Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.
SHAKESPEARE
THE Lord Keeper walked for nearly a quarter of a mile in profound silence. His daughter, naturally timid, and bred up in those ideas of filial awe1 and implicit2 obedience3 which were inculcated upon the youth of that period, did not venture to interrupt his meditations4.
“Why do you look so pale, Lucy?” said her father, turning suddenly round and breaking silence.
According to the ideas of the time, which did not permit a young woman to offer her sentiments on any subject of importance unless required to do so, Lucy was bound to appear ignorant of the meaning of all that had passed betwixt Alice and her father, and imputed6 the emotion he had observed to the fear of the wild cattle which grazed in that part of the extensive chase through which they were now walking.
Of these animals, the descendants of the savage7 herds9 which anciently roamed free in the Caledonian forests, it was formerly10 a point of state to preserve a few in the parks of the Scottish nobility. Specimens11 continued within the memory of man to be kept at least at three houses of distinction — Hamilton, namely, Drumlanrig, and Cumbernauld. They had degenerated13 from the ancient race in size and strength, if we are to judge from the accounts of old chronicles, and from the formidable remains14 frequently discovered in bogs15 and morasses16 when drained and laid open. The bull had lost the shaggy honours of his mane, and the race was small and light made, in colour a dingy17 white, or rather a pale yellow, with black horns and hoofs18. They retained, however, in some measure, the ferocity of their ancestry20, could not be domesticated21 on account of their antipathy22 to the human race, and were often dangerous if approached unguardedly, or wantonly disturbed. It was this last reason which has occasioned their being extirpated23 at the places we have mentioned, where probably they would otherwise have been retained as appropriate inhabitants of a Scottish woodland, and fit tenants24 for a baronial forest. A few, if I mistake not, are still preserved at Chillingham Castle, in Northumberland, the seat of the Earl of Tankerville.
It was to her finding herself in the vicinity of a group of three or four of these animals, that Lucy thought proper to impute5 those signs of fear which had arisen in her countenance26 for a different reason. For she had been familiarised with the appearance of the wil cattle during her walks in the chase; and it was not then, as it may be now, a necessary part of a young lady’s demeanour to indulge in causeless tremors27 of the nerves. On the present occasion, however, she speedily found cause for real terror.
Lucy had scarcely replied to her father in the words we have mentioned, and he was just about to rebuke28 her supposed timidity, when a bull, stimulated29 either by the scarlet30 colour of Miss Ashton’s mantle31, or by one of those fits of capricious ferocity to which their dispositions32 are liable, detached himself suddenly from the group which was feeding at the upper extremity33 of a grassy35 glade36, that seemed to lose itself among the crossing and entangled37 boughs38. The animal approached the intruders on his pasture ground, at first slowly, pawing the ground with his hoof19, bellowing39 from time to time, and tearing up the sand with his horns, as if to lash41 himself up to rage and violence.
The Lord Keeper, who observed the animal’s demeanour, was aware that he was about to become mischievous42, and, drawing his daughter’s arm under his own, began to walk fast along the avenue, in hopes to get out of his sight and his reach. This was the most injudicious course he could have adopted, for, encouraged by the appearance of flight, the bull began to pursue them at full speed. Assailed43 by a danger so imminent44, firmer courage than that of the Lord Keeper might have given way. But paternal45 tenderness, “love strong as death,” sustained him. He continued to support and drag onward46 his daughter, until her fears altogether depriving her of the power of flight, she sunk down by his side; and when he could no longer assist her to escape, he turned round and placed himself betwixt her and the raging animal, which, advancing in full career, its brutal47 fury enhanced by the rapidity of the pursuit, was now within a few yards of them. The Lord Keeper had no weapons; his age and gravity dispensed48 even with the usual appendage49 of a walking sword — could such appendage have availed him anything.
It seemed inevitable50 that the father or daughter, or both, should have fallen victims to the impending51 danger, when a shot from the neighbouring thicket52 arrested the progress of the animal. He was so truly struck between the junction53 of the spine54 with the skull55, that the wound, which in any other part of his body might scarce have impeded56 his career, proved instantly fatal. Stumbling forward with a hideous57 bellow40, the progressive force of his previous motion, rather than any operation of his limbs, carried him up to within three yards of the astonished Lord Keeper, where he rolled on the ground, his limbs darkened with the black death-sweat, and quivering with the last convulsions of muscular motion.
Lucy lay senseless on the ground, insensible of the wonderful deliverance which she had experience. Her father was almost equally stupified, so rapid and unexpected had been the transition from the horrid58 death which seemed inevitable to perfect security. He gazed on the animal, terrible even in death, with a species of mute and confused astonishment59, which did not permit him distinctly to understand what had taken place; and so inaccurate60 was his consciousness of what had passed, that he might have supposed the bull had been arrested in its career by a thunderbolt, had he not observed among the branches of the thicket the figure of a man, with a short gun or musquetoon in his hand.
This instantly recalled him to a sense of their situation: a glance at his daughter reminded him of the necessity of procuring61 her assistance. He called to the man, whom he concluded to be one of his foresters, to give immediate62 attention to Miss Ashton, while he himself hastened to call assistance. The huntsman approached them accordingly, and the Lord Keeper saw he was a stranger, but was too much agitated64 to make any farther remarks. In a few hurried words he directed the shooter, as stronger and more active than himself, to carry the young lady to a neighbouring fountain, while he went back to Alice’s hut to procure65 more aid.
The man to whose timely interference they had been so much indebted did not seem inclined to leave his good work half finished. He raised Lucy from the ground in his arms, and conveying her through the glades66 of the forest by paths with which he seemed well acquainted, stopped not until he laid her in safety by the side of a plentiful67 and pellucid68 fountain, which had been once covered in, screened and decorated with architectural ornaments69 of a Gothic character. But now the vault70 which had covered it being broken down and riven, and the Gothic font ruined and demolished71, the stream burst forth72 from the recess73 of the earth in open day, and winded its way among the broken sculpture and moss-grown stones which lay in confusion around its source.
Tradition, always busy, at least in Scotland, to grace with a legendary74 tale a spot in itself interesting, had ascribed a cause of peculiar75 veneration76 to this fountain. A beautiful young lady met one of the Lords of Ravenswood while hunting near this spot, and, like a second Egeria, had captivated the affections of the feudal77 Numa. They met frequently afterwards, and always at sunset, the charms of the nymph’s mind completing the conquest which her beauty had begun, and the mystery of the intrigue78 adding zest79 to both. She always appeared and disappeared close by the fountain, with which, therefore, her lover judged she had some inexplicable80 connexion. She placed certain restrictions81 on their intercourse82, which also savoured of mystery. They met only once a week — Friday was the appointed day — and she explained to the Lord of Ravenswood that they were under the necessity of separating so soon as the bell of a chapel83, belonging to a hermitage in the adjoining wood, now long ruinous, should toll85 the hour of vespers. In the course of his confession86, the Baron25 of Ravenswood entrusted87 the hermit84 with the secret of this singular amour, and Father Zachary drew the necessary and obvious consequence that his patron was enveloped88 in the toils89 of Satan, and in danger of destruction, both to body and soul. He urged these perils90 to the Baron with all the force of monkish91 rhetoric92, and described, in the most frightful93 colours, the real character and person of the apparently94 lovely Naiad, whom he hesitated not to denounce as a limb of the kingdom of darkness. The lover listened with obstinate95 incredulity; and it was not until worn out by the obstinacy96 of the anchoret that he consented to put the state and condition of his mistress to a certain trial, and for that purpose acquiesced97 in Zachary’s proposal that on their next interview the vespers bell should be rung half an hour later than usual. The hermit maintained and bucklered his opinion, by quotations98 from Malleus Malificarum, Sprengerus, Remigius, and other learned demonologists, that the Evil One, thus seduced99 to remain behind the appointed hour, would assume her true shape, and, having appeared to her terrified lover as a fiend of hell, would vanish from him in a flash of sulphurous lightning. Raymond of Ravenswood acquiesced in the experiment, not incurious concerning the issue, though confident it would disappoint the expectations of the hermit.
At the appointed hour the lovers met, and their interview was protracted101 beyond that at which they usually parted, by the delay of the priest to ring his usual curfew. No change took place upon the nymph’s outward form; but as soon as the lengthening102 shadows made her aware that the usual hour of the vespers chime was passed, she tore herself from her lover’s arms with a shriek103 of despair, bid him adieu for ever, and, plunging104 into the fountain, disappeared from his eyes. The bubbles occasioned by her descent were crimsoned105 with blood as they arose, leading the distracted Baron to infer that his ill-judged curiosity had occasioned the death of this interesting and mysterious being. The remorse106 which he felt, as well as the recollection of her charms, proved the penance108 of his future life, which he lost in the battle of Flodden not many months after. But, in memory of his Naiad, he had previously109 ornamented110 the fountain in which she appeared to reside, and secured its waters from profanation111 or pollution by the small vaulted112 building of which the fragments still remained scattered113 around it. From this period the house of Ravenswood was supposed to have dated its decay.
Such was the generally-received legend, which some, who would seem wiser than the vulgar, explained as obscurely intimating the fate of a beautiful maid of plebeian114 rank, the mistress of this Raymond, whom he slew115 in a fit of jealousy116, and whose blood was mingled117 with the waters of the locked fountain, as it was commonly called. Others imagined that the tale had a more remote origin in the ancient heathen mythology118. All, however, agreed that the spot was fatal to the Ravenswood family; and that to drink of the waters of the well, or even approach its brink119, was as ominous120 to a descendant of that house as for a Grahame to wear green, a Bruce to kill a spider, or a St. Clair to cross the Ord on a Monday.
It was on this ominous spot that Lucy Ashton first drew breath after her long and almost deadly swoon. Beautiful and pale as the fabulous121 Naiad in the last agony of separation from her lover, she was seated so as to rest with her back against a part of the ruined wall, while her mantle, dripping with the water which her protector had used profusely122 to recall her senses, clung to her slender and beautifully proportioned form.
The first moment of recollection brought to her mind the danger which had overpowered her senses; the next called to remembrance that of her father. She looked around; he was nowhere to be seen. “My father, my father!” was all that she could ejaculate.
“Sir William is safe,” answered the voice of a stranger —“perfectly123 safe, adn will be with you instantly.”
“Are you sure of that?” exclaimed Lucy. “The bull was close by us. Do not stop me: I must go to seek my father!”
And she rose with that purpose; but her strength was so much exhausted124 that, far from possessing the power to execute her purpose, she must have fallen against the stone on which she had leant, probably not without sustaining serious injury.
The stranger was so near to her that, without actually suffering her to fall, he could not avoid catching125 her in his arms, which, however, he did with a momentary126 reluctance127, very unusual when youth interposes to prevent beauty from danger. It seemed as if her weight, slight as it was, proved too heavy for her young and athletic128 assistant, for, without feeling the temptation of detaining her in his arms even for a single instant, he again placed her on the stone from which she had risen, and retreating a few steps, repeated hastily “Sir William Ashton is perfectly safe and will be here instantly. Do not make yourself anxious on his account: Fate has singularly preserved him. You, madam, are exhausted, and must not think of rising until you have some assistance more suitable than mine.”
Lucy, whose senses were by this time more effectually collected, was naturally led to look at the stranger with attention. There was nothing in his appearance which should have rendered him unwilling129 to offer his arm to a young lady who required support, or which could have induced her to refuse his assistance; and she could not help thinking, even in that moment, that he seemed cold and reluctant to offer it. A shooting-dress of dark cloth intimated the rank of the wearer, though concealed130 in part by a large and loose cloak of a dark brown colour. A montero cap and a black feather drooped131 over the wearer’s brow, and partly concealed his features, which, so far as seen, were dark, regular, adn full of majestic132, though somewhat sullen133, expression. Some secret sorrow, or the brooding spirit of some moody134 passion, had quenched135 the light and ingenuous136 vivacity137 of youth in a countenance singularly fitted to display both, and it was not easy to gaze on the stranger without a secret impression either of pity or awe, or at least of doubt and curiosity allied138 to both.
The impression which we have necessarily been long in describing, Lucy felt in the glance of a moment, and had no sooner encountered the keen black eyes of the stranger than her own were bent139 on the ground with a mixture of bashful embarrassment140 and fear. Yet there was a necessity to speak, or at last she thought so, and in a fluttered accent she began to mention her wonderful escape, in which she was sure that the stranger must, under Heaven, have been her father’s protector and her own.
He seemed to shrink from her expressions of gratitude141, while he replied abruptly142, “I leave you, madam,” the deep melody of his voice rendered powerful, but not harsh, by something like a severity of tone —“I leave you to the protection of those to whom it is possible you may have this day been a guardian143 angel.”
Lucy was surprised at the ambiguity144 of his language, and, with a feeling of artless and unaffected gratitude, began to deprecate the idea of having intended to give her deliverer any offence, as if such a thing had been possible. “I have been unfortunate,” she said, “in endeavouring to express my thanks — I am sure it must be so, though I cannot recollect107 what I said; but would you but stay till my father — till the Lord Keeper comes; would you only permit him to pay you his thanks, and to inquire your name?”
“My name is unnecessary,” answered the stranger; “your father — I would rather say Sir William Ashton — will learn it soon enough, for all the pleasure it is likely to afford him.”
“You mistake him,” said Lucy, earnestly; “he will be grateful for my sake and for his own. You do not know my father, or you are deceiving me with a story of his safety, when he has already fallen a victim to the fury of that animal.”
When she had caught this idea, she started from the ground and endeavoured to press towards the avenue in which the accident had taken place, while the stranger, though he seemed to hesitate between the desire to assist and the wish to leave her, was obliged, in common humanity, to oppose her both by entreaty145 and action.
“On the word of a gentleman, madam, I tell you the truth; your father is in perfect safety; you will expose yourself to injury if you venture back where the herd8 of wild cattle grazed. If you will go”— for, having once adopted the idea that her father was still in danger, she pressed forward in spite of him —“if you WILL go, accept my arm, though I am not perhaps the person who can with most propriety146 offer you support.”
But, without heeding147 this intimation, Lucy took him at his word. “Oh, if you be a man,” she said —“if you be a gentleman, assist me to find my father! You shall not leave me — you must go with me; he is dying perhaps while we are talking here!”
Then, without listening to excuse or apology, and holding fast by the stranger’s arm, though unconscious of anything save the support which it gave, and without which she could not have moved, mixed with a vague feeling of preventing his escape from her, she was urging, and almost dragging, him forward when Sir William Ashton came up, followed by the female attendant of blind Alice, and by two woodcutters, whom he had summoned from their occupation to his assistance. His joy at seeing his daughter safe overcame the surprise with which he would at another time have beheld148 her hanging as familiarly on the arm of a stranger as she might have done upon his own.
“Lucy, my dear Lucy, are you safe?— are you well?” were the only words that broke from him as he embraced her in ecstasy149.
“I am well, sir, thank God! and still more that I see you so; but this gentleman,” she said, quitting his arm and shrinking from him, “what must he think of me?” and her eloquent150 blood, flushing over neck and brow, spoke151 how much she was ashamed of the freedom with which she had craved152, and even compelled, his assistance.
“This gentleman,” said Sir William Ashton, “will, I trust, not regret the trouble we have given him, when I assure him of the gratitude of the Lord Keeper for the greatest service which one man ever rendered to another — for the life of my child — for my own life, which he has saved by his bravery and presence of mind. He will, I am sure, permit us to request ——” “Request nothing of ME, my lord,” said the stranger, in a stern and peremptory153 tone; “I am the Master of Ravenswood.”
There was a dead pause of surprise, not unmixed with less pleasant feelings. The Master wrapt himself in his cloak, made a haughty154 inclination155 toward Lucy, muttering a few words of courtesy, as indistinctly heard as they seemed to be reluctantly uttered, and, turning from them, was immediately lost in the thicket.
“The Master of Ravenswood!” said the Lord Keeper, when he had recovered his momentary astonishment. “Hasten after him — stop him — beg him to speak to me for a single moment.”
The two foresters accordingly set off in pursuit of the stranger. They speedily reappeared, and, in an embarrassed and awkward manner, said the gentleman would not return.
The Lord Keeper took one of the fellows aside, and questioned him more closely what the Master of Ravenswood had said.
“He just said he wadna come back,” said the man, with the caution of a prudent156 Scotchman, who cared not to be the bearer of an unpleasant errand.
“He said something more, sir,” said the Lord Keeper, “and I insist on knowing what it was.”
“Why, then, my lord,” said the man, looking down, “he said — But it wad be nae pleasure to your lordship to hear it, for I dare say the Master meant nae ill.”
“That’s none of your concern, sir; I desire to hear the very words.”
“Weel, then,” replied the man, “he said, ‘Tell Sir William Ashton that the next time he and I forgather, he will nto be half sae blythe of our meeting as of our parting.’”
“Very well, sir,” said the Lord Keeper, “I believe he alludes157 to a wager158 we have on our hawks159; it is a matter of no consequence.”
He turned to his daughter, who was by this time so much recovered as to be able to walk home. But the effect, which the various recollections connected with a scene so terrific made upon a mind which was susceptible160 in an extreme degree, was more permanent than the injury which her nerves had sustained. Visions of terror, both in sleep and in waking reveries, recalled to her the form of the furious animal, and the dreadful bellow with which he accompanied his career; and it was always the image of the Master of Ravenswood, with his native nobleness of countenance and form, that seemed to interpose betwixt her and assured death. It is, perhaps, at all times dangerous for a young person to suffer recollection to dwell repeatedly, and with too much complacency, on the same individual; but in Lucy’s situation it was almost unavoidable. She had never happened to see a young man of mien161 and features so romantic and so striking as young Ravenswood; but had she seen an hundred his equals or his superiors in those particulars, no one else would have been linked to her heart by the strong associations of remembered danger and escape, of gratitude, wonder, and curiosity. I say curiosity, for it is likely that the singularly restrained and unaccommodating manners of the Master of Ravenswood, so much at variance162 with the natural expression of his features and grace of his deportment, as they excited wonder by the contrast, had their effect in riveting163 her attention to the recollections. She knew little of Ravenswood, or the disputes which had existed betwixt her father and his, and perhaps could in her gentleness of mind hardly have comprehended the angry and bitter passions which they had engendered164. But she knew that he was come of noble stem; was poor, though descended165 from the noble and the wealthy; and she felt that she could sympathise with the feelings of a proud mind, which urged him to recoil166 from the proffered167 gratitude of the new proprietors168 of his father’s house and domains169. Would he have equally shunned170 their acknowledgments and avoided their intimacy171, had her father’s request been urged more mildly, less abruptly, and softened173 with the grace which women so well know how to throw into their manner, when they mean to mediate63 betwixt the headlong passions of the ruder sex? This was a perilous174 question to ask her own mind — perilous both in the idea and its consequences.
Lucy Ashton, in short, was involved in those mazes175 of the imagination which are most dangerous to the young and the sensitive. Time, it is true, absence, change of scene and new faces, might probably have destroyed the illusion in her instance, as it has done in many others; but her residence remained solitary176, and her mind without those means of dissipating her pleasing visions. This solitude177 was chiefly owing to the absence of Lady Ashton, who was at this time in Edinburgh, watching the progress of some state-intrigue; the Lord Keeper only received society out of policy or ostentation178, and was by nature rather reserved and unsociable; and thus no cavalier appeared to rival or to obscure the ideal picture of chivalrous179 excellence180 which Lucy had pictured to herself in the Master of Ravenswood.
While Lucy indulged in these dreams, she made frequent visits to old blind Alice, hoping it would be easy to lead her to talk on the subject which at present she had so imprudently admitted to occupy so large a portion of her thoughts. But Alice did not in this particular gratify her wishes and expectations. She spoke readily, and with pathetic feeling, concerning the family in general, but seemed to observe an especial and cautious silence on the subject of the present representative. The little she said of him was not altogether so favourable181 as Lucy had anticipated. She hinted that he was of a stern and unforgiving character, more ready to resent than to pardon injuries; and Lucy combined, with great alarm, the hints which she now dropped of these dangerous qualities with Alice’s advice to her father, so emphatically given, “to beware of Ravenswood.”
But that very Ravenswood, of whom such unjust suspicions had been entertained, had, almost immediately after they had been uttered, confuted them by saving at once her father’s life and her own. Had he nourished such black revenge as Alice’s dark hints seemed to indicate, no deed of active guilt182 was necessary to the full gratification of that evil passion. He needed but to have withheld183 for an instant his indispensable and effective assistance, and the object of his resentment184 must have perished, without any direct aggression185 on his part, by a death equally fearful and certain. She conceived, therefore, that some secret prejudice, or the suspicions incident to age and misfortune, had led Alice to form conclusions injurious to the character, and irreconcilable186 both with the generous conduct and noble features, of the Master of Ravenswood. And in this belief Lucy reposed187 her hope, and went on weaving her enchanted188 web of fairy tissue, as beautiful and transient as the film of the gossamer189 when it is pearled with the morning dew and glimmering190 to the sun.
Her father, in the mean while, as well as the Master of Ravenswood, were making reflections, as frequent though more solid than those of Lucy, upon the singular event which had taken place. The Lord Keeper’s first task, when he returned home, was to ascertain191 by medical advice that his daughter had sustained no injury from the dangerous and alarming situation in which she had been placed. Satisfied on this topic, he proceeded to revise the memoranda192 which he had taken down from the mouth of the person employed to interrupt the funeral service of the late Lord Ravenswood. Bred to casuistry, and well accustomed to practise the ambidexter ingenuity193 of the bar, it cost him little trouble to soften172 the features of the tumult194 which he had been at first so anxious to exaggerate. He preached to his colleagues of the privy195 council the necessity of using conciliatory measures with young men, whose blood and temper were hot, and their experience of life limited. He did not hesitate to attribute some censure196 to the conduct of the officer, as having been unnecessarily irritating.
These were the contents of his public despatches. The letters which he wrote to those private friends into whose management the matter was likely to fall were of a yet more favourable tenor197. He represented that lenity in this case would be equally politic198 and popular, whereas, considering the high respect with which the rites199 of interment are regarded in Scotland, any severity exercised against the Master of Ravenswood for protecting those of his father from interruption, would be on all sides most unfavourably construed200. And, finally, assuming the language of a generous and high-spirited man, he made it his particular request that this affair should be passed over without severe notice. He alluded201 with delicacy202 to the predicament in which he himself stood with young Ravenswood, as having succeeded in the long train of litigation by which the fortunes of that noble house had been so much reduced, and confessed it would be most peculiarly acceptable to his own feelings, could he find in some sort to counterbalance the disadvantages which he had occasioned the family, though only in the prosecution203 of his just and lawful204 rights. He therefore made it his particular and personal request that the matter should have no farther consequences, an insinuated205 a desire that he himself should have the merit of having put a stop to it by his favourable report and intercession. It was particularly remarkable206 that, contrary to his uniform practice, he made no special communication to Lady Ashton upon the subject of the tumult; and although he mentioned the alarm which Lucy had received from one of the wild cattle, yet he gave no detailed207 account of an incident so interesting and terrible.
There was much surprise among Sir William Ashton’s political friends and colleagues on receiving letters of a tenor so unexpected. On comparing notes together, one smiled, one put up his eyebrows208, a third nodded acquiescence209 in the general wonder, and a fourth asked if they were sure these were ALL the letters the Lord Keeper had written on the subject. “It runs strangely in my mind, my lords, that none of these advices contain the root of the matter.”
But no secret letters of a contrary nature had been received, although the question seemed to imply the possibility of their existence.
“Well,” said an old grey-headed statesman, who had contrived210, by shifting and trimming, to maintain his post at the steerage through all the changes of course which the vessel211 had held for thirty years, “I thought Sir William would hae verified the auld12 Scottish saying, ‘As soon comes the lamb’s skin to market as the auld tup’s’.”
“We must please him after his own fashion,” said another, “though it be an unlooked-for one.”
“A wilful212 man maun hae his way,” answered the old counsellor.
“The Keeper will rue100 this before year and day are out,” said a third; “the Master of Ravenswood is the lad to wind him a pirn.”
“Why, what would you do, my lords, with the poor young fellow?” said a noble Marquis present. “The Lord Keeper has got all his estates; he has not a cross to bless himself with.”
On which the ancient Lord Turntippet replied,
“If he hasna gear to fine,
He ha shins to pine.
“And that was our way before the Revolution: Lucitur cum persona, qui luere non potest cum crumena. Hegh, my lords, that’s gude law Latin.”
“I can see no motive,” replied the Marquis, “that any noble lord can have for urging this matter farther; let the Lord Keeper have the power to deal in it as he pleases.”
“Agree, agree — remit34 to the Lord Keeper, with any other person for fashion’s sake — Lord Hirplehooly, who is bed-ridden — one to be a quorum213. Make your entry in the minutes, Mr. Clerk. And now, my lords, there is that young scattergood the Laird of Bucklaw’s fine to be disposed upon. I suppose it goes to my Lord Treasurer214?”
“Shame be in my meal-poke, then,” exclaimed the Lord Turntippet, “and your hand aye in the nook of it! I had set that down for a bye-bit between meals for mysell.”
“To use one of your favourite saws, my lord,” replied the Marquis, “you are like the miller’s dog, that licks his lips before the bag is untied215: the man is not fined yet.”
“But that costs but twa skarts of a pen,” said Lord Turntippet; “and surely there is nae noble lord that will presume to say that I, wha hae complied wi’ a’ compliances, taen all manner of tests, adjured216 all that was to be abjured217, and sworn a’ that was to be sworn, for these thirty years bye-past, sticking fast by my duty to the state through good report and bad report, shouldna hae something now and then to synd my mouth wi’ after sic drouthy wark? Eh?”
“It would be very unreasonable218 indeed, my lord,” replied the Marquis, “had we either thought that your lordship’s drought was quenchable219, or observed anything stick in your throat that required washing down.”
And so we close the scene on the privy council of that period.
1 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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2 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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3 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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4 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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5 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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6 imputed | |
v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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8 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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9 herds | |
兽群( herd的名词复数 ); 牧群; 人群; 群众 | |
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10 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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11 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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12 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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13 degenerated | |
衰退,堕落,退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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15 bogs | |
n.沼泽,泥塘( bog的名词复数 );厕所v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
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16 morasses | |
n.缠作一团( morass的名词复数 );困境;沼泽;陷阱 | |
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17 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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18 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19 hoof | |
n.(马,牛等的)蹄 | |
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20 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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21 domesticated | |
adj.喜欢家庭生活的;(指动物)被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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23 extirpated | |
v.消灭,灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 );根除 | |
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24 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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25 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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26 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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27 tremors | |
震颤( tremor的名词复数 ); 战栗; 震颤声; 大地的轻微震动 | |
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28 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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29 stimulated | |
a.刺激的 | |
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30 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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31 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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32 dispositions | |
安排( disposition的名词复数 ); 倾向; (财产、金钱的)处置; 气质 | |
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33 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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34 remit | |
v.汇款,汇寄;豁免(债务),免除(处罚等) | |
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35 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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36 glade | |
n.林间空地,一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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37 entangled | |
adj.卷入的;陷入的;被缠住的;缠在一起的v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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39 bellowing | |
v.发出吼叫声,咆哮(尤指因痛苦)( bellow的现在分词 );(愤怒地)说出(某事),大叫 | |
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40 bellow | |
v.吼叫,怒吼;大声发出,大声喝道 | |
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41 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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42 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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43 assailed | |
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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44 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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45 paternal | |
adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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46 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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47 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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48 dispensed | |
v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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49 appendage | |
n.附加物 | |
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50 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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51 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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52 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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53 junction | |
n.连接,接合;交叉点,接合处,枢纽站 | |
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54 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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55 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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56 impeded | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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58 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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59 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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60 inaccurate | |
adj.错误的,不正确的,不准确的 | |
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61 procuring | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的现在分词 );拉皮条 | |
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62 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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63 mediate | |
vi.调解,斡旋;vt.经调解解决;经斡旋促成 | |
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64 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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65 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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66 glades | |
n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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67 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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68 pellucid | |
adj.透明的,简单的 | |
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69 ornaments | |
n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 );点缀;装饰品;首饰v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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71 demolished | |
v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 );推翻;拆毁(尤指大建筑物);吃光 | |
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72 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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73 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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74 legendary | |
adj.传奇(中)的,闻名遐迩的;n.传奇(文学) | |
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75 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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76 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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77 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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78 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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79 zest | |
n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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80 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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81 restrictions | |
约束( restriction的名词复数 ); 管制; 制约因素; 带限制性的条件(或规则) | |
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82 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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83 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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84 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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85 toll | |
n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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86 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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87 entrusted | |
v.委托,托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89 toils | |
网 | |
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90 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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91 monkish | |
adj.僧侣的,修道士的,禁欲的 | |
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92 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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93 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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94 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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95 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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96 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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97 acquiesced | |
v.默认,默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98 quotations | |
n.引用( quotation的名词复数 );[商业]行情(报告);(货物或股票的)市价;时价 | |
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99 seduced | |
诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 ); 勾引; 诱使堕落; 使入迷 | |
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100 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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101 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102 lengthening | |
(时间或空间)延长,伸长( lengthen的现在分词 ); 加长 | |
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103 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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104 plunging | |
adj.跳进的,突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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105 crimsoned | |
变为深红色(crimson的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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106 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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107 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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108 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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109 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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110 ornamented | |
adj.花式字体的v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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112 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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113 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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114 plebeian | |
adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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115 slew | |
v.(使)旋转;n.大量,许多 | |
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116 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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117 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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118 mythology | |
n.神话,神话学,神话集 | |
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119 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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120 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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121 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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122 profusely | |
ad.abundantly | |
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123 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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124 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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125 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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126 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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127 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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128 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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129 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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130 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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131 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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133 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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134 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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135 quenched | |
解(渴)( quench的过去式和过去分词 ); 终止(某事物); (用水)扑灭(火焰等); 将(热物体)放入水中急速冷却 | |
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136 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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137 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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138 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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139 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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140 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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141 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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142 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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143 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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144 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
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145 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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146 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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147 heeding | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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148 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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149 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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150 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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151 spoke | |
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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152 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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153 peremptory | |
adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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154 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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155 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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156 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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157 alludes | |
提及,暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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158 wager | |
n.赌注;vt.押注,打赌 | |
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159 hawks | |
鹰( hawk的名词复数 ); 鹰派人物,主战派人物 | |
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160 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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161 mien | |
n.风采;态度 | |
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162 variance | |
n.矛盾,不同 | |
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163 riveting | |
adj.动听的,令人着迷的,完全吸引某人注意力的;n.铆接(法) | |
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164 engendered | |
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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165 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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166 recoil | |
vi.退却,退缩,畏缩 | |
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167 proffered | |
v.提供,贡献,提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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169 domains | |
n.范围( domain的名词复数 );领域;版图;地产 | |
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170 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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172 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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173 softened | |
(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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174 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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175 mazes | |
迷宫( maze的名词复数 ); 纷繁复杂的规则; 复杂难懂的细节; 迷宫图 | |
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176 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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177 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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178 ostentation | |
n.夸耀,卖弄 | |
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179 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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180 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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181 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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182 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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183 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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184 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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185 aggression | |
n.进攻,侵略,侵犯,侵害 | |
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186 irreconcilable | |
adj.(指人)难和解的,势不两立的 | |
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187 reposed | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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189 gossamer | |
n.薄纱,游丝 | |
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190 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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191 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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192 memoranda | |
n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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193 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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194 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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195 privy | |
adj.私用的;隐密的 | |
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196 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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197 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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198 politic | |
adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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199 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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200 construed | |
v.解释(陈述、行为等)( construe的过去式和过去分词 );翻译,作句法分析 | |
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201 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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203 prosecution | |
n.起诉,告发,检举,执行,经营 | |
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204 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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205 insinuated | |
v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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206 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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207 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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208 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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209 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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210 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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211 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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212 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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213 quorum | |
n.法定人数 | |
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214 treasurer | |
n.司库,财务主管 | |
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215 untied | |
松开,解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 ); 解除,使自由; 解决 | |
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216 adjured | |
v.(以起誓或诅咒等形式)命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 );祈求;恳求 | |
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217 abjured | |
v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 );郑重放弃(意见);宣布撤回(声明等);避免 | |
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218 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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219 quenchable | |
可抑制的,可熄灭的 | |
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