In which is Exhibited How a Practical Man and a Divining Woman Learn to Respect One Another
‘You see, you are my crutch,’ Lady Dunstane said to him,—raising the stick in reminder1 of the present.
He offered his arm and hurriedly informed her, to dispose of dull personal matter, that he had just landed. She looked at the clock. ‘Lukin is in town. You know the song: “Alas, I scarce can go or creep While Lukin is away.” I do not doubt you have succeeded in your business over there. Ah! Now I suppose you have confidence in your success. I should have predicted it, had you come to me.’ She stood, either musing3 or in weakness, and said abruptly4: ‘Will you object to lunching at one o’clock?’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Redworth. She had sighed: her voice betrayed some agitation5, strange in so serenely-minded a person.
His partial acquaintance with the Herculean Sir Lukin’s reputation in town inspired a fear of his being about to receive admission to the distressful6 confidences of the wife, and he asked if Mrs. Warwick was well. The answer sounded ominous7, with its accompaniment of evident pain: ‘I think her health is good.’
Had they quarrelled? He said he had not heard a word of Mrs. Warwick for several months.
‘I—heard from her this morning,’ said Lady Dunstane, and motioned him to a chair beside the sofa, where she half reclined, closing her eyes. The sight of tears on the eyelashes frightened him. She roused herself to look at the clock. ‘Providence or accident, you are here,’ she said. ‘I could not have prayed for the coming of a truer’ man. Mrs. Warwick is in great danger.... You know our love. She is the best of me, heart and soul. Her husband has chosen to act on vile9 suspicions—baseless, I could hold my hand in the fire and swear. She has enemies, or the jealous fury is on the man—I know little of him. He has commenced an action against her. He will rue8 it. But she... you understand this of women at least;—they are not cowards in all things!—but the horror of facing a public scandal: my poor girl writes of the hatefulness of having to act the complacent—put on her accustomed self! She would have to go about, a mark for the talkers, and behave as if nothing were in the air-full of darts10! Oh, that general whisper!—it makes a coup11 de massue—a gale12 to sink the bravest vessel13: and a woman must preserve her smoothest front; chat, smile—or else!—Well, she shrinks from it. I should too. She is leaving the country.’
‘Wrong!’ cried Redworth.
‘Wrong indeed. She writes, that in two days she will be out of it. Judge her as I do, though you are a man, I pray. You have seen the hunted hare. It is our education—we have something of the hare in us when the hounds are full cry. Our bravest, our best, have an impulse to run. “By this, poor Wat far off upon a hill.” Shakespeare would have the divine comprehension. I have thought all round it and come back to him. She is one of Shakespeare’s women: another character, but one of his own:—another Hermione! I dream of him—seeing her with that eye of steady flame. The bravest and best of us at bay in the world need an eye like his, to read deep and not be baffled by inconsistencies.’
Insensibly Redworth blinked. His consciousness of an exalted14 compassion15 for the lady was heated by these flights of advocacy to feel that he was almost seated beside the sovereign poet thus eulogized, and he was of a modest nature.
‘But you are practical,’ pursued Lady Dunstane, observing signs that she took for impatience16. ‘You are thinking of what can be done. If Lukin were here I would send him to The Crossways without a moment’s delay, on the chance, the mere17 chance:—it shines to me! If I were only a little stronger! I fear I might break down, and it would be unfair to my husband. He has trouble enough with my premature18 infirmities already. I am certain she will go to The Crossways. Tony is one of the women who burn to give last kisses to things they love. And she has her little treasures hoarded19 there. She was born there. Her father died there. She is three parts Irish—superstitious in affection. I know her so well. At this moment I see her there. If not, she has grown unlike herself.’
‘Have you a stout20 horse in the stables?’ Redworth asked.
‘You remember the mare21 Bertha; you have ridden her.’
‘The mare would do, and better than a dozen horses.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Let me mount Bertha, I engage to deliver a letter at The Crossways to-night.’
Lady Dunstane half inclined to act hesitation22 in accepting the aid she sought, but said: ‘Will you find your way?’
He spoke23 of three hours of daylight and a moon to rise. ‘She has often pointed24 out to me from your ridges25 where The Crossways lies, about three miles from the Downs, near a village named Storling, on the road to Brasted.
The house has a small plantation26 of firs behind it, and a bit of river—rare for Sussex—to the right. An old straggling red brick house at Crossways, a stone’s throw from a fingerpost on a square of green: roads to Brasted, London, Wickford, Riddlehurst. I shall find it. Write what you have to say, my lady, and confide2 it to me. She shall have it to-night, if she’s where you suppose. I’ll go, with your permission, and take a look at the mare. Sussex roads are heavy in this damp weather, and the frost coming on won’t improve them for a tired beast. We haven’t our rails laid down there yet.’
‘You make me admit some virtues27 in the practical,’ said Lady Dunstane; and had the poor fellow vollied forth28 a tale of the everlastingness29 of his passion for Diana, it would have touched her far less than his exact memory of Diana’s description of her loved birthplace.
She wrote:
‘I trust my messenger to tell you how I hang on you. I see my ship making for the rocks. You break your Emma’s heart. It will be the second wrong step. I shall not survive it. The threat has made me incapable31 of rushing to you, as I might have had strength to do yesterday. I am shattered, and I wait panting for Mr. Redworth’s return with you. He has called, by accident, as we say. Trust to him. If ever heaven was active to avert32 a fatal mischance it is today. You will not stand against my supplication33. It is my life I cry for. I have no more time. He starts. He leaves me to pray— like the mother seeing her child on the edge of the cliff. Come. This is your breast, my Tony? And your soul warns you it is right to come. Do rightly. Scorn other counsel—the coward’s. Come with our friend—the one man known to me who can be a friend of women.
‘Your EMMA.’
Redworth was in the room. ‘The mare’ll do it well,’ he said. ‘She has had her feed, and in five minutes will be saddled at the door.’
‘But you must eat, dear friend,’ said the hostess.
‘I’ll munch34 at a packet of sandwiches on the way. There seems a chance, and the time for lunching may miss it.’
‘You understand...?’
‘Everything, I fancy.’
‘If she is there!’
‘One break in the run will turn her back.’
The sensitive invalid35 felt a blow in his following up the simile36 of the hunted hare for her friend, but it had a promise of hopefulness. And this was all that could be done by earthly agents, under direction of spiritual, as her imagination encouraged her to believe.
She saw him start, after fortifying37 him with a tumbler of choice Bordeaux, thinking how Tony would have said she was like a lady arming her knight38 for battle. On the back of the mare he passed her window, after lifting his hat, and he thumped39 at his breast-pocket, to show her where the letter housed safely. The packet of provision bulged40 on his hip30, absurdly and blessedly to her sight, not unlike the man, in his combination of robust41 serviceable qualities, as she reflected during the later hours, until the sun fell on smouldering November woods, and sensations of the frost he foretold42 bade her remember that he had gone forth riding like a huntsman. His great-coat lay on a chair in the hall, and his travelling-bag was beside it. He had carried it up from the valley, expecting hospitality, and she had sent him forth half naked to weather a frosty November night! She called in the groom43, whose derision of a great-coat for any gentleman upon Bertha, meaning work for the mare, appeased44 her remorsefulness. Brisby, the groom, reckoned how long the mare would take to do the distance to Storling, with a rider like Mr. Redworth on her back. By seven, Brisby calculated, Mr. Redworth would be knocking at the door of the Three Ravens45 Inn, at Storling, when the mare would have a decent grooming46, and Mr. Redworth was not the gentleman to let her be fed out of his eye. More than that, Brisby had some acquaintance with the people of the inn. He begged to inform her ladyship that he was half a Sussex man, though not exactly born in the county; his parents had removed to Sussex after the great event; and the Downs were his first field of horse-exercise, and no place in the world was like them, fair weather or foul47, Summer or Winter, and snow ten feet deep in the gullies. The grandest air in England, he had heard say.
His mistress kept him to the discourse48, for the comfort of hearing hard bald matter-of-fact; and she was amused and rebuked50 by his assumption that she must be entertaining an anxiety about master’s favourite mare. But, ah! that Diana had delayed in choosing a mate; had avoided her disastrous51 union with perhaps a more imposing52 man, to see the true beauty of masculine character in Mr. Redworth, as he showed himself today. How could he have doubted succeeding? One grain more of faith in his energy, and Diana might have been mated to the right husband for her—an open-minded clear-faced English gentleman. Her speculative53 ethereal mind clung to bald matter-of-fact today. She would have vowed54 that it was the sole potentially heroical. Even Brisby partook of the reflected rays, and he was very benevolently55 considered by her. She dismissed him only when his recounting of the stages of Bertha’s journey began to fatigue56 her and deaden the medical efficacy of him and his like. Stretched on the sofa, she watched the early sinking sun in South-western cloud, and the changes from saffron to intensest crimson57, the crown of a November evening, and one of frost.
Redworth struck on a southward line from chalk-ridge to sand, where he had a pleasant footing in familiar country, under beeches58 that browned the ways, along beside a meadowbrook fed by the heights, through pines and across deep sand-ruts to full view of weald and Downs. Diana had been with him here in her maiden59 days. The coloured back of a coach put an end to that dream. He lightened his pocket, surveying the land as he munched60. A favourable61 land for rails: and she had looked over it: and he was now becoming a wealthy man: and she was a married woman straining the leash62. His errand would not bear examination, it seemed such a desperate long shot. He shut his inner vision on it, and pricked63 forward. When the burning sunset shot waves above the juniper and yews64 behind him, he was far on the weald, trotting65 down an interminable road. That the people opposing railways were not people of business, was his reflection, and it returned persistently67: for practical men, even the most devoted68 among them, will think for themselves; their army, which is the rational, calls them to its banners, in opposition69 to the sentimental70; and Redworth joined it in the abstract, summoning the horrible state of the roads to testify against an enemy wanting almost in common humaneness71. A slip of his excellent stepper in one of the half-frozen pits of the highway was the principal cause of his confusion of logic72; she was half on her knees. Beyond the market town the roads were so bad that he quitted them, and with the indifference73 of an engineer, struck a line of his own Southeastward over fields and ditches, favoured by a round horizon moon on his left. So for a couple of hours he went ahead over rolling fallow land to the meadow-flats and a pale shining of freshets; then hit on a lane skirting the water, and reached an amphibious village; five miles from Storling, he was informed, and a clear traverse of lanes, not to be mistaken, ‘if he kept a sharp eye open.’ The sharpness of his eyes was divided between the sword-belt of the starry74 Hunter and the shifting lanes that zig-tagged his course below. The Downs were softly illumined; still it amazed him to think of a woman like Diana Warwick having an attachment76 to this district, so hard of yield, mucky, featureless, fit but for the rails she sided with her friend in detesting77. Reasonable women, too! The moon, stood high on her march as he entered Storling. He led his good beast to the stables of The Three Ravens, thanking her and caressing78 her. The ostler conjectured79 from the look of the mare that he had been out with the hounds and lost his way. It appeared to Redworth singularly, that near the ending of a wild goose chase, his plight80 was pretty well described by the fellow. However, he had to knock at the door of The Crossways now, in the silent night time, a certainly empty house, to his fancy. He fed on a snack of cold meat and tea, standing81, and set forth, clearly directed, ‘if he kept a sharp eye open.’ Hitherto he had proved his capacity, and he rather smiled at the repetition of the formula to him, of all men. A turning to the right was taken, one to the left, and through the churchyard, out of the gate, round to the right, and on. By this route, after an hour, he found himself passing beneath the bare chestnuts82 of the churchyard wall of Storling, and the sparkle of the edges of the dead chestnut-leaves at his feet reminded him of the very ideas he had entertained when treading them. The loss of an hour strung him to pursue the chase in earnest, and he had a beating of the heart as he thought that it might be serious. He recollected83 thinking it so at Copsley. The long ride, and nightfall, with nothing in view, had obscured his mind to the possible behind the thick obstruction84 of the probable; again the possible waved its marsh-light. To help in saving her from a fatal step, supposing a dozen combinations of the conditional85 mood, became his fixed86 object, since here he was—of that there was no doubt; and he was not here to play the fool, though the errand were foolish. He entered the churchyard, crossed the shadow of the tower, and hastened along the path, fancying he beheld87 a couple of figures vanishing before him. He shouted; he hoped to obtain directions from these natives: the moon was bright, the gravestones legible; but no answer came back, and the place appeared to belong entirely88 to the dead. ‘I’ve frightened them,’ he thought. They left a queerish sensation in his frame. A ride down to Sussex to see ghosts would be an odd experience; but an undigested dinner of tea is the very grandmother of ghosts; and he accused it of confusing him, sight and mind. Out of the gate, now for the turning to the right, and on. He turned. He must have previously89 turned wrongly somewhere—and where? A light in a cottage invited him to apply for the needed directions. The door was opened by a woman, who had never heard tell of The Crossways, nor had her husband, nor any of the children crowding round them. A voice within ejaculated: ‘Crassways!’ and soon upon the grating of a chair, an old man, whom the woman named her lodger90, by way of introduction, presented himself with his hat on, saying: ‘I knows the spot they calls Crassways,’ and he led. Redworth understood the intention that a job was to be made of it, and submitting, said: ‘To the right, I think.’ He was bidden to come along, if he wanted ‘they Crassways,’ and from the right they turned to the left, and further sharp round, and on to a turn, where the old man, otherwise incommunicative, said: ‘There, down thik theer road, and a post in the middle.’
‘I want a house, not a post!’ roared Redworth, spying a bare space.
The old man despatched a finger travelling to his nob. ‘Naw, there’s ne’er a house. But that’s crassways for four roads, if it ‘s crassways, you wants.’
They journeyed backward. They were in such a maze75 of lanes that the old man was master, and Redworth vowed to be rid of him at the first cottage. This, however, they were long in reaching, and the old man was promptly91 through the garden-gate, hailing the people and securing ‘information, before Redworth could well hear. He smiled at the dogged astuteness92 of a dense-headed old creature determined93 to establish a claim to his fee. They struck a lane sharp to the left.
‘You’re Sussex?’ Redworth asked him, and was answered: ‘Naw; the Sheers.’
Emerging from deliberation, the old man said: ‘Ah’m a Hampshireman.’
‘A capital county!’
‘Heigh!’ The old man heaved his chest. ‘Once!’
‘Why, what has happened to it?’
‘Once it were a capital county, I say. Hah! you asks me what have happened to it. You take and go and look at it now. And down heer’ll be no better soon, I tells ’em. When ah was a boy, old Hampshire was a proud country, wi’ the old coaches and the old squires94, and Harvest Homes, and Christmas merryings.—Cutting up the land! There’s no pride in livin’ theer, nor anywhere, as I sees, now.’
‘You mean the railways.’
‘It’s the Devil come up and abroad ower all England!’ exclaimed the melancholy95 ancient patriot96.
A little cheering was tried on him, but vainly. He saw with unerring distinctness the triumph of the Foul Potentate97, nay98 his personal appearance ‘in they theer puffin’ engines.’ The country which had produced Andrew Hedger, as he stated his name to be, would never show the same old cricketing commons it did when he was a boy. Old England, he declared, was done for.
When Redworth applied99 to his watch under the brilliant moonbeams, he discovered that he had been listening to this natural outcry of a decaying and shunted class full three-quarters of an hour, and The Crossways was not in sight. He remonstrated100. The old man plodded101 along. ‘We must do as we’re directed,’ he said.
Further walking brought them to a turn. Any turn seemed hopeful. Another turn offered the welcome sight of a blazing doorway102 on a rise of ground off the road. Approaching it, the old man requested him to ‘bide a bit,’ and stalked the ascent103 at long strides. A vigorous old fellow. Redworth waited below, observing how he joined the group at the lighted door, and, as it was apparent, put his question of the whereabout of The Crossways. Finally, in extreme impatience, he walked up to the group of spectators. They were all, and Andrew Hedger among them, the most entranced and profoundly reverent104, observing the dissection105 of a pig.
Unable to awaken106 his hearing, Redworth jogged his arm, and the shake was ineffective until it grew in force.
‘I’ve no time to lose; have they told you the way?’
Andrew Hedger yielded his arm. He slowly withdrew his intent fond gaze from the fair outstretched white carcase, and with drooping107 eyelids108, he said: ‘Ah could eat hog109 a solid hower!’
He had forgotten to ask the way, intoxicated110 by the aspect of the pig; and when he did ask it, he was hard of understanding, given wholly to his last glimpses.
Redworth got the directions. He would have dismissed Mr. Andrew Hedger, but there was no doing so. ‘I’ll show ye on to The Crossways House,’ the latter said, implying that he had already earned something by showing him The Crossways post.
‘Hog’s my feed,’ said Andrew Hedger. The gastric111 springs of eloquence112 moved him to discourse, and he unburdened himself between succulent pauses. ‘They’ve killed him early. He ‘s fat; and he might ha’ been fatter. But he’s fat. They’ve got their Christmas ready, that they have. Lord! you should see the chitterlings, and—the sausages hung up to and along the beams. That’s a crown for any dwellin’! They runs ’em round the top of the room—it’s like a May-day wreath in old times. Home-fed hog! They’ve a treat in store, they have. And snap your fingers at the world for many a long day. And the hams! They cure their own hams at that house. Old style! That’s what I say of a hog. He’s good from end to end, and beats a Christian113 hollow. Everybody knows it and owns it.’
Redworth was getting tired. In sympathy with current conversation, he said a word for the railways: they would certainly make the flesh of swine cheaper, bring a heap of hams into the market. But Andrew Hedger remarked with contempt that he had not much opinion of foreign hams: nobody, knew what they fed on. Hog, he said, would feed on anything, where there was no choice they had wonderful stomachs for food. Only, when they had a choice, they left the worst for last, and home-fed filled them with stuff to make good meat and fat ‘what we calls prime bacon.’ As it is not right to damp a native enthusiasm, Redworth let him dilate114 on his theme, and mused49 on his boast to eat hog a solid hour, which roused some distant classic recollection:—an odd jumble115.
They crossed the wooden bridge of a flooded stream.
‘Now ye have it,’ said the hog-worshipper; ‘that may be the house, I reckon.’
A dark mass of building, with the moon behind it, shining in spires116 through a mound117 of firs, met Redworth’s gaze. The windows all were blind, no smoke rose from the chimneys. He noted118 the dusky square of green, and the finger-post signalling the centre of the four roads. Andrew Hedger repeated that it was The Crossways house, ne’er a doubt. Redworth paid him his expected fee, whereupon Andrew, shouldering off, wished him a hearty119 good night, and forthwith departed at high pedestrian pace, manifestly to have a concluding look at the beloved anatomy120.
There stood the house. Absolutely empty! thought Redworth. The sound of the gate-bell he rang was like an echo to him. The gate was unlocked. He felt a return of his queer churchyard sensation when walking up the garden-path, in the shadow of the house. Here she was born: here her father died: and this was the station of her dreams, as a girl at school near London and in Paris. Her heart was here. He looked at the windows facing the Downs with dead eyes. The vivid idea of her was a phantom121 presence, and cold, assuring him that the bodily Diana was absent. Had Lady Dunstane guessed rightly, he might perhaps have been of service!
Anticipating the blank silence, he rang the house-bell. It seemed to set wagging a weariful tongue in a corpse122. The bell did its duty to the last note, and one thin revival123 stroke, for a finish, as in days when it responded livingly to the guest. He pulled, and had the reply, just the same, with the faint terminal touch, resembling exactly a ‘There!’ at the close of a voluble delivery in the negative. Absolutely empty. He pulled and pulled. The bell wagged, wagged. This had been a house of a witty124 host, a merry girl, junketting guests; a house of hilarious125 thunders, lightnings of fun and fancy. Death never seemed more voiceful than in that wagging of the bell.
For conscience’ sake, as became a trusty emissary, he walked round to the back of the house, to verify the total emptiness. His apprehensive126 despondency had said that it was absolutely empty, but upon consideration he supposed the house must have some guardian127: likely enough, an old gardener and his wife, lost in deafness double-shotted by sleep! There was no sign of them. The night air waxed sensibly crisper. He thumped the backdoors. Blank hollowness retorted on the blow. He banged and kicked. The violent altercation128 with wood and wall lasted several minutes, ending as it had begun.
Flesh may worry, but is sure to be worsted in such an argument.
‘Well, my dear lady!’—Redworth addressed Lady Dunstane aloud, while driving his hands into his pockets for warmth—‘we’ve done what we could. The next best thing is to go to bed and see what morning brings us.’
The temptation to glance at the wild divinings of dreamy-witted women from the point of view of the practical man, was aided by the intense frigidity129 of the atmosphere in leading him to criticize a sex not much used to the exercise of brains. ‘And they hate railways!’ He associated them, in the matter of intelligence, with Andrew Hedger and Company. They sank to the level of the temperature in his esteem—as regarded their intellects. He approved their warmth of heart. The nipping of the victim’s toes and finger-tips testified powerfully to that.
Round to the front of the house at a trot66, he stood in moonlight. Then, for involuntarily he now did everything running, with a dash up the steps he seized the sullen130 pendant bell-handle, and worked it pumpwise, till he perceived a smaller bell-knob beside the door, at which he worked piston131-wise. Pump and piston, the hurly-burly and the tinkler created an alarm to scare cat and mouse and Cardinal132 spider, all that run or weave in desolate133 houses, with the good result of a certain degree of heat to his frame. He ceased, panting. No stir within, nor light. That white stare of windows at the moon was undisturbed.
The Downs were like a wavy134 robe of shadowy grey silk. No wonder that she had loved to look on them!
And it was no wonder that Andrew Hedger enjoyed prime bacon. Bacon frizzling, fat rashers of real homefed on the fire-none of your foreign-suggested a genial135 refreshment136 and resistance to antagonistic137 elements. Nor was it, granting health, granting a sharp night—the temperature at least fifteen below zero—an excessive boast for a man to say he could go on eating for a solid hour.
These were notions darting138 through a half nourished gentleman nipped in the frame by a severely139 frosty night. Truly a most beautiful night! She would have delighted to see it here. The Downs were like floating islands, like fairy-laden vapours; solid, as Andrew Hedger’s hour of eating; visionary, as too often his desire!
Redworth muttered to himself, after taking the picture of the house and surrounding country from the sward, that he thought it about the sharpest night he had ever encountered in England. He was cold, hungry, dispirited, and astoundingly stricken with an incapacity to separate any of his thoughts from old Andrew Hedger. Nature was at her pranks140 upon him.
He left the garden briskly, as to the legs, and reluctantly. He would have liked to know whether Diana had recently visited the house, or was expected. It could be learnt in the morning; but his mission was urgent and he on the wings of it. He was vexed141 and saddened.
Scarcely had he closed the garden-gate when the noise of an opening window arrested him, and he called. The answer was in a feminine voice, youngish, not disagreeable, though not Diana’s.
He heard none of the words, but rejoined in a bawl142: ‘Mrs. Warwick!—Mr. Redworth!’
That was loud enough for the deaf or the dead.
The window closed. He went to the door and waited. It swung wide to him; and O marvel143 of a woman’s divination144 of a woman! there stood Diana.
1 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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2 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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3 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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4 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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5 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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6 distressful | |
adj.苦难重重的,不幸的,使苦恼的 | |
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7 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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8 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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9 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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10 darts | |
n.掷飞镖游戏;飞镖( dart的名词复数 );急驰,飞奔v.投掷,投射( dart的第三人称单数 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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11 coup | |
n.政变;突然而成功的行动 | |
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12 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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13 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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14 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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15 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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16 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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17 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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18 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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19 hoarded | |
v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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22 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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23 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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24 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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25 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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26 plantation | |
n.种植园,大农场 | |
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27 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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28 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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29 everlastingness | |
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30 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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31 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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32 avert | |
v.防止,避免;转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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33 supplication | |
n.恳求,祈愿,哀求 | |
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34 munch | |
v.用力嚼,大声咀嚼 | |
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35 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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36 simile | |
n.直喻,明喻 | |
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37 fortifying | |
筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 ); 筑堡于; 增强; 强化(食品) | |
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38 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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39 thumped | |
v.重击, (指心脏)急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 bulged | |
凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 ); 充满; 塞满(某物) | |
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41 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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42 foretold | |
v.预言,预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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44 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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45 ravens | |
n.低质煤;渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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46 grooming | |
n. 修饰, 美容,(动物)梳理毛发 | |
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47 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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48 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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49 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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50 rebuked | |
责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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52 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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53 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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54 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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55 benevolently | |
adv.仁慈地,行善地 | |
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56 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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57 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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58 beeches | |
n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 );山毛榉木材 | |
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59 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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60 munched | |
v.用力咀嚼(某物),大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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62 leash | |
n.牵狗的皮带,束缚;v.用皮带系住 | |
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63 pricked | |
刺,扎,戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 ); 刺伤; 刺痛; 使剧痛 | |
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64 yews | |
n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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65 trotting | |
小跑,急走( trot的现在分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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66 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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67 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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68 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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69 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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70 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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71 humaneness | |
n.深情,慈悲 | |
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72 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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73 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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74 starry | |
adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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75 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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76 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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77 detesting | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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78 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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79 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
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81 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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82 chestnuts | |
n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 );栗色;栗树;栗色马 | |
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83 recollected | |
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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84 obstruction | |
n.阻塞,堵塞;障碍物 | |
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85 conditional | |
adj.条件的,带有条件的 | |
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86 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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87 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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88 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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89 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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90 lodger | |
n.寄宿人,房客 | |
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91 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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92 astuteness | |
n.敏锐;精明;机敏 | |
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93 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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94 squires | |
n.地主,乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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95 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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96 patriot | |
n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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97 potentate | |
n.统治者;君主 | |
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98 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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99 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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100 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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101 plodded | |
v.沉重缓慢地走(路)( plod的过去式和过去分词 );努力从事;沉闷地苦干;缓慢进行(尤指艰难枯燥的工作) | |
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102 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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103 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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104 reverent | |
adj.恭敬的,虔诚的 | |
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105 dissection | |
n.分析;解剖 | |
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106 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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107 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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108 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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109 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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110 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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111 gastric | |
adj.胃的 | |
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112 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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113 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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114 dilate | |
vt.使膨胀,使扩大 | |
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115 jumble | |
vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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116 spires | |
n.(教堂的) 塔尖,尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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117 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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118 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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119 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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120 anatomy | |
n.解剖学,解剖;功能,结构,组织 | |
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121 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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122 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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123 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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124 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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125 hilarious | |
adj.充满笑声的,欢闹的;[反]depressed | |
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126 apprehensive | |
adj.担心的,恐惧的,善于领会的 | |
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127 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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128 altercation | |
n.争吵,争论 | |
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129 frigidity | |
n.寒冷;冷淡;索然无味;(尤指妇女的)性感缺失 | |
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130 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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131 piston | |
n.活塞 | |
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132 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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133 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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134 wavy | |
adj.有波浪的,多浪的,波浪状的,波动的,不稳定的 | |
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135 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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136 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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137 antagonistic | |
adj.敌对的 | |
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138 darting | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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139 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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140 pranks | |
n.玩笑,恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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141 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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142 bawl | |
v.大喊大叫,大声地喊,咆哮 | |
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143 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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144 divination | |
n.占卜,预测 | |
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