Contains Matter for Subsequent Explosion
Among the various letters inundating1 Sir Lukin Dunstane upon the report of the triumph of surgical2 skill achieved by Sir William Macpherson and Mr. Lanyan Thomson, was one from Lady Wathin, dated Adlands, an estate of Mr. Quintin Manx’s in Warwickshire, petitioning for the shortest line of reassurance3 as to the condition of her dear cousin, and an intimation of the period when it might be deemed possible for a relative to call and offer her sincere congratulations: a letter deserving a personal reply, one would suppose. She received the following, in a succinct4 female hand corresponding to its terseness5; every ’t’ righteously crossed, every ‘i’ punctiliously6 dotted, as she remarked to Constance Asper, to whom the communication was transferred for perusal7:
‘DEAR LADY WATHIN,—Lady Dunstane is gaining strength. The measure of her pulse indicates favourably8. She shall be informed in good time of your solicitude9 for her recovery. The day cannot yet be named for visits of any kind. You will receive information as soon as the house is open.
‘I have undertaken the task of correspondence, and beg you to believe me,
‘Very truly yours, ‘D. A. WARWICK.’
Miss Asper speculated on the handwriting of her rival. She obtained permission to keep the letter, with the intention of transmitting it per post to an advertising10 interpreter of character in caligraphy.
Such was the character of the fair young heiress, exhibited by her performances much more patently than the run of a quill11 would reveal it.
She said, ‘It is rather a pretty hand, I think.’
‘Mrs. Warwick is a practised writer,’ said Lady Wathin. ‘Writing is her profession, if she has any. She goes to nurse my cousin. Her husband says she is an excellent nurse. He says what he can for her. But you must be in the last extremity12, or she is ice. His appeal to her has been totally disregarded. Until he drops down in the street, as his doctor expects him to do some day, she will continue her course; and even then...’ An adventuress desiring her freedom! Lady Wathin looked. She was too devout13 a woman to say what she thought. But she knew the world to be very wicked. Of Mrs. Warwick, her opinion was formed. She would not have charged the individual creature with a criminal design; all she did was to stuff the person her virtue14 abhorred15 with the wickedness of the world, and that is a common process in antipathy16.
She sympathized, moreover, with the beautiful devotedness17 of the wealthy heiress to her ideal of man. It had led her to make the acquaintance of old Lady Dacier, at the house in town, where Constance Asper had first met Percy; Mrs. Grafton Winstanley’s house, representing neutral territory or debateable land for the occasional intercourse19 of the upper class and the climbing in the professions or in commerce; Mrs. Grafton Winstanley being on the edge of aristocracy by birth, her husband, like Mr. Quintin Manx, a lord of fleets. Old Lady Dacier’s bluntness in speaking of her grandson would have shocked Lady Wathin as much as it astonished, had she been less of an ardent20 absorber of aristocratic manners. Percy was plainly called a donkey, for hanging off and on with a handsome girl of such expectations as Miss Asper. ‘But what you can’t do with a horse, you can’t hope to do with a donkey.’ She added that she had come for the purpose of seeing the heiress, of whose points of person she delivered a judgement critically appreciative21 as a horsefancier’s on the racing22 turf. ‘If a girl like that holds to it, she’s pretty sure to get him at last. It ‘s no use to pull his neck down to the water.’
Lady Wathin delicately alluded23 to rumours24 of an entanglement25, an admiration27 he had, ahem.
‘A married woman,’ the veteran nodded. ‘I thought that was off? She must be a clever intriguer28 to keep him so long.’
‘She is undoubtedly29 clever,’ said Lady Wathin, and it was mumbled30 in her hearing: ‘The woman seems to have a taste for our family.’
They agreed that they could see nothing to be done. The young lady must wither31, Mrs. Warwick have her day. The veteran confided32 her experienced why to Lady Wathin: ‘All the tales you tell of a woman of that sort are sharp sauce to the palates of men.’
They might be, to the men of the dreadful gilded34 idle class!
Mrs. Warwick’s day appeared indefinitely prolonged, judging by Percy Dacier’s behaviour to Miss Asper. Lady Wathin watched them narrowly when she had the chance, a little ashamed of her sex, or indignant rather at his display of courtliness in exchange for her open betrayal of her preference. It was almost to be wished that she would punish him by sacrificing herself to one of her many brilliant proposals of marriage. But such are women!—precisely because of his holding back he tightened35 the cord attaching him to her tenacious36 heart. This was the truth. For the rest, he was gracefully37 courteous38; an observer could perceive the charm he exercised. He talked with a ready affability, latterly with greater social ease; evidently not acting39 the indifferent conqueror40, or so consummately41 acting it as to mask the air. And yet he was ambitious, and he was not rich. Notoriously was he ambitious, and with wealth to back him, a great entertaining house, troops of adherents42, he would gather influence, be propelled to leadership. The vexation of a constant itch43 to speak to him on the subject, and the recognition, that he knew it all as well as she, tormented44 Lady Wathin. He gave her comforting news of her dear cousin in the Winter.
‘You have heard from Mrs. Warwick?’ she said.
He replied, ‘I had the latest from Mr. Redworth.’
‘Mrs. Warwick has relinquished45 her post?’
‘When she does, you may be sure that Lady Dunstane is, perfectly46 reestablished.’
‘She is an excellent nurse.’
‘The best, I believe.’
‘It is a good quality in sickness.’
‘Proof of good all through.’
‘Her husband might have the advantage of it. His state is really pathetic. If she has feeling, and could only be made aware, she might perhaps be persuaded to pass from the friendly to the wifely duty.’
Mr. Dacier bent47 his head to listen, and he bowed.
He was fast in the toils48; and though we have assurance that evil cannot triumph in perpetuity, the aspect of it throning provokes a kind of despair. How strange if ultimately the lawyers once busy about the uncle were to take up the case of the nephew, and this time reverse the issue, by proving it! For poor Mr. Warwick was emphatic49 on the question of his honour. It excited him dangerously. He was long-suffering, but with the slightest clue terrible. The unknotting of the entanglement might thus happen—and Constance Asper would welcome her hero still.
Meanwhile there was actually nothing to be done: a deplorable absence of motive50 villainy; apparently52 an absence of the beneficent Power directing events to their proper termination. Lady Wathin heard of her cousin’s having been removed to Cowes in May, for light Solent and Channel voyages on board Lord Esquart’s yacht. She heard also of heavy failures and convulsions in the City of London, quite unconscious that the Fates, or agents of the Providence53 she invoked54 to precipitate55 the catastrophe56, were then beginning cavernously their performance of the part of villain51 in Diana’s history.
Diana and Emma enjoyed happy quiet sailings under May breezes on the many-coloured South-western waters, heart in heart again; the physical weakness of the one, the moral weakness of the other, creating that mutual57 dependency which makes friendship a pulsating58 tie. Diana’s confession59 had come of her letter to Emma. When the latter was able to examine her correspondence, Diana brought her the heap for perusal, her own sealed scribble60, throbbing61 with all the fatal might-have-been, under her eyes. She could have concealed62 and destroyed it. She sat beside her friend, awaiting her turn, hearing her say at the superscription: ‘Your writing, Tony?’ and she nodded. She was asked: ‘Shall I read it?’ She answered: ‘Read.’ They were soon locked in an embrace. Emma had no perception of coldness through those brief dry lines; her thought was of the matter.
‘The danger is over now?’ she said.
‘Yes, that danger is over now.’
‘You have weathered it?’
‘I love him.’
Emma dropped a heavy sigh in pity of her, remotely in compassion63 for Redworth, the loving and unbeloved. She was too humane64 and wise of our nature to chide65 her Tony for having her sex’s heart. She had charity to bestow66 on women; in defence of them against men and the world, it was a charity armed with the weapons of battle. The wife madly stripped before the world by a jealous husband, and left chained to the rock, her youth wasting, her blood arrested, her sensibilities chilled and assailing67 her under their multitudinous disguises, and for whom the world is merciless, called forth68 Emma’s tenderest commiseration69; and that wife being Tony, and stricken with the curse of love, in other circumstances the blessing70, Emma bled for her.
‘But nothing desperate?’ she said.
‘No; you have saved me.’
‘I would knock at death’s doors again, and pass them, to be sure of that.’
‘Kiss me; you may be sure. I would not put my lips to your cheek if there were danger of my faltering71.’
‘But you love him.’
‘I do: and because I love him I will not let him be fettered72 to me.’
‘You will see him.’
‘Do not imagine that his persuasions73 undermined your Tony. I am subject to panics.’
‘Was it your husband?’
‘I had a visit from Lady Wathin. She knows him. She came as peacemaker. She managed to hint at his authority. Then came a letter from him—of supplication74, interpenetrated with the hint: a suffused75 atmosphere. Upon that; unexpected by me, my—let me call him so once, forgive me!—lover came. Oh! he loves me, or did then. Percy! He had been told that I should be claimed. I felt myself the creature I am-a wreck76 of marriage. But I fancied I could serve him:—I saw golden. My vanity was the chief traitor77. Cowardice78 of course played a part. In few things that we do, where self is concerned, will cowardice not be found. And the hallucination colours it to seem a lovely heroism79. That was the second time Mr. Redworth arrived. I am always at crossways, and he rescues me; on this occasion unknowingly.’
‘There’s a divinity...’ said Emma. ‘When I think of it I perceive that Patience is our beneficent fairy godmother, who brings us our harvest in the long result.’
‘My dear, does she bring us our labourers’ rations80, to sustain us for the day?’ said Diana.’
‘Poor fare, but enough.’
‘I fear I was born godmotherless.’
‘You have stores of patience, Tony; only now and then fits of desperation.’
‘My nature’s frailty81, the gap in it: we will give it no fine names—they cover our pitfalls82. I am open to be carried on a tide of unreasonableness83 when the coward cries out. But I can say, dear, that after one rescue, a similar temptation is unlikely to master me. I do not subscribe84 to the world’s decrees for love of the monster, though I am beginning to understand the dues of allegiance. We have ceased to write letters. You may have faith in me.’
‘I have, with my whole soul,’ said Emma.
So the confession closed; and in the present instance there were not any forgotten chambers85 to be unlocked and ransacked86 for addenda87 confessions88.
The subjects discoursed89 of by the two endeared the hours to them. They were aware that the English of the period would have laughed a couple of women to scorn for venturing on them, and they were not a little hostile in consequence, and shot their epigrams profusely90, applauding the keener that appeared to score the giant bulk of their intolerant enemy, who holds the day, but not the morrow. Us too he holds for the day, to punish us if we have temporal cravings. He scatters92 his gifts to the abject93; tossing to us rebels bare dog-biscuit. But the life of the spirit is beyond his region; we have our morrow in his day when we crave94 nought95 of him. Diana and Emma delighted to discover that they were each the rebel of their earlier and less experienced years; each a member of the malcontent96 minor97 faction98, the salt of earth, to whom their salt must serve for nourishment99, as they admitted, relishing100 it determinedly101, not without gratification.
Sir Lukin was busy upon his estate in Scotland. They summoned young Arthur Rhodes to the island, that he might have a taste of the new scenes. Diana was always wishing for his instruction and refreshment102; and Redworth came to spend a Saturday and Sunday with them, and showed his disgust of the idle boy, as usual, at the same time consulting them on the topic of furniture for the Berkshire mansion103 he had recently bought, rather vaunting the Spanish pictures his commissioner104 in Madrid was transmitting. The pair of rebels, vexed105 by his treatment of the respectful junior, took him for an incarnation of their enemy, and pecked and worried the man astonishingly. He submitted to it like the placable giant. Yes, he was a Liberal, and furnishing and decorating the house in the stability of which he trusted. Why not? We must accept the world as it is, try to improve it by degrees.—Not so: humanity will not wait for you, the victims are shrieking106 beneath the bricks of your enormous edifice107, behind the canvas of your pictures. ‘But you may really say that luxurious108 yachting is an odd kind of insurgency109,’ avowed110 Diana. ‘It’s the tangle26 we are in.’
‘It’s the coat we have to wear; and why fret112 at it for being comfortable?’
‘I don’t half enough, when I think of my shivering neighbours.’
‘Money is of course a rough test of virtue,’ said Redworth. ‘We have no other general test.’
Money! The ladies proclaimed it a mere113 material test; Diana, gazing on sunny sea, with an especial disdain114. And name us your sort of virtue. There is more virtue in poverty, He denied that. Inflexibly115 British, he declared money, and also the art of getting money, to be hereditary116 virtues117, deserving of their reward. The reward a superior wealth and its fruits? Yes, the power to enjoy and spread enjoyment118: and let idleness envy both! He abused idleness, and by implication the dilettante119 insurgency fostering it. However, he was compensatingly heterodox in his view of the Law’s persecution120 of women; their pertinacious121 harpings on the theme had brought him to that; and in consideration of the fact, as they looked from yacht to shore, of their being rebels participating largely in the pleasures of the tyrant’s court, they allowed him to silence them, and forgave him.
Thoughts upon money and idleness were in confusion with Diana. She had a household to support in London, and she was not working; she could not touch THE CANTATRICE while Emma was near. Possibly, she again ejaculated, the Redworths of the world were right: the fruitful labours were with the mattock and hoe, or the mind directing them. It was a crushing invasion of materialism122, so she proposed a sail to the coast of France, and thither123 they flew, touching124 Cherbourg, Alderney, Sark, Guernsey, and sighting the low Brittany rocks. Memorable125 days to Arthur Rhodes. He saw perpetually the one golden centre in new scenes. He heard her voice, he treasured her sayings; her gestures, her play of lip and eyelid126, her lift of head, lightest movements, were imprinted127 on him, surely as the heavens are mirrored in the quiet seas, firmly and richly as earth answers to the sprinkled grain. For he was blissfully athirst, untroubled by a hope. She gave him more than she knew of: a present that kept its beating heart into the future; a height of sky, a belief in nobility, permanent through manhood down to age. She was his foam-born Goddess of those leaping waters; differently hued128, crescented, a different influence. He had a happy week, and it charmed Diana to hear him tell her so. In spite of Redworth, she had faith in the fruit-bearing powers of a time of simple happiness, and shared the youth’s in reflecting it. Only the happiness must be simple, that of the glass to the lovely face: no straining of arms to retain, no heaving of the bosom129 in vacancy130.
His poverty and capacity for pure enjoyment led her to think of him almost clingingly when hard news reached her from the quaint18 old City of London, which despises poverty and authorcraft and all mean adventurers, and bows to the lordly merchant, the mighty131 financier, Redworth’s incarnation of the virtues. Happy days on board the yacht Clarissa! Diana had to recall them with effort. They who sow their money for a promising132 high percentage have built their habitations on the sides of the most eruptive mountain in Europe. AEtna supplies more certain harvests, wrecks133 fewer vineyards and peaceful dwellings134. The greed of gain is our volcano. Her wonder leapt up at the slight inducement she had received to embark135 her money in this Company: a South–American mine, collapsed136 almost within hearing of the trumpets137 of prospectus138, after two punctual payments of the half-yearly interest. A Mrs. Ferdinand Cherson, an elder sister of the pretty Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett, had talked to her of the cost of things one afternoon at Lady Singleby’s garden-party, and spoken of the City as the place to help to swell139 an income, if only you have an acquaintance with some of the chief City men. The great mine was named, and the rush for allotments. She knew a couple of the Directors. They vowed111 to her that ten per cent. was a trifle; the fortune to be expected out of the mine was already clearly estimable at forties and fifties. For their part they anticipated cent. per cent. Mrs. Cherson said she wanted money, and had therefore invested in the mine. It seemed so consequent, the cost of things being enormous! She and her sister Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett owned husbands who did their bidding, because of their having the brains, it might be understood. Thus five thousand pounds invested would speedily bring five thousand pounds per annum. Diana had often dreamed of the City of London as the seat of magic; and taking the City’s contempt for authorcraft and the intangible as, from its point of view, justly founded, she had mixed her dream strangely with an ancient notion of the City’s probity140. Her broker’s shaking head did not damp her ardour for shares to the full amount of her ability to purchase. She remembered her satisfaction at the allotment; the golden castle shot up from this fountain mine. She had a frenzy141 for mines and fished in some English with smaller sums. ‘I am now a miner,’ she had exclaimed, between dismay at her audacity142 and the pride of it. Why had she not consulted Redworth? He would peremptorily143 have stopped the frenzy in its first intoxicating144 effervescence. She, like Mrs. Cherson, like all women who have plunged145 upon the cost of things, wanted money. She naturally went to the mine. Address him for counsel in the person of dupe, she could not; shame was a barrier. Could she tell him that the prattle146 of a woman, spendthrift as Mrs. Cherson, had induced her to risk her money? Latterly the reports of Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett were not of the flavour to make association of their names agreeable to his hearing.
She had to sit down in the buzz of her self-reproaches and amazement147 at the behaviour of that reputable City, shrug148, and recommence the labour of her pen. Material misfortune had this one advantage; it kept her from speculative149 thoughts of her lover, and the meaning of his absence and, silence.
Diana’s perusal of the incomplete CANTATRICE was done with the cold critical eye interpreting for the public. She was forced to write on nevertheless, and exactly in the ruts of the foregoing matter. It propelled her. No longer perversely150, of necessity she wrote her best, convinced that the work was doomed151 to unpopularity, resolved that it should be at least a victory in style. A fit of angry cynicism now and then set her composing phrases as baits for the critics to quote, condemnatory152 of the attractiveness of the work. Her mood was bad. In addition, she found Whitmonby cool; he complained of the coolness of her letter of adieu; complained of her leaving London so long. How could she expect to be his Queen of the London Salon153 if she lost touch of the topics? He made no other allusion154. They were soon on amicable155 terms, at the expense of flattering arts that she had not hitherto practised. But Westlake revealed unimagined marvels156 of the odd corners of the masculine bosom. He was the man of her circle the neatest in epigram, the widest of survey, an Oriental traveller, a distinguished157 writer, and if not personally bewitching, remarkably158 a gentleman of the world. He was wounded; he said as much. It came to this: admitting that he had no claims, he declared it to be unbearable159 for him to see another preferred. The happier was unmentioned, and Diana scraped his wound by rallying him. He repeated that he asked only to stand on equal terms with the others; her preference of one was past his tolerance160. She told him that since leaving Lady Dunstane she had seen but Whitmonby, Wilmers, and him. He smiled sarcastically161, saying he had never had a letter from her, except the formal one of invitation.
‘Powers of blarney, have you forsaken162 a daughter of Erin?’ cried Diana. ‘Here is a friend who has a craving91 for you, and I talk sense to him. I have written to none of my set since I last left London.’
She pacified163 him by doses of cajolery new to her tongue. She liked him, abhorred the thought of losing any of her friends, so the cajoling sentences ran until Westlake betrayed an inflammable composition, and had to be put out, and smoked sullenly164. Her resources were tried in restoring him to reason. The months of absence from London appeared to have transformed her world. Tonans was moderate. The great editor rebuked165 her for her prolonged absence from London, not so much because it discrowned her as Queen of the Salon, but candidly166 for its rendering167 her service less to him. Everything she knew of men and affairs was to him stale.
‘How do you get to the secrets?’ she asked.
‘By sticking to the centre of them,’ he said.
‘But how do you manage to be in advance and act the prophet?’
‘Because I will have them at any price, and that is known.’
She hinted at the peccant City Company.
‘I think I have checked the mining mania168, as I did the railway,’ said he; ‘and so far it was a public service. There’s no checking of maniacs169.’
She took her whipping within and without. ‘On another occasion I shall apply to you, Mr. Tonans.’
‘Ah, there was a time when you could have been a treasure to me,’ he rejoined; alluding170 of course to the Dannisburgh days.
In dejection, as she mused171 on those days, and on her foolish ambition to have a London house where her light might burn, she advised herself, with Redworth’s voice, to quit the house, arrest expenditure172, and try for happiness by burning and shining in the spirit: devoting herself, as Arthur Rhodes did, purely173 to literature. It became almost a decision.
Percy she had still neither written to nor heard from, and she dared not hope to meet him. She fancied a wish to have tidings of his marriage: it would be peace; if in desolation. Now that she had confessed and given her pledge to Emma, she had so far broken with him as to render the holding him chained a cruelty, and his reserve whispered of a rational acceptance of the end between them. She thanked him for it; an act whereby she was: instantly melted to such softness that a dread33 of him haunted her. Coward, take up your burden for armour174! she called to her poor dungeoned self wailing176 to have common nourishment. She knew how prodigiously177 it waxed on crumbs178; nay179, on the imagination of small morsels180. By way of chastizing it, she reviewed her life, her behaviour to her husband, until she sank backward to a depth deprived of air and light. That life with her husband was a dungeon175 to her nature deeper than any imposed by present conditions. She was then a revolutionary to reach to the breath of day. She had now to be, only not a coward, and she could breathe as others did. ‘Women who sap the moral laws pull down the pillars of the temple on their sex,’ Emma had said. Diana perceived something of her personal debt to civilization. Her struggles passed into the doomed CANTATRICE occupying days and nights under pressure for immediate181 payment; the silencing of friend Debit182, ridiculously calling himself Credit, in contempt of sex and conduct, on the ground, that he was he solely183 by virtue of being she. He had got a trick of singing operatic solos in the form and style of the delightful184 tenor185 Tellio, and they were touching in absurdity186, most real in unreality. Exquisitely187 trilled, after Tellio’s manner,
‘The tradesmen all beseech188 ye,
The landlord, cook and maid,
Complete THE CANTATRICE,
That they may soon be paid.’
provoked her to laughter in pathos189. He approached, posturing190 himself operatically, with perpetual new verses, rhymes to Danvers, rhymes to Madame Sybille, the cook. Seeing Tellio at one of Henry Wilmers’ private concerts, Diana’s lips twitched191 to dimples at the likeness192 her familiar had assumed. She had to compose her countenance193 to talk to him; but the moment of song was the trial. Lady Singleby sat beside her, and remarked:
‘You have always fun going on in you!’ She partook of the general impression that Diana Warwick was too humorous to nurse a downright passion.
Before leaving, she engaged Diana to her annual garden-party of the closing season, and there the meeting with Percy occurred, not unobserved. Had they been overheard, very little to implicate194 them would have been gathered. He walked in full view across the lawn to her, and they presented mask to mask.
‘The beauty of the day tempts195 you at last, Mrs. Warwick.’
‘I have been finishing a piece of work.’
Lovely weather, beautiful dresses: agreed. Diana wore a yellow robe with a black bonnet196, and he commented on the becoming hues197; for the first time, he noticed her dress! Lovely women? Dacier hesitated. One he saw. But surely he must admire Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett? And who steps beside her, transparently198 fascinated, with visage at three-quarters to the rays within her bonnet? Can it be Sir Lukin Dunstane? and beholding199 none but his charmer!
Dacier withdrew his eyes thoughtfully from the spectacle, and moved to woo Diana to a stroll. She could not restrain her feet; she was out of the ring of her courtiers for the moment. He had seized his opportunity.
‘It is nearly a year!’ he said.
‘I have been nursing nearly all the time, doing the work I do best.’
‘Unaltered?’
‘A year must leave its marks.’
‘Tony!’
‘You speak of a madwoman, a good eleven months dead. Let her rest. Those are the conditions.’
‘Accepted, if I may see her.’
‘Honestly accepted?’
‘Imposed fatally, I have to own. I have felt with you: you are the wiser. But, admitting that, surely we can meet. I may see you?’
‘My house has not been shut.’
‘I respected the house. I distrusted myself.’
‘What restores your confidence?’
‘The strength I draw from you.’
One of the Beauties at a garden-party is lucky to get as many minutes as had passed in quietness. Diana was met and captured. But those last words of Percy’s renewed her pride in him by suddenly building a firm faith in herself. Noblest of lovers! she thought, and brooded on the little that had been spoken, the much conveyed, for a proof of perfect truthfulness200.
The world had watched them. It pronounced them discreet201 if culpable202; probably cold to the passion both. Of Dacier’s coldness it had no doubt, and Diana’s was presumed from her comical flights of speech. She was given to him because of the known failure of her other adorers. He in the front rank of politicians attracted her with the lustre203 of his ambition; she him with her mingling204 of talent and beauty. An astute205 world; right in the main, owing to perceptions based upon brute206 nature; utterly207 astray in particulars, for the reason that it takes no count of the soul of man or woman. Hence its glee at a catastrophe; its poor stock of mercy. And when no catastrophe follows, the prophet, for the honour of the profession, must decry208 her as cunning beyond aught yet revealed of a serpent sex.
Save for a word or two, the watchman might have overheard and trumpeted209 his report of their interview at Diana’s house. After the first pained breathing, when they found themselves alone in that room where they had plighted210 their fortunes, they talked allusively211 to define the terms imposed on them by Reason. The thwarted212 step was unmentioned; it was a past madness. But Wisdom being recognized, they could meet. It would be hard if that were denied! They talked very little of their position; both understood the mutual acceptance of it; and now that he had seen her and was again under the spell, Dacier’s rational mind, together with his delight in her presence, compelled him honourably213 to bow to the terms. Only, as these were severe upon lovers, the innocence214 of their meetings demanded indemnification in frequency.
‘Come whenever you think I can be useful,’ said Diana.
They pressed hands at parting, firmly and briefly215, not for the ordinary dactylology of lovers, but in sign of the treaty of amity216.
She soon learnt that she had tied herself to her costly217 household.
1 inundating | |
v.淹没( inundate的现在分词 );(洪水般地)涌来;充满;给予或交予(太多事物)使难以应付 | |
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2 surgical | |
adj.外科的,外科医生的,手术上的 | |
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3 reassurance | |
n.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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4 succinct | |
adj.简明的,简洁的 | |
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5 terseness | |
简洁,精练 | |
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6 punctiliously | |
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7 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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8 favourably | |
adv. 善意地,赞成地 =favorably | |
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9 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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10 advertising | |
n.广告业;广告活动 a.广告的;广告业务的 | |
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11 quill | |
n.羽毛管;v.给(织物或衣服)作皱褶 | |
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12 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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13 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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14 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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15 abhorred | |
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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16 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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17 devotedness | |
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18 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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19 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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20 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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21 appreciative | |
adj.有鉴赏力的,有眼力的;感激的 | |
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22 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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23 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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25 entanglement | |
n.纠缠,牵累 | |
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26 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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27 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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28 intriguer | |
密谋者 | |
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29 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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30 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 wither | |
vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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32 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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33 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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34 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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35 tightened | |
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
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36 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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37 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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38 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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39 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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40 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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41 consummately | |
adv.完成地,至上地 | |
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42 adherents | |
n.支持者,拥护者( adherent的名词复数 );党羽;徒子徒孙 | |
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43 itch | |
n.痒,渴望,疥癣;vi.发痒,渴望 | |
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44 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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45 relinquished | |
交出,让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 ); 放弃 | |
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46 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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47 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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48 toils | |
网 | |
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49 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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50 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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51 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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52 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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53 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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54 invoked | |
v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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55 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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56 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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57 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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58 pulsating | |
adj.搏动的,脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 );跳动;脉动;受(激情)震动 | |
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59 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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60 scribble | |
v.潦草地书写,乱写,滥写;n.潦草的写法,潦草写成的东西,杂文 | |
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61 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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62 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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63 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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64 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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65 chide | |
v.叱责;谴责 | |
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66 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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67 assailing | |
v.攻击( assail的现在分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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68 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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69 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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70 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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71 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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72 fettered | |
v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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74 supplication | |
n.恳求,祈愿,哀求 | |
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75 suffused | |
v.(指颜色、水气等)弥漫于,布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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77 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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78 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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79 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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80 rations | |
定量( ration的名词复数 ); 配给量; 正常量; 合理的量 | |
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81 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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82 pitfalls | |
(捕猎野兽用的)陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 ); 意想不到的困难,易犯的错误 | |
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83 unreasonableness | |
无理性; 横逆 | |
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84 subscribe | |
vi.(to)订阅,订购;同意;vt.捐助,赞助 | |
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85 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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86 ransacked | |
v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 );抢劫,掠夺 | |
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87 addenda | |
n.附录,附加物;附加物( addendum的名词复数 );补遗;附录;(齿轮的)齿顶(高) | |
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88 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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89 discoursed | |
演说(discourse的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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90 profusely | |
ad.abundantly | |
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91 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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92 scatters | |
v.(使)散开, (使)分散,驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 );撒 | |
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93 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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94 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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95 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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96 malcontent | |
n.不满者,不平者;adj.抱不平的,不满的 | |
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97 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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98 faction | |
n.宗派,小集团;派别;派系斗争 | |
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99 nourishment | |
n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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100 relishing | |
v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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101 determinedly | |
adv.决意地;坚决地,坚定地 | |
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102 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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103 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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104 commissioner | |
n.(政府厅、局、处等部门)专员,长官,委员 | |
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105 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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106 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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107 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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108 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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109 insurgency | |
n.起义;暴动;叛变 | |
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110 avowed | |
adj.公开声明的,承认的v.公开声明,承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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111 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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112 fret | |
v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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113 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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114 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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115 inflexibly | |
adv.不屈曲地,不屈地 | |
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116 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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117 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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118 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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119 dilettante | |
n.半瓶醋,业余爱好者 | |
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120 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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121 pertinacious | |
adj.顽固的 | |
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122 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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123 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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124 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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125 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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126 eyelid | |
n.眼睑,眼皮 | |
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127 imprinted | |
v.盖印(imprint的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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128 hued | |
有某种色调的 | |
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129 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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130 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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131 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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132 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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133 wrecks | |
n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 );(事故中)遭严重毁坏的汽车(或飞机等);(身体或精神上)受到严重损伤的人;状况非常糟糕的车辆(或建筑物等)v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 );使(船舶)失事,使遇难,使下沉 | |
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134 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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135 embark | |
vi.乘船,着手,从事,上飞机 | |
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136 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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137 trumpets | |
喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 ); 小号; 喇叭形物; (尤指)绽开的水仙花 | |
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138 prospectus | |
n.计划书;说明书;慕股书 | |
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139 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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140 probity | |
n.刚直;廉洁,正直 | |
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141 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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142 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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143 peremptorily | |
adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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144 intoxicating | |
a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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145 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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146 prattle | |
n.闲谈;v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话;发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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147 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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148 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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149 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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150 perversely | |
adv. 倔强地 | |
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151 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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152 condemnatory | |
adj. 非难的,处罚的 | |
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153 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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154 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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155 amicable | |
adj.和平的,友好的;友善的 | |
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156 marvels | |
n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 );令人惊奇的事物(或事例);不平凡的成果;成就v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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158 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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159 unbearable | |
adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
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160 tolerance | |
n.宽容;容忍,忍受;耐药力;公差 | |
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161 sarcastically | |
adv.挖苦地,讽刺地 | |
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162 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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163 pacified | |
使(某人)安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 ); 息怒; 抚慰; 在(有战争的地区、国家等)实现和平 | |
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164 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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165 rebuked | |
责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166 candidly | |
adv.坦率地,直率而诚恳地 | |
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167 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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168 mania | |
n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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169 maniacs | |
n.疯子(maniac的复数形式) | |
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170 alluding | |
提及,暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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171 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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172 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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173 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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174 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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175 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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176 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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177 prodigiously | |
adv.异常地,惊人地,巨大地 | |
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178 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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179 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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180 morsels | |
n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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181 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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182 debit | |
n.借方,借项,记人借方的款项 | |
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183 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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184 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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185 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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186 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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187 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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188 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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189 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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190 posturing | |
做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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191 twitched | |
vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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192 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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193 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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194 implicate | |
vt.使牵连其中,涉嫌 | |
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195 tempts | |
v.引诱或怂恿(某人)干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 );使想要 | |
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196 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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197 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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198 transparently | |
明亮地,显然地,易觉察地 | |
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199 beholding | |
v.看,注视( behold的现在分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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200 truthfulness | |
n. 符合实际 | |
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201 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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202 culpable | |
adj.有罪的,该受谴责的 | |
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203 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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204 mingling | |
adj.混合的 | |
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205 astute | |
adj.机敏的,精明的 | |
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206 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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207 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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208 decry | |
v.危难,谴责 | |
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209 trumpeted | |
大声说出或宣告(trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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210 plighted | |
vt.保证,约定(plight的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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211 allusively | |
adj.暗指的,影射,间接提到 | |
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212 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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213 honourably | |
adv.可尊敬地,光荣地,体面地 | |
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214 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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215 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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216 amity | |
n.友好关系 | |
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217 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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