On the morning after her journey down from London, Mrs. Warricombe awoke with the conviction that she had caught a cold. Her health was in general excellent, and she had no disposition1 to nurse imaginary ailments2, but when some slight disorder3 broke the routine of her life she made the most of it, enjoying—much as children do—the importance with which for the time it invested her. At such seasons she was wont4 to regard herself with a mildly despondent5 compassion6, to feel that her family and her friends held her of slight account; she spoke7 in a tone of conscious resignation, often with a forgiving smile. When the girls redoubled their attentions, and soothed8 her with gentle words, she would close her eyes and sigh, seeming to remind them that they would know her value when she was no more.
‘You are hoarse9, mother,’ Sidwell said to her, when they met at breakfast.
‘Am I, dear? You know I felt rather afraid of the journey. I hope I shan’t be laid up.’
Sidwell advised her not to leave the house today. Having seen the invalid10 comfortably established in an upper room, she went into the city on business which could not be delayed. On her way occurred the meeting with Peak, but of this, on her return, she made no mention. Mother and daughter had luncheon11 upstairs, and Sidwell was full of affectionate solicitude12.
‘This afternoon you had better lie down for an hour or two,’ she said.
‘Do you think so? Just drop a line to father, and warn him that we may kept here for some time.’
‘Shall I send for Dr Endacott?’
‘Just as you like, dear.’
But Mrs. Warricombe had eaten such an excellent lunch, that Sidwell could not feel uneasy.
‘We’ll see how you are this evening. At all events, it will be safer for you not to go downstairs. If you lie quiet for an hour or two, I can look for those pamphlets that father wants.’
‘Just as you like, dear.’
By three o’clock the invalid was calmly slumbering13. Having entered the bedroom on tiptoe and heard regular breathing, Sidwell went down and for a few minutes lingered about the hall. A servant came to her for instructions on some domestic matter; when this was dismissed she mentioned that, if anyone called, she would be found in the library.
The pamphlets of which her father had spoken were soon discovered. She laid them aside, and seated herself by the fire, but without leaning back. At any sound within or outside the house she moved her head to listen. Her look was anxious, but the gleam of her eyes expressed pleasurable agitation14.
At half-past three she went into the drawing-room, where all the furniture was draped, and the floor bare. Standing15 where she could look from a distance through one of the windows, at which the blind had been raised, she waited for a quarter of an hour. Then the chill atmosphere drove her back to the fireside. In the study, evidences of temporary desertion were less oppressive, but the windows looked only upon a sequestered16 part of the garden. Sidwell desired to watch the approach from the high-road, and in a few minutes she was again in the drawing-room. But scarcely had she closed the door behind her when a ringing of the visitors’ bell sounded with unfamiliar17 distinctness. She started, hastened from the room, fled into the library, and had time to seat herself before she heard the footsteps of a servant moving in answer to the summons.
The door opened, and Peak was announced.
Sidwell had never known what it was to be thus overcome with emotion. Shame at her inability to command the calm features with which she would naturally receive a caller flushed her cheeks and neck; she stepped forward with downcast eyes, and only in offering her hand could at length look at him who stood before her. She saw at once that Peak was unlike himself; he too had unusual warmth in his countenance18, and his eyes seemed strangely large, luminous19. On his forehead were drops of moisture.
This sight restored her self-control, or such measure of it as permitted her to speak in the conventional way.
‘I am sorry that mother can’t leave her room. She had a slight cold this morning, but I didn’t think it would give her any trouble.’
Peak was delighted, and betrayed the feeling even whilst he constrained20 his face into a look of exaggerated anxiety.
‘It won’t be anything serious, I hope? The railway journey, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, the journey. She has a slight hoarseness21, but I think we shall prevent it from’——
Their eyes kept meeting, and with more steadfastness22. They were conscious of mutual23 scrutiny24, and, on both sides, of changes since they last met. When two people have devoted25 intense study to each other’s features, a three months’ absence not only revives the old impressions but subjects them to sudden modification26 which engrosses27 thought and feeling. Sidwell continued to utter commonplaces, simply as a means of disguising the thoughts that occupied her; she was saying to herself that Peak’s face had a purer outline than she had believed, and that his eyes had gained in expressiveness28. In the same way Godwin said and replied he knew not what, just to give himself time to observe and enjoy the something new—the increased animation29 or subtler facial movements—which struck him as often as he looked at his companion. Each wondered what the other had been doing, whether the time had seemed long or short.
‘I hope you have kept well?’ Sidwell asked.
Godwin hastened to respond with civil inquiries30.
‘I was very glad to hear from Mr. Warricombe a few days ago, he continued. Sidwell was not aware that her father had written, but her pleased smile seemed to signify the contrary.
‘She looks younger,’ Peak said in his mind. ‘Perhaps that London dress and the new way of arranging her hair have something to do with it. But no, she looks younger in herself. She must have been enjoying the pleasures of town.’
‘You have been constantly occupied, no doubt,’ he added aloud, feeling at the same time that this was a clumsy expression of what he meant. Though he had unbuttoned his overcoat, and seated himself as easily as he could, the absurd tall hat which he held embarrassed him; to deposit it on the floor demanded an effort of which he was yet incapable31.
‘I have seen many things and heard much talk,’ Sidwell was replying, in a gay tone. It irritated him; he would have preferred her to speak with more of the old pensiveness32. Yet perhaps she was glad simply because she found herself again talking with him?
‘And you?’ she went on. ‘It has not been all work, I hope?’
‘Oh no! I have had many pleasant intervals34.’
This was in imitation of her vivacity35. He felt the words and the manner to be ridiculous, but could not restrain himself. Every moment increased his uneasiness; the hat weighed in his hands like a lump of lead, and he was convinced that he had never looked so clownish. Did her smile signify criticism of his attitude?
With a decision which came he knew not how, he let his hat drop to the floor and pushed it aside. There, that was better; he felt less of a bumpkin.
Sidwell glanced at the glossy36 grotesque37, but instantly averted38 her eyes, and asked rather more gravely:
‘Have you been in Exeter all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t spend your Christmas alone, I hope?’
‘Oh, I had my books.’
Was there not a touch of natural pathos39 in this? He hoped so; then mocked at himself for calculating such effects.
‘I think you don’t care much for ordinary social pleasures, Mr Peak?’
He smiled bitterly.
‘I have never known much of them,—and you remember that I look forward to a life in which they will have little part. Such a life,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘seems to you unendurably dull? I noticed that, when I spoke of it before.’
‘You misunderstood me.’ She said it so undecidedly that he gazed at her with puzzled look. Her eyes fell.
‘But you like society?’
‘If you use the word in its narrowest meaning,’ she answered, ‘then I not only dislike society, but despise it.’
She had raised her eyebrows40, and was looking coldly at him. Did she mean to rebuke41 him for the tone he had adopted? Indeed, he seemed to himself presumptuous42. But if they were still on terms such as these, was it not better to know it, even at the cost of humiliation43? One moment he believed that he could read Sidwell’s thoughts, and that they were wholly favourable44 to him; at another he felt absolutely ignorant of all that was passing in her, and disposed to interpret her face as that of a conventional woman who had never regarded him as on her own social plane. These uncertainties45, these frequent reversions to a state of mind which at other times he seemed to have long outgrown46, were a singular feature of his relations with Sidwell. Could such experiences consist with genuine love? Never had he felt more willing to answer the question with a negative. He felt that he was come here to act a part, and that the end of the interview, be it what it might, would only affect him superficially.
‘No,’ he replied, with deliberation; ‘I never supposed that you had any interest in the most foolish class of wealthy people. I meant that you recognise your place in a certain social rank, and regard intercourse47 with your equals as an essential of happiness.’
‘If I understood why you ask’—she began abruptly48, but ceased as she met his glance. Again he thought she was asserting a distant dignity.
‘The question arose naturally out of a train of thought which always occupies me when I talk with you. I myself belong to no class whatever, and I can’t help wondering how—if the subject ever occurred to you—you would place me.’
He saw his way now, and, having said thus much, could talk on defiantly49. This hour must decide his fortune with Sidwell, yet his tongue utterly51 refused any of the modes of speech which the situation would have suggested to an ordinary mind. He could not ‘make love’. Instead of humility52, he was prompted to display a rough arrogance53; instead of tender phrases, he uttered what sounded like deliberate rudeness. His voice was less gently tuned54 than Sidwell had been wont to hear it. It all meant that he despaired of wooing successfully, and more than half wished to force some word from Sidwell which would spare him the necessity of a plain avowal55.
But before he had finished speaking, her face changed. A light of sudden understanding shone in her eyes; her lips softened56 to a smile of exquisite57 gentleness.
‘The subject never did occur to me,’ she answered. ‘How should it? A friend is a friend.’
It was not strictly58 true, but in the strength of her emotion she could forget all that contradicted it.
‘A friend—yes.’
Godwin began with the same note of bluntness. But of a sudden he felt the influence of Sidwell’s smile. His voice sank into a murmur59, his heart leapt, a thrill went through his veins60.
‘I wish to be something more than a friend.’
He felt that it was bald, inadequate61. Yet the words had come of their own accord, on an impulse of unimpaired sincerity62. Sidwell’s head was bent63.
‘That is why I can’t take simple things for granted,’ he continued, his gaze fixed64 upon her. ‘If I thought of nothing but friendship, it would seem rational enough that you should accept me for what I am—a man of education, talking your own language. Because I have dared to hope something more, I suffer from the thought that I was not born into your world, and that you must be always remembering this difference.’
‘Do you think me so far behind the age?’ asked Sidwell, trying to laugh.
‘Classes are getting mixed, confused. Yes, but we are so conscious of the process that we talk of class distinctions more than of anything else,—talk and think of them incessantly65. You have never heard me make a profession of Radicalism66; I am decidedly behind the age. Be what I may—and I have spiritual pride more than enough—the fact that I have relatives in the lower, even the lowest, social class must necessarily affect the whole course of my life. A certain kind of man declares himself proud of such an origin—and most often lies. Or one may be driven by it into rebellion against social privilege. To me, my origin is simply a grave misfortune, to be accepted and, if possible, overcome. Does that sound mean-spirited? I can’t help it; I want you to know me.’
‘I believe I know you very well,’ Sidwell replied.
The consciousness that she was deceived checked the words which were rising to his lips. Again he saw himself in a pitiful light, and this self-contempt reflected upon Sidwell. He could not doubt that she was yielding to him; her attitude and her voice declared it; but what was the value of love won by imposture67? Why had she not intelligence enough to see through his hypocrisy68, which at times was so thin a veil? How defective69 must her sympathy be!
‘Yet you have seen very little of me,’ he said, smiling.
There was a short silence; then he exclaimed in a voice of emotion:
‘How I wish we had known each other ever since that day when your brother brought me to your house near Kingsmill! If we had met and talked through all those years! But that was impossible for the very reason which makes me inarticulate now that I wish to say so much. When you first saw me I was a gawky schoolboy, learning to use my brains, and knowing already that life had nothing to offer me but a false position. Whether I remained with my kith and kin33, or turned my back upon them in the hope of finding my equals, I was condemned70 to a life of miserable71 incompleteness. I was born in exile. It took a long time before I had taught myself how to move and speak like one of the class to which I belonged by right of intellect. I was living alone in London, in mean lodging-houses. But the day came when I felt more confidence in myself. I had saved money, and foresaw that in a year or two I should be able to carry out a plan, make one serious attempt to win a position among educated people.’
He stopped. Had he intended a full confession72, it was thus he might have begun it. Sidwell was regarding him, but with a gentle look, utterly unsuspecting. She was unable to realise his character and his temptations.
‘And have you not succeeded?’ she asked, in a low voice.
‘Have I? Let me put it to the test. I will set aside every thought of presumption73; forget that I am a penniless student looking forward to a country curacy; and say what I wished to when we had our last conversation. Never mind how it sounds. I have dared to hope that some day I shall ask you to be my wife, and that you won’t refuse.’
The word ‘wife’ reverberated74 on his ears. A whirl of emotion broke the defiant50 calm he had supported for the last few minutes. The silence seemed to be endless; when he looked at Sidwell, her head was bent, the eyes concealed75 by their drooping76 lids. Her expression was very grave.
‘Such a piece of recklessness,’ he said at length, ‘deserves no answer.’
Sidwell raised her eyes and spoke gently, with voice a little shaken.
‘Why should you call it recklessness? I have never thought of the things that seem to trouble you so much. You were a friend of ours. Wasn’t that enough?’
It seemed to him an evasive reply. Doubtless it was much that she showed neither annoyance77 nor prudish78 reserve. He had won the right of addressing her on equal terms, but she was not inclined to anticipate that future day to which he pointed79.
‘You have never thought of such things, because you have never thought of me as I of you. Every day of your absence in London has caused me torments80 which were due most often to the difference between your social position and mine. You have been among people of leisure and refinement81 and culture. Each evening you have talked with men whom it cost no effort to make themselves liked and respected. I think of that with bitterness.’
‘But why? I have made many acquaintances; have met very interesting people. I am glad of it; it enables me to understand you better than I could before.’
‘You are glad on that account?’
‘Yes; indeed I am.’
‘Dare I think you mean more than a civil phrase?’
‘I mean quite simply all that my words imply. I have thought of you, though certainly without bitterness. No one’s conversation in London interested me so much as yours.’
Soothed with an exquisite joy, Godwin felt his eyes moisten. For a moment he was reconciled to all the world, and forgot the hostilities82 of a lifetime.
‘And will it still be so, now, when you go back?’ he asked, in a soft tone.
‘I am sure it will.’
‘Then it will be strange if I ever feel bitterly again.’
Sidwell smiled.
‘You could have said nothing that could please me more. Why should your life be troubled by these dark moods? I could understand it if you were still struggling with—with doubts, with all manner of uncertainties about your course’——
She hesitated, watching his face.
‘You think I have chosen well?’ said Godwin, meeting her look.
Sidwell’s eyes were at once averted.
‘I hope,’ she said, ‘we may talk of that again very soon. You have told me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of my own—difficulties. It won’t be long before we come back from London, and then’——
Once more their eyes met steadily83.
‘You think,’ Godwin asked, ‘that I am right in aiming at a life of retirement84?’
‘It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful anywhere; but most useful, surely, among people of active mind.’
‘Perhaps I shan’t be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking for a livelihood85 as well as for a sphere of usefulness.’
His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of learning whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry substantial enough to be considered. Though he could not feel that she had betrothed86 herself to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed87 lovers that perchance she would disclose whatever might help to put his mind at rest. The thought revived his painful self-consciousness; it was that of a schemer, yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it to any man?
‘Perhaps you won’t be able to choose—at first,’ Sidwell assented88, thereby89 seeming to answer his unspoken question. ‘But I am sure my father will use whatever influence he has.’
Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted90 to the boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he await? But the distance between them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses. He could not even call her ‘Sidwell’; it would have been easier a few minutes ago, before she had begun to speak with such calm friendliness91. Now, in spite of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity must needs call upon him the reproof92 of astonished eyes.
‘You return tomorrow?’ he asked, suddenly.
‘I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home again.’
‘A promise to be cheerful wouldn’t mean much. But it does mean much that I can think of what you have said today.’
Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise. It was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her, ‘I love you; give me your hands; give me your lips’? Such words seemed impossible. Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched the grace of her movements, the light and shadow upon her features. She had risen and come a step or two forward.
‘I think you look taller—in that dress.’
The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His need was to talk of common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel humanly.
Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.
‘Do I? Do you like the dress?’
‘Yes. It becomes you.’
‘Are you critical in such things?’
‘Not with understanding. But I should like to see you every day in a new and beautiful dress.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t afford it!’ was the laughing reply.
He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft fingers fired his blood.
‘Sidwell!’
It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood with his eyes on hers, her hand crushed in his.
‘Some day!’ she whispered.
If their lips met, the contact was so slight as to seem accidental; it was the mere93 timorous94 promise of a future kiss. And both were glad of the something that had imposed restraint.
When Sidwell went up to her mother’s sitting-room95, a servant had just brought tea.
‘I hear that Mr. Peak has been,’ said Mrs. Warricombe, who looked puffy and uncomfortable after her sleep. ‘Emma was going to take tea to the study, but I thought it unnecessary. How could he know that we were here?’
‘I met him this morning on my way into the town.’
‘Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.’
‘He asked if he might.’
Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined Sidwell.
‘Oh! And did he stay long?’
‘Not very long,’ replied Sidwell, who was in quiet good-humour.
‘I think it would have been better if you had told him by the servant that I was not well enough to see callers. You didn’t mention that he might be coming.’
Mrs. Warricombe’s mind worked slowly at all times, and at present she was suffering from a cold.
‘Why didn’t you speak of it, Sidwell?’
‘Really—I forgot,’ replied the daughter, lightly.
‘And what had he to say?’
‘Nothing new, mother. Is your head better, dear?’
There was no answer. Mrs. Warricombe had conceived a vague suspicion which was so alarming that she would not press inquiries alluding96 to it. The encouragement given by her husband to Godwin Peak in the latter’s social progress had always annoyed her, though she could not frame solid objections. To be sure, to say of a man that he is about to be ordained97 meets every possible question that society can put; but Mrs. Warricombe’s uneasiness was in part due to personal dislike. Oftener than not, she still thought of Peak as he appeared some eleven years ago—an evident plebeian98, without manners, without a redeeming99 grace. She knew the story of his relative who had opened a shop in Kingsmill; thinking of that now, she shuddered100.
Sidwell began to talk of indifferent matters, and Peak was not again mentioned.
Her throat being still troublesome, Mrs. Warricombe retired101 very soon after dinner. About nine o’clock Sidwell went to the library, and sat down at her father’s writing-table, purposing a letter to Sylvia. She penned a line or two, but soon lapsed102 into reverie, her head on her hands. Of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there stood Buckland, fresh from travel.
‘What has brought you?’ exclaimed his sister, starting up anxiously, for something in the young man’s look seemed ominous103.
‘Oh, nothing to trouble about. I had to come down—on business. Mother gone to bed?’
Sidwell explained.
‘All right; doesn’t matter. I suppose I can sleep here? Let them get me a mouthful of something; cold meat, anything will do.’
His needs were quickly supplied, and before long he was smoking by the library fire.
‘I was writing to Sylvia,’ said his sister, glancing at her fragmentary letter.
‘Oh!’
‘You know she is at Salisbury?’
‘Salisbury? No, I didn’t.’
His carelessness proved to Sidwell that she was wrong in conjecturing104 that his journey had something to do with Miss Moorhouse. Buckland was in no mood for conversation; he smoked for a quarter of an hour whilst Sidwell resumed her writing.
‘Of course you haven’t seen Peak?’ fell from him at length.
His sister looked at him before replying.
‘Yes. He called this afternoon.’
‘But who told him you were here?’
His brows were knitted, and he spoke very abruptly. Sidwell gave the same explanation as to her mother, and had further to reply that she alone received the caller.
‘I see,’ was Buckland’s comment.
Its tone troubled Sidwell.
‘Has your coming anything to do with Mr. Peak?’
‘Yes, it has. I want to see him the first thing tomorrow.
‘Can you tell me what about?’
He searched her face, frowning.
‘Not now. I’ll tell you in the morning.’
Sidwell saw herself doomed105 to a night of suspense106. She could not confess how nearly the mystery concerned her. Had Buckland made some discovery that irritated him against Peak? She knew he was disposed to catch at anything that seemed to tell against Godwin’s claims to respectful treatment, and it surely must be a grave affair to hurry him on so long a journey. Though she could imagine no ground of fear, the situation was seriously disturbing.
She tried to go on with her letter, but failed. As Buckland smoked in silence, she at length rose and said she would go upstairs.
‘All right! Shall see you at breakfast. Good-night!’
At nine next morning Mrs. Warricombe sent a message to Buckland that she wished to see him in her bedroom. He entered hurriedly.
‘Cold better, mother? I have only just time to drink a cup of coffee. I want to catch Peak before he can have left home.’
‘Mr. Peak? Why? I was going to speak about him.’
‘What were you going to say?’ Buckland asked, anxiously.
His mother began in a roundabout way which threatened long detention107. In a minute or two Buckland had gathered enough to interrupt her with the direct inquiry108:
‘You don’t mean that there’s anything between him and Sidwell?’
‘I do hope not; but I can’t imagine why she should—really, almost make a private appointment. I am very uneasy, Buckland. I have hardly slept. Sidwell is rather—you know’——
‘The deuce! I can’t stop now. Wait an hour or two, and I shall have seen the fellow. You needn’t alarm yourself. He will probably have disappeared in a few days.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. Warricombe asked, with nervous eagerness.
‘I’ll explain afterwards.’
He hurried away. Sidwell was at the breakfast-table. Her eyes seemed to declare that she had not slept well. With an insignificant109 word or two, the young man swallowed his cup of coffee, and had soon left the house.
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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wont
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despondent
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compassion
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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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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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luncheon
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solicitude
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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agitation
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standing
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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unfamiliar
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countenance
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luminous
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constrained
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hoarseness
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steadfastness
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mutual
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scrutiny
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devoted
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modification
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engrosses
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expressiveness
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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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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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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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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41
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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46
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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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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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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84
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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85
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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86
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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88
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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90
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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91
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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92
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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93
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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98
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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99
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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100
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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101
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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102
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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103
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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104
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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105
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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106
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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107
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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108
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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109
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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