Who comes from the bridal chamber1?
It is Azrael, the angel of death.
Thalaba.
AFTER the dreadful scene that had taken place at the castle, Lucy was transported to her own chamber, where she remained for some time in a state of absolute stupor3. Yet afterwards, in the course of the ensuing day, she seemed to have recovered, not merely her spirits and resolution, but a sort of flighty levity4, that was foreign to her character and situation, and which was at times chequered by fits of deep silence and melancholy5 and of capricious pettishness6. Lady Ashton became much alarmed and consulted the family physicians. But as her pulse indicated no change, they could only say that the disease was on the spirits, and recommended gentle exercise and amusement. Miss Ashton never alluded7 to what had passed in the state-room. It seemed doubtful even if she was conscious of it, for she was often observed to raise her hands to her neck, as if in search of the ribbon that had been taken from it, and mutter, in surprise and discontent, when she could not find it, “It was the link that bound me to life.”
Notwithstanding all these remarkable8 symptoms, Lady Ashton was too deeply pledged to delay her daughter’s marriage even in her present state of health. It cost her much trouble to keep up the fair side of appearances towards Bucklaw. She was well aware, that if he once saw any reluctance9 on her daughter’s part, he would break off the treaty, to her great personal shame and dishonour10. She therefore resolved that, if Lucy continued passive, the marriage should take place upon the day that had been previously11 fixed12, trusting that a change of place, of situation, and of character would operate a more speedy and effectual cure upon the unsettled spirits of her daughter than could be attained13 by the slow measures which the medical men recommended. Sir William Ashton’s views of family aggrandisement, and his desire to strengthen himself against the measures of the Marquis of A——, readily induced him to acquiesce14 in what he could not have perhaps resisted if willing to do so. As for the young men, Bucklaw and Colonel Ashton, they protested that, after what had happened, it would be most dishonourable to postpone15 for a single hour the time appointed for the marriage, as it would be generally ascribed to their being intimidated17 by the intrusive18 visit and threats of Ravenswood.
Bucklaw would indeed have been incapable19 of such precipitation, had he been aware of the state of Miss Ashton’s health, or rather of her mind. But custom, upon these occasions, permitted only brief and sparing intercourse20 between the bridegroom and the betrothed21; a circumstance so well improved by Lady Ashton, that Bucklaw neither saw nor suspected the real state of the health and feelings of his unhappy bride.
On the eve of the bridal day, Lucy appeared to have one of her fits of levity, and surveyed with a degree of girlish interest the various preparations of dress, etc., etc., which the different members of the family had prepared for the occasion.
The morning dawned bright and cheerily. The bridal guests assembled in gallant22 troops from distant quarters. Not only the relations of Sir William Ashton, and the still more dignified23 connexions of his lady, together with the numerous kinsmen24 and allies of the bridegroom, were present upon this joyful25 ceremony, gallantly26 mounted, arrayed, and caparisoned, but almost every Presbyterian family of distinction within fifty miles made a point of attendance upon an occasion which was considered as giving a sort of triumph over the Marquis of A——, in the person of his kinsman27. Splendid refreshments28 awaited the guests on their arrival, and after these were finished, the cray was “To horse.” The bride was led forth29 betwixt her brother Henry and her mother. Her gaiety of the preceding day had given rise [place] to a deep shade of melancholy, which, however, did not misbecome an occasion so momentous30. There was a light in her eyes and a colour in her cheek which had not been kindled31 for many a day, and which, joined to her great beauty, and the splendour of her dress, occasioned her entrance to be greeted with an universal murmur32 of applause, in which even the ladies could not refrain from joining. While the cavalcade33 were getting to horse, Sir William Ashton, a man of peace and of form, censured34 his son Henry for having begirt himself with a military sword of preposterous35 length, belonging to his brother, Colonel Ashton.
“If you must have a weapon,” he said, “upon such a peaceful occasion, why did you not use the short poniard sent from Edinburgh on purpose?”
The boy vindicated36 himself by saying it was lost.
“You put it out of the way yourself, I suppose,” said his father, “out of ambition to wear that preposterous thing, which might have served Sir William Wallace. But never mind, get to horse now, and take care of your sister.”
The boy did so, and was placed in the centre of the gallant train. At the time, he was too full of his own appearance, his sword, his laced cloak, his feathered hat, and his managed horse, to pay much regard to anything else; but he afterwards remembered to the hour of his death, that when the hand of his sister, by which she supported hersel on the pillion behind him, touched his own, it felt as wet and cold as sepulchral37 marble.
Glancing wide over hill and dale, the fair bridal procession at last reached the parish church, which they nearly filled; for, besides domestics, above a hundred gentlemen and ladies were present upon the occasion. The marriage ceremony was performed according to the rites38 of the Presbyterian persuasion39, to which Bucklaw of late had judged it proper to conform.
On the outside of the church, a liberal dole40 was distributed to the poor of the neighbouring parishes, under the direction of Johnie Mortheuch [Mortsheugh], who had lately been promoted from his desolate41 quarters at the Hermitage to fill the more eligible42 situation of sexton at the parish church of Ravenswood. Dame43 Gourlay, with two of her contemporaries, the same who assisted at Alice’s late-wake, seated apart upon a flat monument, or “through-stane,” sate44 enviously45 comparing the shares which had been allotted46 to them in dividing the dole.
“Johnie Mortheuch,” said Annie Winnie, “might hae minded auld47 lang syne48, and thought of his auld kimmers, for as braw as he is with his new black coat. I hae gotten but five herring instead o’ sax, and this disna look like a gude saxpennys, and I dare say this bit morsel49 o’ beef is an unce lighter50 than ony that’s been dealt round; and it’s a bit o’ the tenony hough, mair by token that yours, Maggie, is out o’ the back-sey.”
“Mine, quo’ she!” mumbled51 the paralytic52 hag —“mine is half banes, I trow. If grit53 folk gie poor bodies ony thing for coming to their weddings and burials, it suld be something that wad do them gude, I think.”
“Their gifts,” said Ailsie Gourlay, “are dealt for nae love of us, nor out of respect for whether we feed or starve. They wad gie us whinstanes for loaves, if it would serve their ain vanity, and yet they expect us to be as gratefu’, as they ca’ it, as if they served us for true love and liking54.”
“And that’s truly said,” answered her companion.
“But, Aislie Gourlay, ye’re the auldest o’ us three — did ye ever see a mair grand bridal?”
“I winna say that I have,” answered the hag; “but I think soon to see as braw a burial.”
“And that wad please me as weel,” said Annie Winnie; “for there’s as large a dole, and folk are no obliged to girn and laugh, and mak murgeons, and wish joy to these hellicat quality, that lord it ower us like brute55 beasts. I like to pack the dead-dole in my lap and rin ower my auld rhyme —
My loaf in my lap, my penny in my purse,
Thou art ne’er the better, and
I’m ne’er the worse.”
“That’s right, Annie,” said the paralytic woman; “God send us a green Yule and a fat kirkyard!”
“But I wad like to ken2, Luckie Gourlay, for ye’re the auldest and wisest amang us, whilk o’ these revellers’ turn it will be to be streikit first?”
“D’ye see yon dandilly maiden,” said Dame Gourlay, “a’ glistenin’ wi’ gowd and jewels, that they are lifting up on the white horse behind that hare-brained callant in scarlet56, wi’ the lang sword at his side?”
“But that’s the bride!” said her companion, her cold heart touched with some sort of compassion57 —“that’s the very bride hersell! Eh, whow! sae young, sae braw, and sae bonny — and is her time sae short?”
“I tell ye,” said the sibyl, “her winding58 sheet is up as high as her throat already, believe it wha list. Her sand has but few grains to rin out; and nae wonder — they’ve been weel shaken. The leaves are withering59 fast on the trees, but she’ll never see the Martinmas wind gar them dance in swirls60 like the fairy rings.” “Ye waited on her for a quarter,” said the paralytic woman, “and got twa red pieces, or I am far beguiled61?”
“Ay, ay,” answered Ailsie, with a bitter grin; “and Sir William Ashton promised me a bonny red gown to the boot o’ that — a stake, and a chain, and a tar-barrel, lass! what think ye o’ that for a propine?— for being up early and doun late for fourscore nights and mair wi’ his dwining daughter. But he may keep it for his ain leddy, cummers.”
“I hae heard a sough,” said Annie Winnie, “as if Leddy Ashton was nae canny62 body.”
“D’ye see her yonder,” said Dame Gourlay, “as she prances63 on her grey gelding out at the kirkyard? There’s mair o’ utter deevilry in that woman, as brave and fair-fashioned as she rides yonder, than in a’ the Scotch64 withces that ever flew by moonlight ower North Berwick Law.”
“What’s that ye say about witches, ye damned hags?” said Johnie Mortheuch [Mortsheugh]; “are ye casting yer cantrips in the very kirkyard, to mischieve the bride and bridegroom? Get awa’ hame, for if I tak my souple t’ye, I’ll gar ye find the road faster than ye wad like.”
“Hegh, sirs!” answered Ailsie Gourlay; “how bra’ are we wi’ our new black coat and our weel-pouthered head, as if we had never kenn’d hunger nor thirst oursells! and we’ll be screwing up our bit fiddle65, doubtless, in the ha’ the night, amang a’ the other elbo’-jiggers for miles round. Let’s see if the pins haud, Johnie — that’s a’, lad.”
“I take ye a’ to witness, gude people,” said Morheuch, “that she threatens me wi’ mischief66, and forespeaks me. If ony thing but gude happens to me or my fiddle this night, I’ll make it the blackest night’s job she ever stirred in. I’ll hae her before presbytery and synod: I’m half a minister mysell, now that I’m a bedral in an inhabited parish.”
Although the mutual67 hatred68 betwixt these hags and the rest of mankind had steeled their hearts against all impressions of festivity, this was by no means the case with the multitude at large. The splendour of the bridal retinue69, the gay dresses, the spirited horses, the blythesome appearance of the handsome women and gallant gentlemen assembled upon the occasion, had the usual effect upon the minds of the populace. The repeated shouts of “Ashton and Bucklaw for ever!” the discharge of pistols, guns, and musketoons, to give what was called the bridal shot, evinced the interest the people took in the occasion of the cavalcade, as they accompanied it upon their return to the castle. If there was here and there an elder peasant or his wife who sneered70 at the pomp of the upstart family, and remembered the days of the long-descended Ravenswoods, even they, attracted by the plentiful71 cheer which the castle that day afforded to rich and poor, held their way thither72, and acknowledged, notwithstanding their prejudices, the influence of l’Amphitrion ou l’on dine.
Thus accompanied with the attendance both of rich and poor, Lucy returned to her father’s house. Bucklaw used his privilege of riding next to the bride, but, new to such a situation, rather endeavoured to attract attention by the display of his person and horsemanship, than by any attempt to address her in private. They reached the castle in safety, amid a thousand joyous73 acclamations.
It is well known that the weddings of ancient days were celebrated74 with a festive75 publicity76 rejected by the delicacy77 of modern times. The marriage guests, on the present occasion, were regaled with a banquet of unbounded profusion78, the relics79 of which, after the domestics had feasted in their turn, were distributed among the shouting crowd, with as many barrels of ale as made the hilarity80 without correspond to that within the castle. The gentlemen, according to the fashion of the times, indulged, for the most part, in deep draughts81 of the richest wines, while the ladies, prepared for the ball which always closed a bridal entertainment, impatiently expected their arrival in the state gallery. At length the social party broke up at a late hour, and the gentlemen crowded into the saloon, where, enlivened by wine and the joyful occasion, they laid aside their swords and handed their impatient partners to the floor. The music already rung from the gallery, along the fretted82 roof of the ancient state apartment. According to strict etiquette83, the bride ought to have opened the ball; but Lady Ashton, making an apology on account of her daughter’s health, offered her own hand to Bucklaw as substitute for her daughter’s. But as Lady Ashton raised her head gracefully84, expecting the strain at which she was to begin the dance, she was so much struck by an unexpected alteration85 in the ornaments86 of the apartment that she was surprised into an exclamation87, “Who has dared to change the pictures?”
All looked up, and those who knew the usual state of the apartment observed, with surprise, that the picture of Sir William Ashton’s father was removed from its place, and in its stead that of old Sir Malise Ravenswood seemed to frown wrath88 and vengeance89 upon the party assembled below. The exchange must have been made while the apartments were empty, but had not been observed until the torches and lights in the sconces were kindled for the ball. The haughty90 and heated spirits of the gentlemen led them to demand an immediate91 inquiry92 into the cause of what they deemed an affront93 to their host and to themselves; but Lady Ashton, recovering herself, passed it over as the freak of a crazy wench who was maintained about the castle, and whose susceptible94 imagination had been observed to be much affected95 by the stories which Dame Gourlay delighted to tell concerning “the former family,” so Lady Ashton named the Ravenswoods. The obnoxious96 picture was immediately removed, and the ball was opened by Lady Ashton, with a grace and dignity which supplied the charms of youth, and almost verified the extravagant97 encomiums of the elder part of the company, who extolled98 her performance as far exceeding the dancing of the rising generation.
When Lady Ashton sat down, she was not surprised to find that her daughter had left the apartment, and she herself followed, eager to obviate99 any impression which might have been made upon her nerves by an incident so likely to affect them as the mysterious transposition of the portraits. Apparently100 she found her apprehensions101 groundless, for she returned in about an hour, and whispered the bridegroom, who extricated102 himself from the dancers, and vanished from the apartment. The instruments now played their loudest strains; the dancers pursued their exercise with all the enthusiasm inspired by youth, mirth, and high spirits, when a cry was heard so shrill103 and piercing as at once to arrest the dance and the music. All stood motionless; but when the yell was again repeated, Colonel Ashton snatched a torch from the sconce, and demanding the key of the bridal-chamber from Henry, to whom, as bride’s-man, it had been entrusted104, rushed thither, followed by Sir William Ashton and Lady Ashton, and one or two others, near relations of the family. The bridal guests waited their return in stupified amazement105.
Arrived at the door of the apartment, Colonel Ashton knocked and called, but received no answer except stifled106 groans107. He hesitated no longer to open the door of the apartment, in which he found opposition108 from something which lay against it. When he had succeeded in opening it, the body of the bridegroom was found lying on the threshold of the bridal chamber, and all around was flooded with blood. A cry of surprise and horror was raised by all present; and the company, excited by this new alarm, began to rush tumultuously towards the sleeping apartment. Colonel Ashton, first whispering to his mother, “Search for her; she has murdered him!” drew his sword, planted himself in the passage, and declared he would suffer no man to pass excepting the clergyman and a medical person present. By their assistance, Bucklaw, who still breathed, was raised from the ground, and transported to another apartment, where his friends, full of suspicion and murmuring, assembled round him to learn the opinion of the surgeon.
In the mean while, Lady Ashton, her husband, and their assistants in vain sought Lucy in the bridal bed and in the chamber. There was no private passage from the room, and they began to think that she must have thrown herself from the window, when one of the company, holding his torch lower than the rest, discovered something white in the corner of the great old-fashioned chimney of the apartment. Here they found the unfortunate girl seated, or rather couched like a hare upon its form — her head-gear dishevelled, her night-clothes torn and dabbled109 with blood, her eyes glazed110, and her features convulsed into a wild paroxysm of insanity111. When she saw herself discovered, she gibbered, made mouths, and pointed16 at them with her bloody112 fingers, with the frantic113 gestures of an exulting114 demoniac.
Female assistance was now hastily summoned; the unhappy bride was overpowered, not without the use of some force. As they carried her over the threshold, she looked down, and uttered the only articulate words that she had yet spoken, saying, with a sort of grinning exultation115, “So, you have ta’en up your bonny bridegroom?” She was, by the shuddering116 assistants, conveyed to another and more retired117 apartment, where she was secured as her situation required, and closely watched. The unutterable agony of the parents, the horror and confusion of all who were in the castle, the fury of contending passions between the friends of the different parties — passions augmented118 by previous intemperance119 — surpass description.
The surgeon was the first who obtained something like a patient hearing; he pronounced that the wound of Bucklaw, though severe and dangerous, was by no means fatal, but might readily be rendered so by disturbance120 and hasty removal. This silenced the numerous party of Bucklaw’s friends, who had previously insisted that he should, at all rates, be transported from the castle to the nearest of their houses. They still demanded, however, that, in consideration of what had happened, four of their number should remain to watch over the sick-bed of their friend, and that a suitable number of their domestics, well armed, should also remain in the castle. This condition being acceded121 to on the part of Colonel Ashton and his father, the rest of the bridegroom’s friends left the castle, notwithstanding the hour and the darkness of the night. The cares of the medical man were next employed in behalf of Miss Ashton, whom he pronounced to be in a very dangerous state. Farther medical assistance was immediately summoned. All night she remained delirious122. On the morning, she fell into a state of absolute insensibility. The next evening, the physicians said, would be the crisis of her malady123. It proved so; for although she awoke from her trance with some appearance of calmness, and suffered her night-clothes to be changed, or put in order, yet so soon as she put her hand to her neck, as if to search for the for the fatal flue ribbon, a tide of recollections seemed to rush upon her, which her mind and body were alike incapable of bearing. Convulsion followed convulsion, till they closed in death, without her being able to utter a word explanatory of the fatal scene.
The provincial124 judge of the district arrived the day after the young lady had expired, and executed, though with all possible delicacy to the afflicted125 family, the painful duty of inquiring into this fatal transaction. But there occurred nothing to explain the general hypothesis that the bride, in a sudden fit of insanity, had stabbed the bridegroom at the threshold of the apartment. The fatal weapon was found in the chamber smeared126 with blood. It was the same poniard which Henry should have worn on the wedding-day, and the unhappy sister had probably contrived127 to secrete128 on the preceding evening, when it had been shown to her among other articles of preparation for the wedding.
The friends of Bucklaw expected that on his recovery he would throw some light upon this dark story, and eagerly pressed him with inquiries129, which for some time he evaded130 under pretext131 of weakness. When, however, he had been transported to his own house, and was considered in a state of convalescence132, he assembled those persons, both male and female, who had considered themselves as entitled to press him on this subject, and returned them thanks for the interest they had exhibited in his behalf, and their offers of adherence133 and support. “I wish you all,” he said, “my friends, to understand, however, that I have neither story to tell nor injuries to avenge134. If a lady shall question me henceforward upon the incident of that unhappy night, I shall remain silent, and in future consider her as one who has shown herself desirous to break of her friendship with me; in a word, I will never speak to her again. But if a gentleman shall ask me the same question, I shall regard the incivility as equivalent to an invitation to meet him in the Duke’s Walk, and I expect that he will rule himself accordingly.”
A declaration so decisive admitted no commentary; and it was soon after seen that Bucklaw had arisen from the bed of sickness a sadder and a wiser man than he had hitherto shown himself. He dismissed Craigengelt from his society, but not without such a provision as, if well employed, might secure him against indigence135 and against temptation. Bucklaw afterwards went abroad, and never returned to Scotland; nor was he known ever to hint at the circumstances attending his fatal marriage. By many readers this may be deemed overstrained, romantic, and composed by the wild imagination of an author desirous of gratifying the popular appetite for the horrible; but those who are read in the private family history of Scotland during the period in which the scene is laid, will readily discover, through the disguise of borrowed names and added incidents, the leading particulars of AN OWER TRUE TALE.
收听单词发音 |
1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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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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pettishness
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7
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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9
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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10
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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11
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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12
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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13
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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17
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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19
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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23
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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31
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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38
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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41
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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43
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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44
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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45
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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46
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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48
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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49
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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50
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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51
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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53
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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54
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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55
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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56
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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57
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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58
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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59
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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60
swirls
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| n.旋转( swirl的名词复数 )；卷状物；漩涡；尘旋v.旋转，打旋( swirl的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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62
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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63
prances
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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65
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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66
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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67
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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68
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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69
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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70
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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72
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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73
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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74
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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75
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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76
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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77
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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78
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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79
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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80
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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81
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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82
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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83
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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84
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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85
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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86
ornaments
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| 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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87
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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88
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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89
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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90
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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91
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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92
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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93
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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94
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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95
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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96
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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97
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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98
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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100
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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101
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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102
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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104
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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106
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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107
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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108
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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109
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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110
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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111
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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112
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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113
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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114
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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115
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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116
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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117
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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118
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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119
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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120
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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121
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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122
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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123
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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124
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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125
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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127
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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128
secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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129
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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130
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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131
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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132
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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133
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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134
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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135
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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