TO leave thus a spot where she had experienced such felicity; to see it naked and forlorn, despoiled1 of its hospitality, bereft2 of its master,-all its faithful old servants unrewarded dismissed; in disgrace to have re-entered its pales, and in terrour to quit them;-to fly even the indulgent Father, whose tenderness had withstood every evil with which errour and imprudence could assail4 him, set her now all at war with herself, and gave her sensations almost maddening. She reviewed her own conduct without mercy; and though misery5 after misery had followed every failing, all her sufferings appeared light to her repentant6 sense of her criminality; for as criminal alone, she could consider what had inflicted7 misfortunes upon persons so exemplary.
She arrived at Alresford so late, with the return horses, that she was forced to order a room there for the night.
Though too much occupied to weigh well her lonely and improper8 situation, at an inn, and at such hours, she was too uneasy to go to bed, and too miserable9 for sleep. She sat up, without attempting to read, write, or employ herself, patrolling her chamber10 in mournful rumination11.
Nearly as soon as it was light, she proceeded, and arrived at the house of Bellamy as the servants were opening the window-shutters.
Fearfully she asked who was at home; and hearing only their mistress, sent for Molly Mill, and enquired12 for the answer from Etherington; but the lad had not yet brought any. She begged her to run to the inn, to know what had detained him; and then, ordering the chaise to wait, went to her sister.
Eugenia was gently rejoiced to see her, though evidently with encreased personal unhappiness. Camilla would fain have spared her the history of the desertion of Cleves; but it was an act that in its own nature must be public; and she had no other way to account for her so speedy return.
Eugenia heard it with the most piercing affliction; and, in the fulness of her heart, from this new blow, acknowledged the rapacity13 of Bellamy, and the barbarity with which he now scrupled14 not to avow15 the sordid16 motives17 of his marriage; cruelly lamenting18 the extreme simplicity19 with which she had been beguiled20 into a belief of the sincerity21 and violence of his attachment22. ‘For myself, however,’ she continued, ‘I now cease to murmur23. How can misfortune, personally, cut me deeper? But with pity, indeed, I think of a new victim!’
She then put into her sister’s hand a written paper she had picked up the preceding evening in her room, and which, having no direction, and being in the handwriting of Mrs. Berlinton, she had thought was a former note to herself, accidentally dropt: but the first line undeceived her.
‘I yield, at length, O Bellamy, to the eloquence24 of your friendship! on Friday,-at one o’clock, I will be there-as you appoint.’
Camilla, almost petrified25, read the lines. She knew better than her sister the plan to which this was the consent; which to have been given after her representations and urgency, appeared so utterly26 unjustifiable, that, with equal grief and indignation, she gave up this unhappy friend as wilfully27 lost; and her whole heart recoiled28 from ever again entering her doors.
Retracing29, nevertheless, her many amiable30 qualities, she knew not how, without further effort, to leave her to her threatening fate; and determined31, at all risks, to put her into the hands of her brother, whose timely knowledge of her danger might rescue her from public exposure. She wrote therefore the following note:
To FREDERIC MELMOND, Esq.
‘Watch and save,-or you will lose your sister.
CT.’
His address, from frequently hearing it, was familiar to her; she went herself into the hall, to give the billet to a footman for the post-office. She would not let her sister have any share in the transaction, lest it should afterwards, by any accident, be known; though, to give force to her warning, she risked without hesitation33 the initials of her own name.
The repugnance34, nevertheless, to going again to Mrs. Berlinton, pointed35 out no new refuge; and she waited, with added impatience36, for the answer from Etherington, in hopes some positive direction might relieve her cruel perplexity.
The answer, however, came not, and yet greater grew her distress37. Molly Mill brought word that when the messenger, who was a post-boy, returned, he was immediately employed to drive a chaise to London. The people at the inn heard him say something of wanting to go to ‘Squire Bellamy’s with a letter; but he had not time. He was to come back however at night.
To wait till he arrived seemed now to them both indispensable; but while considering at what hour to order the chaise, they heard a horseman gallop39 up to the house-door. ‘Is it possible it should already be Mr. Bellamy?’ cried Eugenia, changing colour.
His voice, loud and angry, presently confirmed the suggestion. Eugenia, trembling, said she would let him know whom he would find; and went into the next room, where, as he entered, he roughly exclaimed, ‘What have you done with what I dropt out of my pocket-book?’
‘There, Sir,’ she answered, in the tone of firmness given by the ascendance of innocence40 over guilt41, ‘There it is: but how you can reconcile to yourself the delusions42 by which you must have obtained it I know not. I hope only, for her sake, and for yours, such words will never more meet my eyes.’
He was beginning a violent answer in a raised voice, when Eugenia told him her sister was in the next room.
He then, in a lowered tone, said, ‘I warrant, you have shewn her my letter?’
The veracious43 Eugenia was incapable44 of saying no; and Bellamy, unable to restrain his rage, though smothering45 his voice, through his shut teeth, said, ‘I shall remember this, I promise you! However, if she dare ever speak of it, you may tell her, from me, I shall lock you up upon bread and water for the rest of your life, and lay it at her door. I have no great terms to keep with her now. What does she say about Cleves? and that fool your uncle, who is giving up his house to pay your father’s debts? What has brought her back again?’
‘She is returning to Grosvenor-square, to Miss Margland.’
‘Miss Margland? There’s no Miss Margland in Grosvenor-square; nor any body else, that desires her company I can tell her. However, go, and get her off, for I have other business for you.’
Eugenia, then, opening the door, found her sister almost demolished46 with terrour and dismay. Silently, for some seconds, they sunk on the breast of each other; horrour closing all speech, drying up even their tears.
‘You have no message to give me!’ Camilla at length whispered ‘I have, perforce, heard all! and I will go;-though whither–’
She stopt, with a look of distress so poignant47, that Eugenia bursting into tears, while tenderly she clung around her, said: ‘My sister! my Camilla! from me-from my house must you wander in search of an asylum48!’
Bellamy here called her back. Camilla entreated49 she would inquire if he knew whither Miss Margland was gone.
He now came in himself, bowing civilly, though with constraint50, and told her that Miss Margland was with Mrs. Macdersey, at Macdersey’s own lodgings51; but that neither of them would any more be invited to Grosvenor-square, after such ill-treatment of Mrs. Berlinton’s brother.
Can you, thought Camilla, talk of ill-treatment? while, turning to her sister, she said, ‘Which way shall I now travel?’
Bellamy abruptly52 asked, if she was forced to go before dinner; but not with an air of inviting53 any answer.
None could she make; she looked down, to save her eyes the sight of an object they abhorred54, embraced Eugenia, who seemed a picture of death; and after saying adieu, added, ‘If I knew whither you thought I should go-that should be my guide?’
‘Home, my dearest sister!’
‘Drive then,’ she cried, hurrying to the chaise, ‘to Etherington.’
Bellamy advancing, said, with a smile, ‘I see you are not much used to travelling, Miss Camilla!’ and gave the man a direction to Bagshot.
She began, now, to feel nearly careless what became of her; her situation seemed equally desolate55 and disgraceful, and in gloomy despondence, when she turned from the high road, and stopt at a small inn, called the half-way-house, about nine miles from Etherington, she resolved to remain there till she received her expected answer; ardently56 hoping, if it were not yielding and favourable57, the spot upon which she should read it, would be that upon which her existence would close.
Alighting at the inn, which, from being upon a cross road, had little custom, and was scarce more than a large cottage, she entered a small parlour, discharged her chaise, and ordered a man and horse to go immediately to Belfont.
Presently two or three gentle tappings at the door made her, though fearfully, say, ‘Come in!’ A little girl then, with incessant58 low courtesies, appeared, and looking smilingly in her face, said, ‘Pray, ma’am, a’n’t you the Lady that was so good to us?’
‘When? my dear? what do you mean?’
‘Why, that used to give us cakes and nice things, and gave ’em to Jen, and Bet, and Jack59? and that would not let my dad be took up?’
Camilla now recollected60 the eldest61 little Higden, the washerwoman’s niece, and kindly62 enquired after her father, her aunt, and family.
‘O, they all does pure now. My dad’s had no more mishaps63, and he hopes, please God, to get on pretty well.’
‘Sweet hearing!’ cried Camilla, ‘all my purposes have not, then, been frustrated64!’
With added satisfaction she learnt also that the little girl had a good place, and a kind mistress.
She begged her to hasten the Belfont messenger, giving her in charge a short note for Eugenia with a request for the Etherington letter. She had spent nothing in London, save in some small remembrances to one or two of Mrs. Berlinton’s servants; and though her chaise-hire had now almost emptied her purse, she thought every expence preferable to either lengthening65 her suspense66, or her residence on the road.
In answer to the demand of what she would be pleased to have, she then ordered tea. She had taken no regular meal for two days; and for two nights had not even been in bed. But the wretchedness of her mind seemed to render her invulnerable to fatigue67.
The shaken state of her nerves warped68 all just consideration of the impropriety of her present sojourn69. Her judgment70 had no chance, where it had her feelings to combat, and in the despondence of believing herself parentally rejected, she was indifferent to appearances, and desperate upon all other events: nor was she brought to any recollection, till she was informed that the messenger she had concluded was half way to Belfont, could not set out till the next morning: this small and private inn not being able to furnish a man and horse at shorter warning.
To pass a second night at an inn, seemed, even in the calculations of her own harassed71 faculties72, utterly improper; and thus, driven to extremity73, she forced herself to order a chaise for home; though with a repugnance to so compulsatory a meeting, that made her wish to be carried in it a corpse74.
The tardy75 prudence3 of the character naturally rash, commonly arrives but to point repentance76 that it came not before. The only pair of horses the little inn afforded, were now out upon other duty, and would not return till the next day.
Almost to herself incredible seemed now her situation. She was compelled to order a bed, and to go up stairs to a small chamber: but she could not even wish to take any rest. ‘I am an outcast,’ she cried, ‘to my family; my Mother would rather not see me; my Father forbears to demand me; and he-dearer to me than life-by whom I was once chosen, has forgotten me!–How may I support my heavy existence? and when will it end?’
Overpowered, nevertheless, by fatigue, in the middle of the night, she lay down in her cloaths: but her slumbers77 were so broken by visions of reproach, conveyed through hideous78 forms, and in menaces the most terrific, that she gladly got up; preferring certain affliction to wild and fantastic horrours.
Nearly as soon as it was light, she rang for little Peggy, whose Southampton anecdotes79 had secured her the utmost respect from the mistress of the inn, and heard that the express was set off.
Dreadful and dreary81, in slow and lingering misery, passed the long interval82 of his absence, though his rapid manner of travelling made it short for the ground he traversed. She had now, however, bought sufficient experience to bespeak83 a chaise against his return. The only employment in which she could engage herself, was conversing84 with Peggy Higden, who, she was glad to find, could not remember her name well enough to make it known, through her pronunciation.
From the window, at length, she perceived a man and horse gallop up to the house. She darted85 forth86, exclaiming: ‘Have you brought me any answer?’ And seizing the letter he held out, saw the hand-writing of Lavinia, and shut herself into her room.
She opened it upon her knees, expecting to find within some lines from her Mother; none, however, appeared, and sad and mortified87, she laid down the letter, and wept. ‘So utterly, then,’ she cried, ‘have I lost her? Even with her pen will she not speak to me? How early is my life too long!’
Taking up again, then, the letter, she read what follows.
To MISS CAMILLA TYROLD.
‘Alas88, my dear sister, why can I not answer you according to our mutual89 wishes? My Father is at Winchester, with a lawyer, upon the affairs of Indiana; and my Mother is abroad with my uncle, upon business which he has asked her to transact32; but even were she here... could I, while the man awaits, intercede90? have you forgotten your ever fearful Lavinia? All that she dares, shall be done,-but that you may neither think she has been hitherto neglected, nor let your hopes expect too much speed from her future efforts, I am painfully reduced to own to you, what already has passed. But let it not depress you; you know when she is hurt, it is not lightly; but you know, also, where she loves, her displeasure, once passed, is never allowed to rise again.
‘Yesterday I saw her looking at your picture; the moment seemed to be happy, and I ventured to say; “Ah, poor Camilla!–” but she turned to me with quickness, and cried; “Lament rather, Lavinia, your Father! Did he merit so little trust from his child, that her affairs should be withheld91 from him till they cast him... where I found him!... Dread80, memorable92 sight-when may I forget it!”
‘Even after this, my dear Camilla, I hazarded another word, “she will be miserable,” I said, “my dear Mother, till she returns.” “She will return,” she answered, “with Miss Margland. This is no season for any expence that may be avoided; and Camilla, most of all, must now see the duties of oeconomy. Were her understanding less good, I should less heavily weigh her errours; but she sets it apart, to abandon herself to her feelings. Alas! poor thing! they will now themselves be her punishers! Let her not however, despond; tell her, when you write, her angelic Father forgives her; and tell her she has always had my prayers, and will ever have my blessing;-though I am not eager, as yet, to add to her own reproaches, those she may experience from my presence.”
‘I knew not how to introduce this to my dearest Camilla, but your messenger, and his haste, now forces me to say all, and say it quick. He brings, I find, the letter from Belfont, where already we had heard you were removed through Miss Margland, much to the approbation93 of my Father and my Mother, who hope your sojourn there is a solace94 to you both. Adieu, my dearest sister-your messenger cannot wait.
‘LAVINIA TYROLD.’
‘She will not see me then!’ cried Camilla, ‘she cannot bear my sight! O Death! let me not pray to thee also in vain!’
Weak from inanition, confused from want of sleep, harassed with fatigue, and exhausted95 by perturbation, she felt now so ill, that she solemnly believed her fatal wish quick approaching.
The landlord of the inn entered to say that the chaise she had ordered was at the door; and put down upon the table the bill of what she had to pay.
Whither to turn, what course to take, she knew not; though to remain longer at an inn, while persuaded life was on its wane96, was dreadful; yet how present herself at home, after the letter she had received? what asylum was any where open to her?
She begged the landlord to wait, and again read the letter of Lavinia, when, startled by what was said of abandoning herself to her feelings, she saw that her immediate38 duty was to state her situation to her parents. She desired, therefore, the chaise might be put up, and wrote these lines:
‘I could not, unhappily, stay at Eugenia’s ; nor can I return to Mrs. Berlinton; I am now at the half-way-house where I shall wait for commands. My Lavinia will tell me what I may be ordered to do. I am ill,-and earnestly I pray with an illness from which I may rise no more. When my Father-my Mother, hear this, they will perhaps accord me to be blest again with their sight; the brevity of my career may, to their kindness, expiate97 its faults; they may pray for me where my own prayers may be too unsanctified to be heard; they may forgive me... though my own forgiveness never more will quiet this breast! Heaven bless and preserve them; their unoffending daughters; and my ever loved uncle!
CAMILLA TYROLD.
She then rang the bell, and desired this note might go by express to Etherington.
But this, the waiter answered, was impossible; the horse on which the messenger had set out to Belfont, though it had only carried him the first stage, and brought him back the last, had galloped98 so hard, that his master would not send it out again the same day; and they had but that one.
She begged he would see instantly for some other conveyance99.
The man who was come back from Belfont, he answered, would be glad to be discharged, as he wanted to go to rest.
She then took up the bill, and upon examining the sum total, found, with the express, the chaise in which she came the last stage, that which she ordered to take her to Etherington, and the expence of her residence, it amounted to half a crown beyond what she possessed100.
She had only, she knew, to make herself known as the niece of Sir Hugh Tyrold, to be trusted by all the environs; but to expose herself in this helpless, and even pennyless state, appeared to her to be a degradation101 to every part of her family.
To enclose the bill to Etherington was to secure its being paid; but the sentence, Camilla most of all must now see the duties of oeconomy, made her revolt from such a step.
All she still possessed of pecuniary102 value she had in her pocket: the seal of her Father, the ring of her Mother, the watch of her Uncle, and the locket of Edgar Mandlebert. With one of these she now determined to part, in preference to any new exposure at Etherington, or to incurring103 the smallest debt. She desired to be left alone, and took them from her pocket, one by one, painfully ruminating104 upon which she could bear to lose. ‘It may not,’ she thought, ‘be for long; for quick, I hope, my course will end!-yet even for an hour,-even for the last final moment-to give up such dear symbols of all that has made my happiness in life!–’
She looked at them, kissed and pressed them to her heart; spoke105 to them as if living and understanding representatives of their donors106, and bestowed107 so much time in lamenting caresses108 and hesitation, that the waiter came again, while yet she was undetermined.
She desired to speak with the mistress of the house.
Instinctively109 she now put away the gifts of her parents; but between her uncle and Edgar she wavered. She blushed, however, at her demur110, and the modesty111 of duty made her put up the watch. Taking, then, an agitating112 last view of a locket which circumstances had rendered inappreciable to her, ‘Ah! not in vain,’ she cried, ‘even now shall I lose what once was a token so bewitching... Dear precious locket! Edgar even yet would be happy you should do me one last kind office! generously, benevolently113, he would rejoice you should spare me still one last menacing shame!’.
When Mrs. Marl, the landlady114, came in, deeply colouring, she put it into her hand, turning her eyes another way, while she said; ‘Mrs. Marl, I have not quite money enough to pay the bill; but if you will keep this locket for a security, you will be sure to be paid by and by.’
Mrs. Marl looked at it with great admiration115, and then, with yet greater wonder, at Camilla. “Tis pretty, indeed, ma’am,’ she said; “twould be pity to sell it. However, I’ll shew it my husband.’
Mr. Marl soon came himself, with looks somewhat less satisfied, “Tis a fine bauble116, ma’am,’ cried he, ‘but I don’t much understand those things; and there’s nobody here can tell me what it’s worth. I’d rather have my money, if you please.’
Weakened now in body, as well as spirits, she burst into tears. Alas! she thought, how little do my friends conjecture117 to what I am reduced! She offered, however, the watch, and the countenance118 of Mr. Marl lost its gloom.
‘This,’ said he, ‘is something like! A gold watch one may be sure to get one’s own for; but such a thing as that may’n’t fetch six-pence, fine as it looks.’
Mrs. Marl objected to keeping both; but her husband said he saw no harm in it; and Camilla begged her note might be sent without delay.
A labourer, after some search, was found, who undertook, for handsome pay, to carry it on foot to the rectory.
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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rumination
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| n.反刍，沉思 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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motives
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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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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eloquence
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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recoiled
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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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pointed
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impatience
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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46
demolished
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| 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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47
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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48
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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49
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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51
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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52
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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53
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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54
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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55
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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56
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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57
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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58
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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59
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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60
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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62
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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63
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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64
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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65
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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66
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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68
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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69
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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73
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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75
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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76
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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77
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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85
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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87
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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88
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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89
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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90
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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91
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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92
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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94
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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96
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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97
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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98
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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99
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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100
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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101
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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102
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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103
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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104
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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105
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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106
donors
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| n.捐赠者( donor的名词复数 )；献血者；捐血者；器官捐献者 | |
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107
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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109
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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110
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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111
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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112
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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113
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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114
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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116
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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117
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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118
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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