Having led the way to the drawing-room, Fanny retired1 again for a few moments, to fetch the fern of which she had spoken, leaving Peak in conversation with little Miss Lilywhite. Bertha was a rather shy girl of fifteen, not easily induced, under circumstances such as these, to utter more than monosyllables, and Godwin, occupied with the unforeseen results of his call, talked about the weather. With half-conscious absurdity3 he had begun to sketch4 a theory of his own regarding rain-clouds and estuaries5 (Bertha listening with an air of the gravest attention) when Fanny reappeared, followed by Sidwell. Peak searched the latter’s face for indications of her mood, but could discover nothing save a spirit of gracious welcome. Such aspect was a matter of course, and he knew it. None the less, his nervousness and the state of mind engendered6 by a week’s miserable7 solitude8, tempted9 him to believe that Sidwell did not always wear that smile in greeting a casual caller. This was the first time that she had received him without the countenance10 of Mrs. Warricombe. Observing her perfect manner, as she sat down and began to talk, he asked himself what her age really was. The question had never engaged his thoughts. Eleven years ago, when he saw her at the house near Kingsmill and again at Whitelaw College, she looked a very young girl, but whether of thirteen or sixteen he could not at the time have determined11, and such a margin12 of possibility allowed her now to have reached—it might be-her twenty-seventh summer. But twenty-seven drew perilously13 near to thirty; no, no, Sidwell could not be more than twenty-five. Her eyes still had the dewy freshness of flowering maidenhood14; her cheek, her throat, were so exquisitely15 young——
In how divine a calm must this girl have lived to show, even at five-and-twenty, features as little marked by inward perturbation as those of an infant! Her position in the world considered, one could forgive her for having borne so lightly the inevitable16 sorrows of life, for having dismissed so readily the spiritual doubts which were the heritage of her time; but was she a total stranger to passion? Did not the fact of her still remaining unmarried make probable such a deficiency in her nature? Had she a place among the women whom coldness of temperament17 preserves in a bloom like that of youth, until fading hair and sinking cheek betray them——?
Whilst he thought thus, Godwin was in appearance busy with the fern Fanny had brought for his inspection18. He talked about it, but in snatches, with intervals19 of abstractedness.
Yet might he not be altogether wrong? Last year, when he observed Sidwell in the Cathedral and subsequently at home, his impression had been that her face was of rather pallid20 and dreamy cast; he recollected21 that distinctly. Had she changed, or did familiarity make him less sensible of her finer traits? Possibly she enjoyed better health nowadays, and, if so, it might result from influences other than physical. Her air of quiet happiness seemed to him especially noticeable this afternoon, and as he brooded there came upon him a dread22 which, under the circumstances, was quite irrational23, but for all that troubled his views. Perhaps Sidwell was betrothed24 to some one? He knew of but one likely person—Miss Moorhouse’s brother. About a month ago the Warricombes had been on a visit at Budleigh Salterton, and something might then have happened. Pangs25 of jealousy26 smote27 him, nor could he assuage28 them by reminding himself that he had no concern whatever in Sidwell’s future.
‘Will Mr. Warricombe be long away?’ he asked, coldly.
‘A day or two. I hope you didn’t wish particularly to see him today?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Do you know, Mr. Peak,’ put in Fanny, ‘that we are all going to London next month, to live there for half a year?’
Godwin exhibited surprise. He looked from the speaker to her sister, and Sidwell, as she smiled confirmation29, bent30 very slightly towards him.
‘We have made up our minds, after much uncertainty31,’ she said. ‘My brother Buckland seems to think that we are falling behind in civilisation32.’
‘So we are,’ affirmed Fanny, ‘as Mr. Peak would admit, if only he could be sincere.’
‘Am I never sincere then, Miss Fanny?’ Godwin asked.
‘I only meant to say that nobody can be when the rules of politeness interfere33. Don’t you think it’s a pity? We might tell one another the truth in a pleasant way.’
‘I agree with you. But then we must be civilised indeed. How do you think of London, Miss Warricombe? Which of its aspects most impresses you?’
Sidwell answered rather indefinitely, and ended by mentioning that in Villette, which she had just reread, Charlotte Bronte makes a contrast between the City and the West End, and greatly prefers the former.
‘Do you agree with her, Mr. Peak?’
‘No, I can’t. One understands the mood in which she wrote that; but a little more experience would have led her to see the contrast in a different light. That term, the West End, includes much that is despicable, but it means also the best results of civilisation. The City is hateful to me, and for a reason which I only understood after many an hour of depression in walking about its streets. It represents the ascendency of the average man.’
Sidwell waited for fuller explanation.
‘A liberal mind,’ Peak continued, ‘is revolted by the triumphal procession that roars perpetually through the City highways. With myriad34 voices the City bellows35 its brutal36 scorn of everything but material advantage. There every humanising influence is contemptuously disregarded. I know, of course, that the trader may have his quiet home, where art and science and humanity are the first considerations; but the mass of traders, corporate37 and victorious38, crush all such things beneath their heels. Take your stand (or try to do so) anywhere near the Exchange; the hustling39 and jolting40 to which you are exposed represents the very spirit of the life about you. Whatever is gentle and kindly41 and meditative42 must here go to the wall—trampled, spattered, ridiculed43. Here the average man has it all his own way—a gross utilitarian44 power.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Sidwell replied, thoughtfully. ‘And perhaps it also represents the triumphant45 forces of our time.’
He looked keenly at her, with a smile of delight.
‘That also! The power which centres in the world’s money-markets—plutocracy.’
In conversing46 with Sidwell, he had never before found an opportunity of uttering his vehement47 prejudices. The gentler side of his character had sometimes expressed itself, but those impulses which were vastly more significant lay hidden beneath the dissimulation48 he consistently practised. For the first time he was able to look into Sidwell’s face with honest directness, and what he saw there strengthened his determination to talk on with the same freedom.
‘You don’t believe, then,’ said Sidwell, ‘that democracy is the proper name for the state into which we are passing?’
‘Only if one can understand democracy as the opening of social privileges to free competition amongst men of trade. And social privilege is everything; home politics refer to nothing else.’
Fanny, true to the ingenuous49 principle of her years, put a direct question:
‘Do you approve of real democracy, Mr. Peak?’
He answered with another question:
‘Have you read the “Life of Phokion” in Plutarch?’
‘No, I’m sorry to say.’
‘There’s a story about him which I have enjoyed since I was your age. Phokion was once delivering a public speech, and at a certain point the majority of his hearers broke into applause; whereupon he turned to certain of his friends who stood near and asked, “What have I said amiss?”’
Fanny laughed.
‘Then you despise public opinion?’
‘With heart and soul!’
It was to Sidwell that he directed the reply. Though overcome by the joy of such an utterance50, he felt that, considering the opinions and position of Buckland Warricombe, he was perhaps guilty of ill manners. But Sidwell manifested no disapproval51.
‘Did you know that story?’ Fanny asked of her.
‘It’s quite new to me.’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll read the “Life of Phokion” as soon as possible. He will just Suit you, Sidwell.’
Peak heard this with a shock of surprise which thrilled in him deliciously. He had the strongest desire to look again at Sidwell but refrained. As no one spoke2, he turned to Bertha Lilywhite and put a commonplace question.
A servant entered with the tea-tray, and placed it on a small table near Fanny. Godwin looked at the younger girl; it seemed to him that there was an excess of colour in her cheeks. Had a glance from Sidwell rebuked52 her? With his usual rapidity of observation and inference he made much of this trifle.
Contrary to what he expected, Sidwell’s next remark was in a tone of cheerfulness, almost of gaiety.
‘One advantage of our stay in London will be that home will seem more delightful53 than ever when we return.’
‘I suppose you won’t be back till next summer?’
‘I am afraid not.’
‘Shall you be living here then?’ Fanny inquired.
‘It’s very doubtful.’
He wished to answer with a decided54 negative, but his tongue refused. Sidwell was regarding him with calm but earnest eyes, and he knew, without caring to reflect, that his latest projects were crumbling55.
‘Have you been to see our friends at Budleigh Salterton yet?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. I hope to in a few days.’
Pursuing the subject, he was able to examine her face as she spoke of Mr. Moorhouse. His conjecture56 was assuredly baseless.
Fanny and Bertha began to talk together of domestic affairs, and presently, when tea-cups were laid aside, the two girls went to another part of the room; then they withdrew altogether. Peak was monologising on English art as represented at the Academy, but finding himself alone with Sidwell (it had never before happened) he became silent. Ought he to take his leave? He must already have been sitting here more than half-an-hour. But the temptation of teae-a-teae was irresistible57.
‘You had a visit from Mr. Chilvers the other day?’ he remarked, abruptly58.
‘Yes; did he call to see you?’
Her tone gave evidence that she would not have introduced this topic.
‘No; I heard from Mrs. Lilywhite. He had been to the vicarage. Has he changed much since he was at Whitelaw?’
‘So many years must make a difference at that time of life,’ Sidwell answered, smiling.
‘But does he show the same peculiarities59 of manner?’
He tried to put the question without insistency60, in a tone quite compatible with friendliness61. Her answer, given with a look of amusement, satisfied him that there was no fear of her taking Mr Chilvers too seriously.
‘Yes. I think he speaks in much the same way.’
‘Have you read any of his publications?’
‘One or two. We have his lecture on Altruism62.’
‘I happen to know it. There are good things in it, I think. But I dislike his modern interpretation63 of old principles.’
‘You think it dangerous?’
He no longer regarded her frankly64, and in the consciousness of her look upon him he knit his brows.
‘I think it both dangerous and offensive. Not a few clergymen nowadays, who imagine themselves free from the letter and wholly devoted65 to spirit, are doing their best in the cause of materialism66. They surrender the very points at issue between religion and worldliness. They are so blinded by a vague humanitarian68 impulse as to make the New Testament69 an oracle70 of popular Radicalism71.’
Sidwell looked up.
‘I never quite understood, Mr. Peak, how you regard Radicalism. You think it opposed to all true progress?’
‘Utterly, as concerns any reasonable limit of time.’
‘Buckland, as you know, maintains that spiritual progress is only possible by this way.’
‘I can’t venture to contradict him,’ said Godwin; ‘for it may be that advance is destined72 only to come after long retrogression and anarchy73. Perhaps the way does lie through such miseries74. But we can’t foresee that with certainty, and those of us who hate the present tendency of things must needs assert their hatred75 as strongly as possible, seeing that we may have a more hopeful part to play than seems likely.’
‘I like that view,’ replied Sidwell, in an undertone.
‘My belief,’ pursued Godwin, with an earnestness very agreeable to himself, for he had reached the subject on which he could speak honestly, ‘is that an instructed man can only hold views such as your brother’s—hopeful views of the immediate76 future—if he has never been brought into close contact with the lower classes. Buckland doesn’t know the people for whom he pleads.’
‘You think them so degraded?’
‘It is impossible, without seeming inhumanly77 scornful, to give a just account of their ignorance and baseness. The two things, speaking generally, go together. Of the ignorant, there are very few indeed who can think purely78 or aspiringly. You, of course, object the teaching of Christianity; but the lowly and the humble80 of whom it speaks scarcely exist, scarcely can exist, in our day and country. A ludicrous pretence81 of education is banishing82 every form of native simplicity83. In the large towns, the populace sink deeper and deeper into a vicious vulgarity, and every rural district is being affected84 by the spread of contagion85. To flatter the proletariat is to fight against all the good that still characterises educated England—against reverence86 for the beautiful, against magnanimity, against enthusiasm of mind, heart, and soul.’
He quivered with vehemence87 of feeling, and the flush which rose to his hearer’s cheek, the swimming brightness of her eye, proved that a strong sympathy stirred within her.
‘I know nothing of the uneducated in towns,’ she said, ‘but the little I have seen of them in country places certainly supports your opinion. I could point to two or three families who have suffered distinct degradation88 owing to what most people call an improvement in their circumstances. Father often speaks of such instances, comparing the state of things now with what he can remember.’
‘My own experience,’ pursued Godwin, ‘has been among the lower classes in London. I don’t mean the very poorest, of whom one hears so much nowadays; I never went among them because I had no power of helping89 them, and the sight of their vileness90 would only have moved me to unjust hatred. But the people who earn enough for their needs, and whose spiritual guide is the Sunday newspaper—I know them, because for a long time I was obliged to lodge91 in their houses. Only a consuming fire could purify the places where they dwell. Don’t misunderstand me; I am not charging them with what are commonly held vices92 and crimes, but with the consistent love of everything that is ignoble93, with utter deadness to generous impulse, with the fatal habit of low mockery. And these are the people who really direct the democratic movement. They set the tone in politics; they are debasing art and literature; even the homes of wealthy people begin to show the effects of their influence. One hears men and women of gentle birth using phrases which originate with shopboys; one sees them reading print which is addressed to the coarsest million. They crowd to entertainments which are deliberately94 adapted to the lowest order of mind. When commercial interest is supreme95, how can the tastes of the majority fail to lead and control?’
Though he spoke from the depths of his conviction, and was so moved that his voice rose and fell in tones such as a drawing-room seldom hears, he yet kept anxious watch upon Sidwell’s countenance. That hint afforded him by Fanny was invaluable96; it had enabled him to appeal to Sidwell’s nature by the ardent97 expression of what was sincerest in his own. She too, he at length understood, had the aristocratic temperament. This explained her to him, supplied the key of doubts and difficulties which had troubled him in her presence. It justified98, moreover, the feelings with which she had inspired him—feelings which this hour of intimate converse99 had exalted100 to passion. His heart thrilled with hope. Where sympathies so profound existed, what did it matter that there was variance101 on a few points between his intellect and hers? He felt the power to win her, and to defy every passing humiliation102 that lay in his course.
Sidwell raised her eyes with a look which signified that she was shaping a question diffidently.
‘Have you always thought so hopelessly of our times?’
‘Oh, I had my stage of optimism,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Though I never put faith in the masses, I once believed that the conversion103 of the educated to a purely human religion would set things moving in the right way. It was ignorance of the world.’
He paused a moment, then added:
‘In youth one marvels104 that men remain at so low a stage of civilisation. Later in life, one is astonished that they have advanced so far.’
Sidwell met his look with appreciative105 intelligence and murmured:
‘In spite of myself, I believe that expresses a truth.’
Peak was about to reply, when Fanny and her friend reappeared. Bertha approached for the purpose of taking leave, and for a minute or two Sidwell talked with her. The young girls withdrew again together.
By the clock on the mantelpiece it was nearly six. Godwin did not resume his seat, though Sidwell had done so. He looked towards the window, and was all but lost in abstraction, when the soft voice again addressed him:
‘But you have not chosen your life’s work without some hope of doing good?’
‘Do you think,’ he asked, gently, ‘that I shall be out of place in the Christian79 Church?’
‘No—no, I certainly don’t think that. But will you tell me what you have set before yourself?’
He drew nearer and leaned upon the back of a chair.
‘I hope for what I shall perhaps never attain106. Whatever my first steps may be-I am not independent; I must take the work that offers—it is my ambition to become the teacher of some rural parish which is still unpolluted by the influences of which we have been speaking—or, at all events, is still capable of being rescued. For work in crowded centres, I am altogether unfit; my prejudices are too strong; I should do far more harm than good. But among a few simple people I think my efforts mightn’t be useless. I can’t pretend to care for anything but individuals. The few whom I know and love are of more importance to me than all the blind multitude rushing to destruction. I hate the word majority; it is the few, the very few, that have always kept alive whatever of effectual good we see in the human race. There are individuals who outweigh107, in every kind of value, generations of ordinary people. To some remote little community I hope to give the best energies of my life. My teaching will avoid doctrine108 and controversy109. I shall take the spirit of the Gospels, and labour to make it a practical guide. No doubt you find inconsistencies in me; but remember that I shall not declare myself to those I instruct as I have done to you. I have been laying stress on my antipathies110. In the future it will be a duty and a pleasure to forget these and foster my sympathies, which also are strong when opportunity is given them.’
Sidwell listened, her face bent downwards111 but not hidden from the speaker.
‘My nature is intolerant,’ he went on, ‘and I am easily roused to an antagonism112 which destroys my peace. It is only by living apart, amid friendly circumstances, that I can cultivate the qualities useful to myself and others. The sense that my life was being wasted determined me a year ago to escape the world’s uproar113 and prepare myself in quietness for this task. The resolve was taken here, in your house.’
‘Are you quite sure,’ asked Sidwell, ‘that such simple duties and satisfactions’—
The sentence remained incomplete, or rather was finished in the timid glance she gave him.
‘Such a life wouldn’t be possible to me,’ he replied, with unsteady voice, ‘if I were condemned114 to intellectual solitude. But I have dared to hope that I shall not always be alone.’
A parched115 throat would have stayed his utterance, even if words had offered themselves. But sudden confusion beset116 his mind—a sense of having been guilty of monstrous117 presumption—a panic which threw darkness about him and made him grasp the chair convulsively. When he recovered himself and looked at Sidwell there was a faint smile on her lips, inexpressibly gentle.
‘That’s the rough outline of my projects,’ he said, in his ordinary voice, moving a few steps away. ‘You see that I count much on fortune; at the best, it may be years before I can get my country living.’
With a laugh, he came towards her and offered his hand for good-bye. Sidwell rose.
‘You have interested me very much. Whatever assistance it may be in my father’s power to offer you, I am sure you may count upon.’
‘I am already much indebted to Mr. Warricombe’s kindness.’
They shook hands without further speech, and Peak went his way.
For an hour or two he was powerless to collect his thoughts. All he had said repeated itself again and again, mixed up with turbid118 comments, with deadly fears and frantic119 bursts of confidence, with tumult120 of passion and merciless logic121 of self-criticism. Did Sidwell understand that sentence: ‘I have dared to hope that I shall not always be alone’? Was it not possible that she might interpret it as referring to some unknown woman whom he loved? If not, if his voice and features had betrayed him, what could her behaviour mean, except distinct encouragement? ‘You have interested me very much.’ But could she have used such words if his meaning had been plain to her? Far more likely that her frank kindness came of misconception. She imagined him the lover of some girl of his own ‘station’—a toiling122 governess, or some such person; it could not enter into her mind that he ‘dared’ so recklessly as the truth implied.
But the glow of sympathy with which she heard his immeasurable scorn: there was the spirit that defies artificial distances. Why had he not been bolder? At this rate he must spend a lifetime in preparing for the decisive moment. When would another such occasion offer itself?
Women are won by audacity123; the poets have repeated it from age to age, and some truth there must be in the saying. Suspicion of self-interest could not but attach to him; that was inherent in the circumstances. He must rely upon the sincerity124 of his passion, which indeed was beginning to rack and rend67 him. A woman is sensitive to that, especially a woman of Sidwell’s refinement125. In matters of the intellect she may be misled, but she cannot mistake quivering ardour for design simulating love. If it were impossible to see her again in private before she left Exeter, then he must write to her. Half a year of complete uncertainty, and of counterfeiting126 face to face with Bruno Chilvers, would overtax his resolution.
The evening went by he knew not how. Long after nightfall he was returning from an aimless ramble127 by way of the Old Tiverton Road. At least he would pass the house, and soothe128 or inflame129 his emotions by resting for a moment thus near to Sidwell.
What? He had believed himself incapable130 of erotic madness? And he pressed his forehead against the stones of the wall to relieve his sick dizziness.
It was Sidwell or death. Into what a void of hideous131 futility132 would his life be cast, if this desire proved vain, and he were left to combat alone with the memory of his dishonour133! With Sidwell the reproach could be outlived. She would understand him, pardon him—and thereafter a glorified134 existence, rivalling that of whosoever has been most exultant135 among the sons of men!
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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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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estuaries
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| （江河入海的）河口，河口湾( estuary的名词复数 ) | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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tempted
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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irrational
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betrothed
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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jealousy
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smote
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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39
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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40
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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41
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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42
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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43
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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45
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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46
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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47
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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48
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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49
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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50
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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51
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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52
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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56
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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57
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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58
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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59
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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60
insistency
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| 强迫，坚决要求 | |
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61
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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62
altruism
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| n.利他主义，不自私 | |
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63
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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64
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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65
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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67
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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69
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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70
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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71
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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72
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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73
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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74
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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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76
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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77
inhumanly
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| adv.无人情味地，残忍地 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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80
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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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82
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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83
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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84
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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85
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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86
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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87
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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88
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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89
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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90
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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91
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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93
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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96
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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97
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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98
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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99
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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101
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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102
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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103
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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104
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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106
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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107
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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108
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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109
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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110
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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111
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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112
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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113
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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114
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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115
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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116
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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117
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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118
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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119
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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120
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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121
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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122
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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123
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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124
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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125
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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126
counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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127
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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128
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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129
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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130
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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131
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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132
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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133
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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134
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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