And from the Moxeys Buckland had derived1 his information. What was it he said—something about ‘an odd look’ on Miss Moxey’s face when that friend of theirs talked of Peak? Might not such a look signify a conflict between the temptation to injure and the desire to screen?
Sidwell constructed a complete romance. Ignorance of the past of both persons concerned allowed her imagination free play. There was no limit to the possibilities of self-torment.
The desire to see Godwin took such hold upon her, that she had already begun to think over the wording of another note to be sent to him the first thing in the morning. His reply had been insufficient2: simple justice required that she should hear him in his own defence before parting with him for ever. If she kept silence, he would always remember her with bitterness, and this would make her life-long sorrow harder to bear. Sidwell was one of those few women whose love, never demonstrative, never exigent, only declares itself in all its profound significance when it is called upon to pardon. What was likely to be the issue of a meeting with Godwin she could not foresee. It seemed all but impossible for their intercourse3 to continue, and their coming face to face might result in nothing but distress4 to both, better avoided; yet judgment5 yielded to emotion. Yesterday—only yesterday—she had yielded herself to the joy of loving, and before her consciousness had had time to make itself familiar with its new realm, before her eyes had grown accustomed to the light suddenly shed about her, she was bidden to think of what had happened as only a dream. Her heart refused to make surrender of its hope. Though it could be held only by an encouragement of recognised illusion, she preferred to dream yet a little longer. Above all, she must taste the luxury of forgiving her lover, of making sure that her image would not dwell in his mind as that of a self-righteous woman who had turned coldly from his error, perhaps from his repentance8.
A little after midnight, she rose from bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and sat down by the still burning lamp to write what her passion dictated9:
‘Why should you distrust my ability, or my willingness to understand you? It would have been so much better if you had sent what you first wrote. These few lines do not even let me know whether you think yourself to blame. Why do you leave me to form a judgment of things as they appear on the surface? If you wish to explain, if you sincerely feel that I am in danger of wronging you by misconstruction, come to me as soon as you have received this note. If you will not come, then at least write to me—the letter you at first thought of sending. This afternoon (Friday) I return to London, but you know my address there. Don’t think because I wrote so briefly10 that I have judged you.
S. W.’
To have committed this to paper was a relief. In the morning she would read it over and consider again whether she wished to send it.
On the table lay The Critical. She opened it once more at the page that concerned her, and glanced over the first few lines. Then, having put the lamp nearer to the bed, she again lay down, not to sleep but to read.
This essay was not so repugnant to her mind or her feelings as when she first became acquainted with it. Its bitterness no longer seemed to be directed against herself. There was much in it with which she could have agreed at any time during the last six months, and many strokes of satire11, which till the other day would have offended her, she now felt to be legitimate12. As she read on, a kind of anger such as she had never experienced trembled along her nerves. Was it not flagrantly true that English society at large made profession of a faith which in no sense whatever it could be said sincerely to hold? Was there not every reason to believe that thousands of people keep up an ignoble13 formalism, because they feared the social results of declaring their severance14 from the religion of the churches? This was a monstrous15 evil; she had never till this moment understood the scope of its baneful16 effects. But for the prevalence of such a spirit of hypocrisy17, Godwin Peak would never have sinned against his honour. Why was it not declared in trumpet-tones of authority, from end to end of the Christian18 world, that Christianity, as it has been understood through the ages, can no longer be accepted? For that was the truth, the truth, the truth!
She lay back, quivering as if with terror. For an instant her soul had been filled with hatred19 of the religion for which she could once have died. It had stood before her as a power of darkness and ignorance, to be assailed20, crushed, driven from the memory of man.
Last night she had hardly slept, and now, though her body was numb21 with weariness, her mind kept up a feverish22 activity. She was bent23 on excusing Godwin, and the only way in which she could do so was by arraigning24 the world for its huge dishonesty. In a condition between slumber25 and waking, she seemed to plead for him before a circle of Pharisaic accusers. Streams of silent eloquence26 rushed through her brain, and the spirit which prompted her was closely akin7 to that of ‘The New Sophistry’. Now and then, for a few seconds, she was smitten27 with a consciousness of extraordinary change in her habits of thought. She looked about her with wide, fearful eyes, and endeavoured to see things in the familiar aspect. As if with physical constraint28 her angry imagination again overcame her, until at length from the penumbra29 of sleep she passed into its profoundest gloom.
To wake when dawn was pale at the window. A choking odour reminded her that she had not extinguished the lamp, which must have gone out for lack of oil. She opened the window, took a draught30 of water, and addressed herself to sleep again. But in recollecting31 what the new day meant for her, she had spoilt the chances of longer rest. Her head ached; all worldly thoughts were repulsive32, yet she could not dismiss them. She tried to repeat the prayers she had known since childhood, but they were meaningless, and a sense of shame attached to their utterance33.
When the first gleam of sun told her that it was past eight o clock, she made an effort and rose.
At breakfast Mrs. Warricombe talked of the departure for London. She mentioned an early train; by getting ready as soon as the meal was over, they could easily reach the station in time. Sidwell made no direct reply and seemed to assent34; but when they rose from the table, she said, nervously35:
‘I couldn’t speak before the servants. I wish to stay here till the afternoon.’
‘Why, Sidwell?’
‘I have asked Mr. Peak to come and see me this morning.’
Her mother knew that expostulation was useless, but could not refrain from a long harangue36 made up of warning and reproof37.
‘You have very little consideration for me,’ was her final remark. ‘Now we shan’t get home till after dark, and of course my throat will be bad again.’
Glad of the anti-climax, Sidwell replied that the day was much warmer, and that with care no harm need come of the journey.
‘It’s easy to say that, Sidwell. I never knew you to behave so selfishly, never!’
‘Don’t be angry with me, mother. You don’t know how grieved I am to distress you so. I can’t help it, dear; indeed, I can’t. Won’t you sacrifice a few hours to put my mind at rest?’
Mrs. Warricombe once more gave expression to her outraged38 feelings. Sidwell could only listen silently with bent head.
If Godwin were coming at all, he would be here by eleven o’clock. Sidwell had learnt that her letter was put into his hands. She asked him to come at once, and nothing but a resolve not to meet her could delay him more than an hour or two.
At half-past ten the bell sounded. She was sitting in the library with her back turned to the door. When a voice announced ‘Mr. Peak’, she did not at once rise, and with a feeling akin to terror she heard the footstep slowly approaching. It stopped at some distance from her; then, overcoming a weakness which threatened to clog39 her as in a nightmare, she stood up and looked round.
Peak wore neither overcoat nor gloves, but otherwise was dressed in the usual way. As Sidwell fixed40 her eyes upon him, he threw his hat into a chair and came a step or two nearer. Whether he had passed the night in sleep or vigil could not be determined41; but his look was one of shame, and he did not hold himself so upright as was his wont42.
‘Will you come and sit down?’ said Sidwell, pointing to a chair not far from that on which one of her hands rested.
He moved forward, and was about to pass near her, when Sidwell involuntarily held her hand to him. He took it and gazed into her face with a melancholy43 smile.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked, in a low voice.
He relinquished44 her fingers, which he had scarcely pressed, and stood with his arms behind his back.
‘Oh, it’s all quite true,’ was his reply, wearily spoken.
‘What is true?’
‘All that you have heard from your brother.’
‘All?—But how can you know what he has said?’
They looked at each other. Peak’s lips were set as if in resistance of emotion, and a frown wrinkled his brows. Sidwell’s gaze was one of fear and appeal.
‘He said, of course, that I had deceived you.’
‘But in what?—Was there no truth in anything you said to me?’
‘To you I have spoken far more truth than falsehood.’
A light shone in her eyes, and her lips quivered.
‘Then,’ she murmured, ‘Buckland was not right in everything.’
‘I understand. He wished you to believe that my love was as much a pretence46 as my religion?’
‘He said that.’
‘It was natural enough.—And you were disposed to believe it?’
‘I thought it impossible. But I should have thought the same of the other things.’
Peak nodded, and moved away. Watching him, Sidwell was beset47 with conflicting impulses. His assurance had allayed48 her worst misgiving49, and she approved the self-restraint with which he bore himself, but at the same time she longed for a passionate50 declaration. As a reasoning woman, she did her utmost to remember that Peak was on his defence before her, and that nothing could pass between them but grave discussion of the motives51 which had impelled52 him to dishonourable behaviour. As a woman in love, she would fain have obscured the moral issue by indulgence of her heart’s desire. She was glad that he held aloof54, but if he had taken her in his arms, she would have forgotten everything in the moment’s happiness.
‘Let us sit down, and tell me—tell me all you can.’
He delayed a moment, then seated himself opposite to her. She saw now that his movements were those of physical fatigue55; and the full light from the window, enabling her to read his face more distinctly, revealed the impress of suffering. Instead of calling upon him to atone56 in such measure as was possible for the wrong he had done her, she felt ready to reproach herself for speaking coldly when his need of solace57 was so great.
‘What can I tell you,’ he said, ‘that you don’t know, or that you can’t conjecture58?’
‘But you wrote that there was so much I could not be expected to understand. And I can’t, can’t understand you. It still seems impossible. Why did you hide the truth from me?’
‘Because if I had begun by telling it, I should never have won a kind look or a kind thought from you.’
Sidwell reflected.
‘But what did you care for me then—when it began?’
‘Not so much as I do now, but enough to overthrow59 all the results of my life up to that time. Before I met you in this house I had seen you twice, and had learned who you were. I was sitting in the Cathedral when you came there with your sister and Miss Moorhouse—do you remember? I heard Fanny call you by your name, and that brought to my mind a young girl whom I had known in a slight way years before. And the next day I again saw you there, at the service; I waited about the entrance only to see you. I cared enough for you then to conceive a design which for a long time seemed too hateful really to be carried out, but—at last it was, you see.
Sidwell breathed quickly. Nothing he could have urged for himself would have affected60 her more deeply than this. To date back and extend the period of his love for her was a flattery more subtle than Peak imagined.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that the day before yesterday?’ she asked, with tremulous bosom61.
‘I had no wish to remind myself of baseness in the midst of a pure joy.’
She was silent, then exclaimed, in accents of pain:
‘Why should you have thought it necessary to be other than yourself? Couldn’t you see, at first meeting with us, that we were not bigoted62 people? Didn’t you know that Buckland had accustomed us to understand how common it is nowadays for people to throw off the old religion? Would father have looked coldly on you if he had known that you followed where so many good and thoughtful men were leading?’
He regarded her anxiously.
‘I had heard from Buckland that your father was strongly prejudiced; that you also were quite out of sympathy with the new thought.’
‘He exaggerated—even then.’
‘Exaggerated? But on what plea could I have come to live in this neighbourhood? How could I have kept you in sight—tried to win your interest? I had no means, no position. The very thought of encouraging my love for you demanded some extraordinary step. What course was open to me?’
‘I don’t know. You might perhaps have discovered a way.’
‘But what was the use, when the mere64 fact of my heresy65 would have forbidden hope from the outset?’
‘Why should it have done so?’
‘Why? You know very well that you could never even have been friendly with the man who wrote that thing in the review.’
‘But here is the proof how much better it is to behave truthfully! In this last year I have changed so much that I find it difficult to understand the strength of my former prejudices. What is it to me now that you speak scornfully of attempts to reconcile things that can’t be reconciled? I understand the new thought, and how natural it is for you to accept it. If only I could have come to know you well, your opinions would not have stood between us.’
Peak made a slight gesture, and smiled incredulously.
‘You think so now.’
‘And I have such good reason for my thought,’ rejoined Sidwell, earnestly, ‘that when you said you loved me, my only regret in looking to the future was—that you had resolved to be a clergyman.’
He leaned back in the chair, and let a hand fall on his knee. The gesture seemed to signify a weary relinquishment66 of concern in what they were discussing.
‘How could I foresee that?’ he uttered, in a corresponding tone.
Sidwell was made uneasy by the course upon which she had entered. To what did her words tend? If only to a demonstration67 that fate had used him as the plaything of its irony—if, after all, she had nothing to say to him but ‘See how your own folly68 has ruined you’, then she had better have kept silence. She not only appeared to be offering him encouragement, but was in truth doing so. She wished him to understand that his way of thinking was no obstacle to her love, and with that purpose she was even guilty of a slight misrepresentation. For it was only since the shock of this disaster that she had clearly recognised the change in her own mind. True, the regret of which she spoke45 had for an instant visited her, but it represented a mundane69 solicitude70 rather than an intellectual scruple71. It had occurred to her how much brighter would be their prospect72 if Peak were but an active man of the world, with a career before him distinctly suited to his powers.
His contention73 was undeniably just. The influence to which she had from the first submitted was the same that her father felt so strongly. Godwin interested her as a self-reliant champion of the old faiths, and his personal characteristics would never have awakened74 such sympathy in her but for that initial recommendation. Natural prejudice would have prevented her from perceiving the points of kindred between his temperament75 and her own. His low origin, the ridiculous stories connected with his youth—why had she, in spite of likelihood, been able to disregard these things? Only because of what she then deemed his spiritual value.
But for the dishonourable part he had played, this bond of love would never have been formed between them. The thought was a new apology for his transgression76; she could not but defy her conscience, and look indulgently on the evil which had borne such fruit.
Godwin had begun to speak again.
‘This is quite in keeping with the tenor77 of my whole life. Whatever I undertake ends in frustration78 at a point where success seems to have just come within my reach. Great things and trifles—it’s all the same. My course at College was broken off at the moment when I might have assured my future. Later, I made many an effort to succeed in literature, and when at length something of mine was printed in a leading review, I could not even sign it, and had no profit from the attention it excited. Now—well, you see. Laughable, isn’t it?’
Sidwell scarcely withheld79 herself from bending forward and giving him her hand.
‘What shall you do?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I am not afraid. I have still enough money left to support me until I can find some occupation of the old kind. Fortunately, I am not one of those men whose brains have no marketable value.’
‘If you knew how it pains me to hear you!’
‘If I didn’t believe that, I couldn’t speak to you like this. I never thought you would let me see you again, and if you hadn’t asked me to come, I could never have brought myself to face you. But it would have been a miserable80 thing to go off without even knowing what you thought of me.’
‘Should you never have written to me?’
‘I think not. You find it hard to imagine that I have any pride, no doubt; but it is there, explain it how one may.’
‘It would have been wrong to leave me in such uncertainty81.’
‘Uncertainty?’
‘About you—about your future.’
‘Did you quite mean that? Hadn’t your brother made you doubt whether I loved you at all?’
‘Yes. But no, I didn’t doubt. Indeed, indeed, I didn’t doubt! But I felt such a need of hearing from your own lips that—Oh, I can’t explain myself!’
Godwin smiled sadly.
‘I think I understand. But there was every reason for my believing that your love could not bear such a test. You must regard me as quite a different man—one utterly82 unknown to you.’
He had resolved to speak not a word that could sound like an appeal to her emotions. When he entered the room he felt a sincere indifference83 as to what would result from the interview, for to his mind the story was ended, and he had only to retire with the dignity still possible to a dishonoured84 man. To touch the note of pathos85 would be unworthy; to exert what influence might be left to him, a wanton cruelty. But he had heard such unexpected things, that it was not easy for him to remember how complete had seemed the severance between him and Sidwell. The charm of her presence was reasserting itself, and when avowal86 of continued love appeared so unmistakably in her troubled countenance87, her broken words, he could not control the answering fervour. He spoke in a changed voice, and allowed his eyes to dwell longingly88 upon hers.
‘I felt so at first,’ she answered. ‘And it would be wrong to pretend that I can still regard you as I did before.’
It cost her a great effort to add these words. When they were spoken, she was at once glad and fearful.
‘I am not so foolish, as to think it possible,’ said Peak, half turning away.
‘But that is no reason,’ she pursued, ‘why we should become strangers. You are still so young a man; life must be so full of possibilities for you. This year has been wasted, but when you leave Exeter’——
An impatient movement of Godwin’s checked her.
‘You are going to encourage me to begin the struggle once more,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Where? How? It is so easy to talk of “possibilities”.’
‘You are not without friends—I mean friends whose sympathy is of real value to you.’
Saying this, she looked keenly at him.
‘Friends,’ he replied, ‘who perhaps at this moment are laughing over my disgrace.’
‘How do they know of—what has happened?’
‘How did your brother get his information? I didn’t care to ask him.—No, I don’t even wish you to say anything about that.’
‘But surely there is no reason for keeping it secret. Why may I not speak freely? Buckland told me that he had heard you spoken of at the house of people named Moxey.’
She endeavoured to understand the smile which rose to his lips. ‘Now it is clear to me,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose that was inevitable89, sooner or later.’
‘You knew that he had become acquainted with the Moxeys?’
Her tone was more reserved than hitherto.
‘Yes, I knew he had. He met Miss Moxey by chance at Budleigh Salterton, and I happened to be there—at the Moorhouses’—on the same day.’
Sidwell glanced at him inquiringly, and waited for something more.
‘I saw Miss Moxey in private,’ he added, speaking more quickly, ‘and asked her to keep my secret. I ought to be ashamed to tell you this, but it is better you should know how far my humiliation90 has gone.’
He saw that she was moved with strong feeling. The low tone in which she answered had peculiar91 significance.
‘Did you speak of me to Miss Moxey?’
‘I must forgive you for asking that,’ Peak replied, coldly. ‘It may well seem to you that I have neither honour nor delicacy92 left.’
There had come a flush on her cheeks. For some moments she was absorbed in thought.
‘It seems strange to you,’ he continued at length, ‘that I could ask Miss Moxey to share such a secret. But you must understand on what terms we were—she and I. We have known each other for several years. She has a man’s mind, and I have always thought of her in much the same way as of my male companions.—Your brother has told you about her, perhaps?’
‘I have met her in London.’
‘Then that will make my explanation easier,’ said Godwin, disregarding the anxious questions that at once suggested themselves to him. ‘Well, I misled her, or tried to do so. I allowed her to suppose that I was sincere in my new undertakings93, and that I didn’t wish—Oh!’ he exclaimed, suddenly breaking off, ‘Why need I go any further in confession94? It must be as miserable for you to hear as for me to speak. Let us make an end of it. I can’t understand how I have escaped detection so long.’
Remembering every detail of Buckland’s story, Sidwell felt that she had possibly been unjust in representing the Moxeys as her brother’s authority; in strictness, she ought to mention that a friend of theirs was the actual source of information. But she could not pursue the subject; like Godwin, she wished to put it out of her mind. What question could there be of honour or dishonour53 in the case of a person such as Miss Moxey, who had consented to be party to a shameful95 deceit? Strangely, it was a relief to her to have heard this. The moral repugnance96 which threatened to estrange97 her from Godwin, was now directed in another quarter; unduly98 restrained by love, it found scope under the guidance of jealousy99.
‘You have been trying to adapt yourself,’ she said, ‘to a world for which you are by nature unfitted. Your place is in the new order; by turning back to the old, you condemned100 yourself to a wasted life. Since we have been in London, I have come to understand better the great difference between modern intellectual life and that which we lead in these far-away corners. You must go out among your equals, go and take your part with men who are working for the future.’
Peak rose with a gesture of passionate impatience101.
‘What is it to me, new world or old? My world is where you are. I have no life of my own; I think only of you, live only by you.’
‘If I could help you!’ she replied, with emotion. ‘What can I do—but be your friend at a distance? Everything else has become impossible.’
‘Impossible for the present—for a long time to come. But is there no hope for me?’
She pressed her hands together, and stood before him unable to answer. ‘Remember,’ he continued, ‘that you are almost as much changed in my eyes as I in yours. I did not imagine that you had moved so far towards freedom of mind. If my love for you was profound and absorbing, think what it must now have become! Yours has suffered by my disgrace, but is there no hope of its reviving—if I live worthily—if I——?’
His voice failed.
‘I have said that we can’t be strangers,’ Sidwell murmured brokenly. ‘Wherever you go, I must hear of you.’
‘Everyone about you will detest102 my name. You will soon wish to forget my existence.’
‘If I know myself, never!—Oh, try to find your true work! You have such abilities, powers so much greater than those of ordinary men. You will always be the same to me, and if ever circumstances’——
‘You would have to give up so much, Sidwell. And there is little chance of my ever being well-to-do; poverty will always stand between us, if nothing else.’
‘It must be so long before we can think of that.’
‘But can I ever see you?—No, I won’t ask that. Who knows? I may have to go too far away. But I may write to you—after a time?’
‘I shall live in the hope of good news from you,’ she replied, trying to smile and to speak cheerfully. ‘This will always be my home. Nothing will be changed.’
‘Then you don’t think of me as irredeemably base?’
‘If I thought you base,’ Sidwell answered, in a low voice, ‘I should not now be speaking with you. It is because I feel and know that you have erred6 only—that is what makes it impossible for me to think of your fault as outweighing103 the good in your nature.’
‘The good? I wonder how you understand that. What is there good in me? You don’t mean mere intellect?’
He waited anxiously for what she would say. A necessity for speaking out his inmost thoughts had arisen with the emotion, scarcely to be called hope, excited by Sidwell’s magnanimity. Now, or never, he must stand before this woman as his very self, and be convinced that she loved him for his own sake.
‘No, I don’t mean intellect,’ she replied, with hesitation104.
‘What then? Tell me of one quality in me strong enough to justify105 a woman’s love.’
Sidwell dropped her eyes in confusion.
‘I can’t analyse your character—I only know’——
She became silent.
‘To myself,’ pursued Godwin, with the modulated106, moving voice which always expressed his genuine feeling, ‘I seem anything but lovable. I don’t underrate my powers—rather the opposite, no doubt; but what I always seem to lack is the gift of pleasing—moral grace. My strongest emotions seem to be absorbed in revolt; for once that I feel tenderly, I have a hundred fierce, resentful, tempestuous107 moods. To be suave108 and smiling in common intercourse costs me an effort. I have to act the part, and this habit makes me sceptical, whenever I am really prompted to gentleness. I criticise109 myself ceaselessly; expose without mercy all those characteristics which another man would keep out of sight. Yes, and for this very reason, just because I think myself unlovable—the gift of love means far more to me than to other men. If you could conceive the passion of gratitude110 which possessed111 me for hours after I left you the other day! You cannot!’
Sidwell regarded him fixedly112.
‘In comparison with this sincerity113, what becomes of the pretence you blame in me? If you knew how paltry114 it seems—that accusation115 of dishonesty! I believed the world round, and pretended to believe it flat: that’s what it amounts to! Are you, on such an account as that, to consider worthless the devotion which has grown in me month by month? You—I was persuaded—thought the world flat, and couldn’t think kindly116 of any man who held the other hypothesis. Very well; why not concede the trifle, and so at least give myself a chance? I did so—that was all.’
In vain her conscience strove to assert itself. She was under the spell of a nature infinitely117 stronger than hers; she saw and felt as Godwin did.
‘You think, Sidwell, that I stand in need of forgiveness. Then be great enough to forgive me, wholly—once and for all. Let your love be strengthened by the trial it has passed through. That will mean that my whole life is yours, directed by the ever-present thought of your beauty, face and soul. Then there will be good in me, thanks to you. I shall no longer live a life of hypocrisy, of suppressed rage and scorn. I know how much I am asking; perhaps it means that for my sake you give up everything else that is dear to you’——
The thought checked him. He looked at her despondently118.
‘You can trust me,’ Sidwell answered, moving nearer to him, tears on her cheeks. ‘I must hear from you, and I will write.’
‘I can ask no more than that.’
He took her hands, held them for a moment, and turned away. At the door he looked round. Sidwell’s head was bowed, and, on her raising it, he saw that she was blinded with tears.
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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repentance
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dictated
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briefly
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satire
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legitimate
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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baneful
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hypocrisy
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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arraigning
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| v.告发( arraign的现在分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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31
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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32
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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33
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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34
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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36
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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37
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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38
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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42
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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53
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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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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56
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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59
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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61
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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65
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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66
relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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71
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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72
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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73
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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74
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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75
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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76
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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78
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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79
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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80
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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81
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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82
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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83
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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84
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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85
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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86
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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89
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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90
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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91
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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92
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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93
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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94
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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95
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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96
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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97
estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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98
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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99
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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100
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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101
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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102
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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103
outweighing
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的现在分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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104
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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105
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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106
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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107
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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108
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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109
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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110
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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111
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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112
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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113
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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114
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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115
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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116
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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117
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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118
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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