THE messenger returned not till midnight; what, then, was the consternation1 of Camilla that he brought no answer! She suspected he had not found the house; she doubted if the letter had been delivered; but he affirmed he had put it into the hands of a maid-servant, though, as it was late, he had come away directly, and not thought of waiting for any answer.
It is not very early in life we learn how little is performed, for which no precaution is taken. Care is the offspring of disappointment; and sorrow and repentance3 commonly hang upon its first lessons. Unused to transact4 any sort of business for herself, she had expected, in sending a letter, an answer as a thing of course, and had now only herself to blame for not having ordered him to stay. She consoled herself, however, that she was known to be but nine miles distant from the rectory, and that any commands could be conveyed to her nearly in an hour.
What they might be, became now, therefore, her sole anxiety. Would not her Mother write? After an avowal5 such as she had made of her desolate6, if not dying condition, would she not pardon and embrace her? Was it not even possible she might come herself?
This idea mingled7 emotions of a contrariety scarcely supportable. ‘O how,’ she cried, ‘shall I see her? Can joy blend with such terrour? Can I wish her approach, yet not dare to meet her eye?-that eye which never yet has looked at me, but to beam with bright kindness!-though a kindness that, even from my childhood, seemed to say, Camilla, be blameless-or you break your Mother’s heart!... my poor unhappy Mother! she has always seemed to have a presentiment8, I was born to bring her to sorrow!’
Expectation being now, for this night, wholly dead, the excess of her bodily fatigue9 urged her to take some repose10: but her ever eager imagination made her apprehensive11 her friends might find her too well, and suspect her representation was but to alarm them into returning kindness. A fourth night, therefore, passed without sleep, or the refreshment12 of taking off her cloaths; and by the time the morning sun shone in upon her apartment, she was too seriously disordered to make her illness require the aid of fancy. She was full of fever, faint, pallid13, weak, and shaken by nervous tremors14. ‘I think,’ she cried, ‘I am now certainly going; and never was death so welcomed by one so young. It will end in soft peace my brief, but stormy passage, and I shall owe to its solemn call the sacred blessing15 of my offended Mother!’
Tranquillised by this hope, and this idea, she now lost all sufferings but those of disease: her mind grew calm, her spirits serene16: all fears gave way to the certainty of soothing17 kindness-all grief was buried in the solemnity of expected dissolution.
But this composure outlived not the first hours of the morning; as they vainly advanced, producing no loved presence, no letter, no summons; solicitude18 revived, disappointment sunk her heart, and dread19 preyed20 again upon her nerves. She started at every sound; every breath of wind seemed portentous21; she listened upon the stairs; she dragged her feeble limbs to the parlour, to be nearer at hand; she forced them back again to her bed-room, to strain her aching eyes out of the window; but still no voice demanded her, and no person approached.
Peggy, who repeatedly came to tell her the hour, now assured her it was dinner time: unable to eat, she was heedless of the hint this conveyed, and it obtained from her no orders, till Peggy gave her innocently to understand the expectations of her host and hostess; but when, at five o’clock, the table was served, all force and courage forsook22 her. To be left thus to herself, when her situation was known; to be abandoned at an inn where she had confessed she thought herself dying; ‘My Mother,’ she cried, ‘cannot forgive me! my Father himself deserts me! O Edgar! you did well to fly so unhallowed a connexion!’
She left her dinner for Peggy, and crawling up stairs, cast herself upon the bed, with a desperate supplication23 she might rise from it no more. ‘The time,’ cried she, ‘is past for consolation24, and dead for hope! my parents’ own prayers have been averted25, and their prognostics fulfilled. May the dread forfeiture26, said my dearest Father, not extend through my daughters!–Alas27! Lionel himself has not brought upon him a disgrace such as I have done!–May Heaven, said my honoured Mother, spare me evil under your shape at least!-but under that it has come to her the most heavily!’
Dissolving, then, in sorrowing regret, recollections of maternal28 tenderness bathed her pillow with her tears, and reversing all the inducements to her sad resignation, abolished every wish but to fall again at the parental29 feet. ‘To see,’ cried she, ‘once more, the dear authors of my being! to receive their forgiveness, their blessing... to view again their honoured countenances30!-to hear once more their loved speech... Alas! was it I that fled the voice of my Mother? That voice which, till that moment, had been music to my mind! and never reached my ear, but as the precursor31 of all kindness! why did I not sooner at once kneel at her feet, and seek my lost path under my first and best guide?’
Shocked and contrite32 in this tardy33 view of the step she ought to have taken, she now languished34 to petition for pardon even for an offence unknown; and rising, took up a pen to relate the whole transaction. But her head was confused, and the attempt shewed her she was more ill than she had even herself suspected. She thought all rapidly advancing, and enthusiastically rejoiced.
Yet a second time she took the pen; but it had not touched the paper, when a buzzing, confused, stifled36 sort of noise from without drew her to the window.
She then perceived an immense crowd of people approaching slowly, and from a distance, towards the inn.
As they advanced, she was struck to hear no encrease of noise, save from the nearer trampling37 of feet. No voice was distinguishable; no one spoke38 louder than the rest; they seemed even to tread the ground with caution. They consisted of labourers, workmen, beggars, women, and children, joined by some accidental passengers: yet the general ‘hum of many’ was all that was heard; they were silent though numerous, solemn though mixt.
As they came near, she thought she perceived something in the midst of them like a bier, and caught a glimpse of a gentleman’s habit. Startled, she drew in; but soon, upon another view, discerned clearly a well-dressed man, stretched out his full length, and apparently39 dead.
Recoiling40, shuddering41, she hastily shut the window, ‘Yet why,’ she cried, the next moment, ‘and whence this emotion? Is not death what I am meeting?-seeking?-desiring?-what I court? what I pray for?’
She sighed, walked feebly up and down the room, hard and with effort, and then forced herself again to open the window, determined43 to contemplate44 steadily45 the anticipating object of her fervent46 demand.
Yet not without severe self-compulsion she flung up again the sash; but when she looked out, the crowd alone remained; the bier was gone.
Whether carried on, or brought into the house, she now wished to know, with some particulars, of whom it might be, and what belonged to so strange and horrible an appearance.
She rang for little Peggy; but Peggy came not. She rang again, but no one answered the bell.
She opened her door, meaning to descend47 to her little parlour for information; but the murmuring buzz she had before heard upon the road, was now within the house, which seemed filled with people, all busy and occupied, yet speaking low, and appearing to partake of a general awe48.
She could not venture to encounter so many spectators; she shut her door, to wait quietly till this first commotion49 should be passed.
This was not for more than an hour; when observing, from her window, that the crowd was dispersed50, she again listened at the door, and found that the general disturbance51 was succeeded by a stillness the most profound.
She then rang again, and little Peggy appeared, but looking pale and much frightened.
Camilla asked what had been the matter.
‘O ma’am,’ she answered, crying, ‘here’s been murder! A gentleman has been murdered-and nobody knows who he is, nor who has done it!’
She then related that he had been found dead in a wood hard by, and one person calling another, and another, he had been brought to the inn to be owned.
‘And is he here now?’ with an involuntary shudder42 asked Camilla.
Yes, she answered, but her mistress had ordered her not to own it, for fear of frightening the young lady; and said he would soon be carried away.
The tale was shocking, and, though scarce conscious why, Camilla desired Peggy to stay with her.
The little girl was most willing; but she was presently called down stairs; and Camilla, with strong shame of nameless fears and weak horrour, strove to meditate52 to some use upon this scene.
But her mind was disturbed, her composure was gone; her thoughts were broken, abrupt53, unfixed, and all upon which she could dwell with any steadiness, was the desire of one more appeal to her family, that yet they would consent to see her, if they received it in time; or that they should know in what frame of mind she expired, should it bring them too late.
With infinite difficulty, she then wrote the following lines; every bending down of her head making it ache nearly to distraction54.
‘Adieu, my dearest parents, if again it is denied me to see you! Adieu, my darling sisters! my tender uncle! I ask not now your forgiveness; I know I shall possess it fully55; my Father never withheld56 it,-and my Mother, if against herself alone I had sinned, would have been equally lenient57; would have probed but to heal, have corrected, but to pardon. O tenderest of united partners! bless, then, the early ashes of your erring58, but adoring daughter, who, from the moment she inflicted59 one wound upon your bosoms60, has found existence intolerable, and prays now but for her earthly release!
‘CAMILLA TYROLD.’
This she gave to Peggy, with a charge that, at any expence, it might be conveyed to the rectory at Etherington immediately.
‘And shall I not,’ thought she, when she had rested from this exertion62, ‘and may I not at such a period, with innocence63, with propriety64, write one poor word to him who was so near becoming first to me in all things?’
She again took her pen, but had only written ‘O Edgar! in this last farewell be all displeasure forgotten!-from the first to the final moment of my short life, dear and sole possessor of my heart!’-when the shooting anguish35 of her head stopt her hand, and hastily writing the direction, lest she could write no more, she, with difficulty added, ’Not to be delivered till I am dead;’ and was forced to lie down, and shut all light from her strained and aching eyes.
Peggy presently brought her word that all the horses were out, and every body was engaged, and that the note could not possibly go till the next day.
Extremely disappointed, she begged to speak with Mrs. Marl; who sent her word she was much engaged, but would wait upon her as soon as she was able.
Vainly, however, she expected her; it grew dusk; she felt herself worse every moment; flushed with fever, or shivering with cold, and her head nearly split asunder65 with agony. She determined to go once more down stairs, and offer to her host himself any reward he could claim, so he would undertake the immediate61 delivery of the letter.
With difficulty she arose; with slow steps, and tottering66, she descended67; but as she approached her little parlour, she heard voices in it, and stopt. They spoke low, and she could not distinguish them. The door of an adjoining room was open, and by its stillness empty; she resolved to ring there, to demand to speak with Mr. Marl. But as she dragged her weak limbs into the apartment, she saw, stretched out upon a large table, the same form, dress, and figure she had seen upon the bier.
Starting, almost fainting, but too much awed68 to call out, she held trembling by the door.
The bodily feebleness which impeded69 her immediate retreat, gave force to a little mental reflexion:
Do I shrink thus, thought she, from what so earnestly I have prayed to become... and so soon I must represent... a picture of death?
She now impelled70 herself towards the table. A cloth covered the face; she stood still, hesitating if she had power to remove it: but she thought it a call to her own self-examination; and though mentally recoiling, advanced. When close to the table, she stood still, violently trembling. Yet she would not allow herself to retreat. She now put forth71 her hand; but it shook suspended over the linen72, without courage to draw it aside. At length, however, with enthusiastic self-compulsion, slightly and fearfully, she lifted it up... but instantly, and with instinctive73 horrour, snatched her hand away, and placed it before her shut eyes.
She felt, now, she had tried herself beyond her courage, and, deeply moved, was fain to retreat; but in letting down her hand, to see her way, she found she had already removed the linen from a part of the face, and the view she unintentionally caught almost petrified74 her.
For some instants she stood motionless, from want of strength to stir, but with closed eyes, that feared to confirm their first surmise75; but when, turning from the ghastly visage, she attempted, without another glance, to glide76 away, an unavoidable view of the coat, which suddenly she recognized, put her conjecture77 beyond all doubt, that she now saw dead before her the husband of her sister.
Resentment78, in gentle minds, however merited and provoked, survives not the breath of the offender79. With the certainty no further evil can be practised, perishes vengeance80 against the culprit, though not hatred81 of the guilt82: and though, with the first movement of sisterly feelings, she would have said, Is Eugenia then released? the awe was too great, his own change was too solemn. He was now where no human eye could follow, no human judgment83 overtake him.
Again she endeavoured to escape the dreadful scene, but her shaking limbs were refractory84, and would not support her. The mortal being requires use to be reconciled to its own visible mortality; dismal85 is its view; grim, repulsive86, terrific its aspect.
But no sooner was her head turned from the dire2 object, than alarm for her sister took possession of her soul; and with what recollection she possessed87, she determined to go to Belfont.
An idea of any active service invigorates the body as well as the mind. She made another effort to depart, but a glance she knew not how to avoid shewed her, upon the coat of the right arm and right side of this ghastly figure, large splashes of blood.
With horrour thus accumulate, she now sunk upon the floor, inwardly exclaiming: He is murdered indeed!... and where may be Eugenia?
A woman who had in charge to watch by the corpse88, but who had privately89 stolen out for some refreshment, now returning, saw with affright the new person in the room, and ran to call Mrs. Marl; who, alarmed also at the sight of the young lady, and at her deplorable condition, assisted the woman to remove her from the apartment, and convey her to the chamber90, where she was laid down upon the bed, though she resisted being undressed, and was seized with an aguish shivering fit, while her eyes seemed emitting sparks of fire.
‘It is certainly now,’ cried she, ‘over, and hence I move no more!’
The joy with which, a few minutes before, she would have welcomed such a belief, was now converted into an awe unspeakable, undefinable. The wish of death is commonly but disgust of life, and looks forward to nothing further than release from worldly care:-but the something yet beyond... the something unknown, untried, yet to come, the bourne whence no traveller returns to prepare succeeding passengers for what they may expect, now abruptly91 presented itself to her consideration,... but came to scare, not to soothe92.
All here, she cried, I have wished to leave... but... have I fitted myself for what I am to meet?
Conscience now suddenly took the reins93 from the hands of imagination, and a mist was cleared away that hitherto, obscuring every duty by despondence, had hidden from her own perceptions the faulty basis of her desire. Conscience took the reins-and a mist was cleared away that had concealed94 from her view the cruelty of this egotism.
Those friends, it cried, which thus impatiently thou seekest to quit, have they not loved, cherished, reared thee with the most exquisite95 care and kindness? If they are offended, who has offended them? If thou art now abandoned, may it not be from necessity, or from accident? When thou hast inflicted upon them the severe pain of harbouring anger against what is so dear to them, wouldst thou load them with regret that they manifested any sensibility of thy errours? Hast thou plunged96 thy house in calamity97, and will no worthier98 wish occur to thee, than to leave it to its sorrows and distress99, with the aggravating100 pangs101 of causing thy afflicting102, however blamable self-desertion? of coming to thee... perhaps even now!... with mild forgiveness, and finding thee a self-devoted corpse?-not fallen, indeed, by the profane103 hand of daring suicide, but equally self-murdered through wilful104 self-neglect.
Had the voice been allowed sound which spoke this dire admonition, it could scarcely with more horrour, or keener repentance have struck her. ‘That poor man,’ she cried, ‘now delivering up his account, by whatever hand he perished, since less principled, less instructed than myself, may be criminal, perhaps, with less guilt!’
The thought now of her Father,-the piety105 he had striven to inculcate into her mind; his resignation to misfortune, and his trust through every suffering, all came home to her heart, with religious veneration106; and making prayer succeed to remorse107, guided her to what she knew would be his guidance if present, and she desired to hear the service for the sick.
Peggy could not read; Mrs. Marl was too much engaged; the whole house had ample employment, and her request was unattainable.
She then begged they would procure108 her a prayer-book, that she might try to read herself; but her eyes, heavy, aching, and dim, glared upon the paper, without distinguishing the print from the margin109.
‘I am worse!’ she cried faintly, ‘my wish comes fast upon me! Ah! not for my punishment let it finally arrive!’
With terror, however, even more than with malady110, she now trembled. The horrible sight she had witnessed, brought death before her in a new view. She feared she had been presumptuous111; she felt that her preparations had all been worldly, her impatience112 wholly selfish. She called back her wish, with penitence113 and affright: her agitation114 became torture, her regret was aggravated115 to remorse, her grief to despair.
1 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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2 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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3 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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4 transact | |
v.处理;做交易;谈判 | |
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5 avowal | |
n.公开宣称,坦白承认 | |
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6 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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7 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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8 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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9 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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10 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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11 apprehensive | |
adj.担心的,恐惧的,善于领会的 | |
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12 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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13 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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14 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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15 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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16 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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17 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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18 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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19 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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20 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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21 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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22 forsook | |
forsake的过去式 | |
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23 supplication | |
n.恳求,祈愿,哀求 | |
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24 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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25 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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26 forfeiture | |
n.(名誉等)丧失 | |
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27 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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28 maternal | |
adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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29 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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30 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
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31 precursor | |
n.先驱者;前辈;前任;预兆;先兆 | |
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32 contrite | |
adj.悔悟了的,后悔的,痛悔的 | |
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33 tardy | |
adj.缓慢的,迟缓的 | |
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34 languished | |
长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 ); 受折磨; 变得(越来越)衰弱; 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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35 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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36 stifled | |
(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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37 trampling | |
踩( trample的现在分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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38 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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39 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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40 recoiling | |
v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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41 shuddering | |
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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42 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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43 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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44 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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45 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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46 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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47 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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48 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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49 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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50 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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51 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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52 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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53 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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54 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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55 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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56 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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57 lenient | |
adj.宽大的,仁慈的 | |
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58 erring | |
做错事的,错误的 | |
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59 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 bosoms | |
胸部( bosom的名词复数 ); 胸怀; 女衣胸部(或胸襟); 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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61 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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62 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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63 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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64 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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65 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
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66 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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67 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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68 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 impeded | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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72 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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73 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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74 petrified | |
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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75 surmise | |
v./n.猜想,推测 | |
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76 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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77 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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78 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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79 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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80 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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81 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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82 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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83 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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84 refractory | |
adj.倔强的,难驾驭的 | |
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85 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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86 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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87 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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88 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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89 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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90 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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91 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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92 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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93 reins | |
感情,激情; 缰( rein的名词复数 ); 控制手段; 掌管; (成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的)保护带 | |
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94 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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95 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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96 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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97 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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98 worthier | |
应得某事物( worthy的比较级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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99 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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100 aggravating | |
adj.恼人的,讨厌的 | |
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101 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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102 afflicting | |
痛苦的 | |
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103 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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104 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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105 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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106 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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107 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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108 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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109 margin | |
n.页边空白;差额;余地,余裕;边,边缘 | |
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110 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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111 presumptuous | |
adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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112 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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113 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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114 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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115 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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