world, her mild passivity, and the faith she had in her son’s intellectual resources, made her useless as a counsellor, and from no one else—now that Mr. Gunnery was dead—would the young man have dreamt of seeking guidance. Whatever Lady Whitelaw’s reply, he had made up his mind to go to London. Should his subsidy17 be refused, then he would live on what his mother could allow him until—probably with the aid of Christian18 Moxey—he might obtain a salaried position. The letter was despatched, and with feverish19 impatience he awaited a reply.
Nine days passed, and he heard nothing. Half that delay sufficed to bring out all the self-tormenting capacities of a nature such as his. To his mother’s conjectural20 explanations he could lend no ear. Doubtless Lady Whitelaw (against whom, for subtle reasons, he was already prejudiced) had taken offence; either she would not reply at all, or presently there would come a few lines of polite displeasure, intimating her disinclination to aid his project. He silently raged against ‘the woman’. Her neglect was insolence21. Had she not delicacy22 enough to divine the anxiety natural to one in his dependent position? Did she take him for an every-day writer of mendicant23 appeals? His pride fed upon the outrage24 and became fierce.
Then arrived a small glossy25 envelope, containing a tiny sheet of very thick note-paper, whereon it was written that Lady Whitelaw regretted her tardiness26 in replying to him (caused by her absence from home), and hoped he would be able to call upon her, at ten o’clock next morning, at the house of her sisters, the Misses Lumb, where she was stopping for a day—she remained his sincerely.
Having duly contorted this note into all manner of painful meanings, Godwin occupied an hour in making himself presentable (scornful that he should deem such trouble necessary), and with furiously beating heart set out to walk through Twybridge. Arrived at the house, he was led by a servant into the front room on the ground floor, where Lady Whitelaw, alone, sat reading a newspaper. Her features were of a very common order, and nothing distinguished27 her from middle-aged28 women of average refinement29; she had chubby30 hands, rather broad shoulders, and no visible waist. The scrutiny31 she bestowed32 upon her visitor was close. To Godwin’s feelings it too much resembled that with which she would have received an applicant33 for the post of footman. Yet her smile was friendly enough, and no lack of civility appeared in the repetition of her excuses for having replied so late.
‘Let us talk about this,’ she began, when Godwin was uneasily seated. (She spoke34 with an excess of precision, as though it had at one time been needful for her to premeditate polished phrases.) ‘I am very sorry you should have to think of quitting the College; very sorry indeed. You are one of the students who do honour to the institution.’
This was pleasant, and Godwin felt a regret of the constraint35 that was upon him. In his endeavour not to display a purring smile, he looked grim, as if the compliment were beneath his notice.
‘Pray don’t think,’ she pursued, ‘that I wish you to speak more fully36 about the private circumstances you refer to in your letter. But do let me ask you: Is your decision final? Are you sure that when the vacations are over you will see things just as you do now?’
‘I am quite sure of it,’ he replied.
The emphasis was merely natural to him. He could not so govern his voice as to convey the respectful regret which at this moment he felt. A younger lady, one who had heightened the charm of her compliment with subtle harmony of tones and strongly feminine gaze, would perhaps have elicited38 from him a free confession. Gratitude39 and admiration40 would have made him capable of such frankness. But in the face of this newspaper-reading woman (yes, he had unaccountably felt it jar upon him that a lady should be reading a newspaper), under her matronly smile, he could do no more than plump out his ‘quite sure’. To Lady Whitelaw it sounded altogether too curt41; she was conscious of her position as patroness, and had in fact thought it likely that the young man would be disposed to gratify her curiosity in some measure.
‘I can only say that I am sorry to hear it,’ fell from her tightened42 lips, after a moment’s pause.
Instantly Godwin’s pride expelled the softer emotion. He pressed hard with his feet upon the floor, every nerve in his body tense with that distressing43 passion peculiar44 to the shyly arrogant45. Regard him, and you had imagined he was submitting to rebuke46 for an offence he could not deny.
Lady Whitelaw waited. A minute, almost, and Peak gave no sign of opening his mouth.
‘It is certainly much to be regretted,’ she said at length, coolly. ‘Of course, I don’t know what prospects47 you may have in London, but, if you had remained at the College, something advantageous48 would no doubt have offered before long.’
There went small tact49 to the wording of this admonition. Impossible for Lady Whitelaw to understand the complexities50 of a character such as Godwin’s, even had she enjoyed opportunities of studying it; but many a woman of the world would have directed herself more cautiously after reading that letter of his. Peak’s impulse was to thank her for the past, and declare that henceforth he would dispense52 with aid; only the choking in his throat obstructed53 some such utterance54. He resented profoundly her supposition (natural enough) that his chief aim was to establish himself in a self-supporting career. What? Am I to be grateful for a mere37 chance of earning my living? Have I not shown that I am capable of something more than the ordinary lot in life? From the heights of her assured independence, does she look down upon me as a young man seeking a ‘place’? He was filled with wrath55, and all because a good, commonplace woman could not divine that he dreamt of European fame.
‘I am very sorry that I can’t take that into account,’ he managed to say. ‘I wish to give this next year exclusively to scientific study, and after that I shall see what course is open to me.’
He was not of the men who can benefit by patronage56, and be simply grateful for it. His position was a false one: to be begging with awkward show of thankfulness for a benefaction which in his heart he detested57. He knew himself for an undesigning hypocrite, and felt that he might as well have been a rascal58 complete. Gratitude! No man capable of it in fuller measure than he; but not to such persons as Lady Whitelaw. Before old Sir Job he could more easily have bowed himself. But this woman represented the superiority of mere brute59 wealth, against which his soul rebelled.
There was another disagreeable silence, during which Lady Whitelaw commented on her protege very much as Mrs. Warricombe had done.
‘Will you allow me to ask,’ she said at length, with cold politeness, ‘whether you have acquaintances in London?’
‘Yes. I know some one who studied at the School of Mines.’
‘Well, Mr. Peak, I see that your mind is made up. And no doubt you are the best judge of your private circumstances. I must ask you to let me think over the matter for a day or two. I will write to you.’
‘And I to you,’ thought Godwin; a resolve which enabled him to rise with something like a conventional smile, and thus put an end to a very brief and quite unsatisfactory interview.
He strode homewards in a state of feverish excitement. His own behaviour had been wretchedly clownish; he was only too well aware of that. He ought to have put aside all the grosser aspects of his case, and have exhibited the purely60 intellectual motives61 which made such a change as he purposed seem desirable to him. That would have been to act with dignity; that would have been the very best form of gratitude for the kindness he had received. But no, his accursed lack of self-possession had ruined all. ‘The woman was now offended in good earnest; he saw it in her face at parting. The fault was admittedly on his side, but what right had she to talk about ‘something advantageous’? She would write to him, to be sure; that meant, she could not yet make up her mind whether to grant the money or not. Pluto62 take the money! Long before sitting down to her glossy note-paper she should have received a letter from him.
Composed already. Now he was up in the garret bedroom, scribbling63 as fast as pen could fly over paper. He had been guilty of a mistake—so ran the epistle; having decided64 to leave Whitelaw, he ought never to have requested a continuance of the pension. He begged Lady Whitelaw would forgive this thoughtless impropriety; she had made him understand the full extent of his error. Of course he could not accept anything more from her. As for the past, it would be idle for him to attempt an expression of his indebtedness. But for Sir Job’s munificence65, he must now have been struggling to complete a radically66 imperfect education,—‘instead of going into the world to make a place for myself among the scientific investigators67 of our time’.
One’s claims to respectful treatment must be put forward unmistakably, especially in dealing68 with such people as Lady Whitelaw. Now, perhaps, she would understand what his reserve concealed69. The satisfaction of declining further assistance was enormous. He read his letter several times aloud. This was the great style; he could imagine this incident forming a landmark70 in the biography of a notable man. Now for a fair copy, and in a hand, mind you, that gave no hint of his care for caligraphic seemliness: bold, forthright71.
The letter in his pocket, he went downstairs. His mother had been out all the morning; now she was just returned, and Godwin saw trouble on her forehead. Anxiously she inquired concerning the result of his interview.
Now that it was necessary to make an intelligible72 report of what had happened, Godwin found his tongue falter73. How could he convey to another the intangible sense of wounded dignity which had impelled74 his pen? Instead of producing the letter with a flourish, he answered with affected75 carelessness:
‘I am to hear in a day or two.’
‘Did she seem to take it—in the right way?’
‘She evidently thinks of me too much as a schoolboy.’
And he began to pace the room. Mrs. Peak sat still, with an air of anxious brooding.
‘You don’t think she will refuse, Godwin?’ fell from her presently.
His hand closed on the letter.
‘Why? Well, in that case I should go to London and find some occupation as soon as possible. You could still let me have the same money as before?’
‘Yes.’
It was said absently, and did not satisfy Godwin. In the course of the conversation it appeared that Mrs. Peak had that morning been to see the legal friend who looked after her small concerns, and though she would not admit that she had any special cause for uneasiness, her son recalled similar occasions when an interview with Mr. Dutch had been followed by several days’ gloom. The truth was that Mrs Peak could not live strictly76 within the income at her disposal, and on being from time to time reminded of this, she was oppressed by passing worry. If Godwin and Oliver ‘got on well,’ things would come all right in the end, but in the meantime she could not face additional expenditure77. Godwin did not like to be reminded of the razor’s edge on which the affairs of the household were balanced. At present it brought about a very sudden change in his state of mind; he went upstairs again, and sat with the letter before him, sunk in misery78. The reaction had given him a headache.
A fortnight, and no word from Lady Whitelaw. But neither was Godwin’s letter posted.
Was he at liberty to indulge the self-respect which urged him to write? In a moment of heated confidence it was all very well to talk of ‘getting some occupation’ in London, but he knew that this might prove no easy matter. A year’s work at the School of Mines would decidedly facilitate his endeavour; and, seeing that his mother’s peace depended upon his being speedily self-supporting, was it not a form of selfishness to reject help from one who could well afford it? From a distance, he regarded Lady Whitelaw with more charity; a longer talk with her might have led to better mutual79 apprehension80. And, after all, it was not she but her husband to whom he would stand indebted. Sir Job was a very kind-hearted old fellow; he had meant thoroughly81 well. Why, clearly, the bestower of this third year’s allowance would not be Lady Whitelaw at all.
If it were granted. Godwin began to suffer a troublesome misgiving82; perchance he had gone too far, and was now, in fact, abandoned to his own resources.
Three weeks. Then came the expected letter, and, as he opened it, his heart leaped at the sight of a cheque—talisman of unrivalled power over the emotions of the moneyless! Lady Whitelaw wrote briefly83 and formally. Having considered Godwin’s request, she had no reason for doubting that he would make a good use of the proposed year at the School of Mines, and accordingly she sent him the sum which Sir Job had intended for his final session at Whitelaw College. She wished him all benefit from his studies, and prosperity henceforth.
Rejoicing, though shame-smitten, Godwin exhibited this remittance84 to his mother, from whom it drew a deep sigh of relief. And forthwith he sat down to write quite a different letter from that which still lay in his private drawer,—a letter which he strove to make the justification85 (to his own mind) of this descent to humility86. At considerable length he dwelt upon the change of tastes of which he had been conscious lately, and did not fail to make obvious the superiority of his ambition to all thought of material advancement87. He offered his thanks, and promised to give an account of himself (as in duty bound) at the close of the twelvemonths’ study he was about to undertake: a letter in which the discerning would have read much sincerity88, and some pathos89; after all, not a letter to be ashamed of. Lady Whitelaw would not understand it; but then, how many people are capable of even faintly apprehending90 the phenomena91 of mental growth?
And now to plan seriously his mode of life in London. With Christian Moxey he was so slightly acquainted that it was impossible to seek his advice with regard to lodgings92; besides, the lodgings must be of a character far too modest to come within Mr. Moxey’s sphere of observation. Other acquaintance he had none in the capital, so it was clear that he must enter boldly upon the unknown world, and find a home for himself as best he might. Mrs. Peak could offer suggestions as to likely localities, and this was of course useful help. In the meantime (for it would be waste of money to go up till near the end of the holiday season) he made schemes of study and completed his information concerning the School of Mines. So far from lamenting93 the interruption of his promising94 career at Whitelaw, he persuaded himself that Uncle Andrew had in truth done him a very good turn: now at length he was fixed95 in the right course. The only thing he regretted was losing sight of his two or three student-friends, especially Earwaker and Buckland Warricombe. They, to be sure, would soon guess the reason of his disappearance. Would they join in the laughter certain to be excited by ‘Peak’s Dining and Refreshment96 Rooms’? Probably; how could they help it? Earwaker might be superior to a prejudice of that kind; his own connections were of humble97 standing98. But Warricombe must wince99 and shrug100 his shoulders. Perhaps even some of the Professors would have their attention directed to the ludicrous mishap101: they were gentlemen, and, even though they smiled, must certainly sympathise with him.
Wait a little. Whitelaw College should yet remember the student who seemed to have vanished amid the world’s obscure tumult102.
Resolved that he was about to turn his back on Twybridge for ever, he found the conditions of life there quite supportable through this last month or two; the family reaped benefit from his improved temper. Even to Mr. Cusse he behaved with modified contempt. Oliver was judicious103 enough to suppress his nigger minstrelsy and kindred demonstrations104 of spirit in his brother’s presence, and Charlotte, though steadily105 resentful, did her best to avoid conflict.
Through the Misses Lumb, Godwin’s change of purpose had of course become known to his aunt, who for a time took it ill that these debates had been concealed from her. When Mrs. Peak, in confidence, apprised106 her of the disturbing cause, Miss Cadman’s indignation knew no bounds. What! That low fellow had been allowed to interfere107 with the progress of Godwin Peak’s education, and not a protest uttered? He should have been forbidden to establish himself in Kingsmill! Why had they not taken her into council? She would have faced the man, and have overawed him; he should have been made to understand the gross selfishness of his behaviour. Never had she heard of such a monstrous108 case—
Godwin spent much time in quiet examination of the cabinets bequeathed to him by Mr. Gunnery. He used a pound or two of Lady Whitelaw’s money for the purchase of scientific books, and set to work upon them with freshened zeal109. The early morning and late evening were given to country walks, from which he always returned with brain excited by the forecast of great achievements.
When the time of his departure approached, he decided to pay a farewell visit to Mr. Moxey. He chose an hour when the family would probably be taking their ease in the garden. Three of the ladies were, in fact, amusing themselves with croquet, while their father, pipe in mouth, bent110 over a bed of calceolarias.
‘What’s this that I hear?’ exclaimed Mr. Moxey, as he shook hands. ‘You are not going back to Whitelaw?’
The story had of course spread among all Twybridge people who knew anything of the Peaks, and it was generally felt that some mystery was involved. Godwin had reasonably feared that his obligations to Sir Job Whitelaw must become known; impossible for such a matter to be kept secret; all who took any interest in the young man had long been privately111 acquainted with the facts of his position. Now that discussion was rife112, it would have been prudent113 in the Misses Lumb to divulge114 as much of the truth at they knew, but (in accordance with the law of natural perversity) they maintained a provoking silence. Hence whispers and suspicious questions, all wide of the mark. No one had as yet heard of Andrew Peak, and it seemed but too likely that Lady Whitelaw, for some good reason, had declined to discharge the expenses of Godwin’s last year at the College.
Mr. Moxey himself felt that an explanation was desirable, but he listened with his usual friendly air to Godwin’s account of the matter—which of course included no mention of Lady Whitelaw.
‘Have you friends in London?’ he inquired—like everyone else.
‘No. Except that your nephew was so kind as to ask me to call on him, if ever I happened to be there.’
There passed over Mr. Moxey’s countenance115 a curious shadow. Godwin noticed it, and at once concluded that the manufacturer condemned116 Christian for undue117 advances to one below his own station. The result of this surmise118 was of course a sudden coldness on Godwin’s part, increased when he found that Mr. Moxey turned to another subject, without a word about his nephew.
In less than ten minutes he offered to take leave, and no one urged him to stay longer. Mr. Moxey made sober expression of good wishes, and hoped he might hear that the removal to London had proved ‘advantageous’. This word sufficed to convert Godwin’s irritation119 into wrath; he said an abrupt120 ‘good-evening’, raised his hat as awkwardly as usual, and stalked away.
A few paces from the garden gate, he encountered Miss Janet Moxey, just coming home from walk or visit. Another grab at his hat, and he would have passed without a word, but the girl stopped him.
‘We hear that you are going to London, Mr. Peak.’
‘Yes, I am, Miss Moxey.’
She examined his face, and seemed to hesitate.
‘Perhaps you have just been to say good-bye to father?’
‘Yes.’
Janet paused, looked away, again turned her eyes upon him.
‘You have friends there, I hope?’ she ventured.
‘No, I have none.’
‘My cousin—Christian, you remember—would, I am sure, be very glad to help you in any way.’ Her voice sank, and at the same time she coloured just perceptibly under Godwin’s gaze.
‘So he assured me,’ was the reply. ‘But I must learn to be independent, Miss Moxey.’
Whereupon Godwin performed a salute121, and marched forward.
His boxes were packed, and now he had but one more evening in the old home. It was made less pleasant than it might have been by a piece of information upon which he by chance alighted in a newspaper. The result of the Honours examination for the First B.A. at London had just been made known, and in two subjects a high place was assigned to Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers—not the first place happily, but it was disagreeable enough.
Pooh! what matter? What are academic successes? Ten years hence, which name would have wider recognition—Bruno Chilvers or Godwin Peak? He laughed with scornful superiority.
No one was to accompany him to the station; on that he insisted. He had decided for as early a train as possible, that the dolours of leave-taking might be abridged122. At a quarter to eight the cab drove up to the door. Out with the trunks labelled ‘London’!
‘Take care of the cabinets!’ were his last words to his mother. ‘I may want to have them sent before long.’
He implied, what he had not ventured to say plainly, that he was leaving Twybridge for good, and henceforth would not think of it as home. In these moments of parting, he resented the natural feeling which brought moisture to his eyes. He hardened himself against the ties of blood, and kept repeating to himself a phrase in which of late he had summed his miseries123: ‘I was born in exile—born in exile.’ Now at length had he set forth51 on a voyage of discovery, to end perchance in some unknown land among his spiritual kith and kin3.
收听单词发音 |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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disinterestedness
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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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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subsidy
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| n.补助金，津贴 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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middle-aged
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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32
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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34
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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35
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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36
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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40
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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41
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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42
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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43
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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44
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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45
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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46
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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47
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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48
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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49
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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50
complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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54
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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55
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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59
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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61
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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62
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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63
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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64
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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investigators
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| n.调查者，审查者( investigator的名词复数 ) | |
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68
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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forthright
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| adj.直率的，直截了当的 [同]frank | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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82
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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83
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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84
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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85
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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86
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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87
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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88
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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89
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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90
apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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92
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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93
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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95
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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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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97
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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98
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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99
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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100
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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101
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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102
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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103
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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104
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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105
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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106
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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107
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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108
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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109
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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110
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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111
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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112
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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113
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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114
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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115
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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116
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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117
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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118
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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119
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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120
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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121
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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122
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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123
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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