Is Conclusive1 as to the Heartlessness of Women with Brains
Hymenaeal rumours2 are those which might be backed to run a victorious3 race with the tale of evil fortune; and clearly for the reason that man’s livelier half is ever alert to speed them. They travel with an astonishing celerity over the land, like flames of the dry beacon-faggots of old time in announcement of the invader4 or a conquest, gathering5 as they go: wherein, to say nothing of their vastly wider range, they surpass the electric wires. Man’s nuptial6 half is kindlingly concerned in the launch of a new couple; it is the business of the fair sex: and man himself (very strangely, but nature quickens him still) lends a not unfavouring eye to the preparations of the matrimonial vessel7 for its oily descent into the tides, where billows will soon be rising, captain and mate soon discussing the fateful question of who is commander. We consent, it appears, to hope again for mankind; here is another chance! Or else, assuming the happiness of the pair, that pomp of ceremonial, contrasted with the little wind-blown candle they carry between them, catches at our weaker fibres.
After so many ships have foundered8, some keel up, like poisoned fish, at the first drink of water, it is a gallant9 spectacle, let us avow10; and either the world perpetuating11 it is heroical or nature incorrigible12 in the species. Marriages are unceasing. Friends do it, and enemies; the unknown contractors13 of this engagement, or armistice14, inspire an interest. It certainly is both exciting and comforting to hear that man and woman are ready to join in a mutual15 affirmative, say Yes together again. It sounds like the end of the war.
The proclamation of the proximate marriage of a young Minister of State and the greatest heiress of her day; notoriously ‘The young Minister of State’ of a famous book written by the beautiful, now writhing16, woman madly enamoured of him—and the heiress whose dowry could purchase a Duchy; this was a note to make the gossips of England leap from their beds at the midnight hour and wag tongues in the market-place. It did away with the political hubbub17 over the Tonans article, and let it noise abroad like nonsense. The Hon. Percy Dacier espouses18 Miss Asper; and she rescues him from the snares19 of a siren, he her from the toils20 of the Papists. She would have gone over to them, she was going when, luckily for the Protestant Faith, Percy Dacier intervened with his proposal. Town and country buzzed the news; and while that dreary21 League trumpeted22 about the business of the nation, a people suddenly become Oriental chattered23 of nothing but the blissful union to be celebrated24 in princely state, with every musical accessory, short of Operatic.
Lady Wathin was an active agent in this excitement. The excellent woman enjoyed marriages of High Life: which, as there is presumably wealth to support them, are manifestly under sanction: and a marriage that she could consider one of her own contrivance, had a delicate flavour of a marriage in the family; not quite equal to the seeing a dear daughter of her numerous progeny25 conducted to the altar, but excelling it in the pomp that bids the heavens open. She and no other spread the tidings of Miss Asper’s debating upon the step to Rome at the very instant of Percy Dacier’s declaration of his love; and it was a beautiful struggle, that of the half-dedicated nun26 and her deep-rooted earthly passion, love prevailing27! She sent word to Lady Dunstane: ‘You know the interest I have always taken in dear Constance Aspen’ etc.; inviting28 her to come on a visit a week before the end of the month, that she might join in the ceremony of a wedding ‘likely to be the grandest of our time.’ Pitiful though it was, to think of the bridal pair having but eight or ten days at the outside, for a honeymoon29, the beauty of their ‘mutual devotion to duty’ was urged by Lady Wathin upon all hearers.
Lady Dunstane declined the invitation. She waited to hear from her friend, and the days went by; she could only sorrow for her poor Tony, divining her state. However little of wrong in the circumstances, they imposed a silence on her decent mind, and no conceivable shape of writing would transmit condolences. She waited, with a dull heartache: by no means grieving at Dacier’s engagement to the heiress; until Redworth animated30 her, as the bearer of rather startling intelligence, indirectly31 relating to the soul she loved. An accident in the street had befallen Mr. Warwick. Redworth wanted to know whether Diana should be told of it, though he had no particulars to give; and somewhat to his disappointment, Lady Dunstane said she would write. She delayed, thinking the accident might not be serious; and the information of it to Diana surely would be so. Next day at noon her visitor was Lady Wathin, evidently perturbed32 and anxious to say more than she dared: but she received no assistance. After beating the air in every direction, especially dwelling33 on the fond reciprocal affection of the two devoted34 lovers, to be united within three days’ time, Lady Wathin said at last: ‘And is it not shocking! I talk of a marriage and am appalled35 by a death. That poor man died last night in the hospital. I mean poor Mr. Warwick. He was recovering, getting strong and well, and he was knocked down at a street-crossing and died last night. It is a warning to us!’
‘Mr. Redworth happened to hear of it at his Club, near which the accident occurred, and he called at the hospital. Mr. Warwick was then alive,’ said Lady Dunstane; adding: ‘Well, if prevention is better than cure, as we hear! Accidents are the specific for averting36 the maladies of age, which are a certain crop!’
Lady Wathin’s eyelids37 worked and her lips shut fast at the cold-hearted remark void of meaning.
She sighed. ‘So ends a life of misery38, my dear!’
‘You are compassionate39.’
‘I hope so. But... Indeed I must speak, if you will let me. I think of the living.’
Lady Dunstane widened her eyes. ‘Of Mrs. Warwick?’
‘She has now the freedom she desired. I think of others. Forgive me, but Constance Asper is to me as a daughter. I have perhaps no grounds for any apprehension40. Love so ardent41, so sincere, was never shown by bridegroom elect: and it is not extraordinary to those acquainted with dear Constance. But—one may be a worshipped saint and experience defection. The terrible stories one hears of a power of fascination42 almost...!’ Lady Wathin hung for the word.
‘Infernal,’ said Lady Dunstane, whose brows had been bent43 inquiringly. ‘Have no fear. The freedom you allude44 to will not be used to interfere45 with any entertainment in prospect46. It was freedom my friend desired. Now that her jewel is restored to her, she is not the person to throw it away, be sure. And pray, drop the subject.’
‘One may rely... you think?’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘This release coming just before the wedding...!’
‘I should hardly suppose the man to be the puppet you depict47, or indicate.’
‘It is because men—so many—are not puppets that one is conscious of alarm.’
‘Your previous remark,’ said Lady Dunstane, ‘sounded superstitious48. Your present one has an antipodal basis. But, as for your alarm, check it: and spare me further. My friend has acknowledged powers. Considering that, she does not use them, you should learn to respect her.’
Lady Wathin bowed stiffly. She refused to partake of lunch, having, she said, satisfied her conscience by the performance of a duty and arranged with her flyman to catch a train. Her cousin Lady Dunstane smiled loftily at everything she uttered, and she felt that if a woman like this Mrs. Warwick could put division between blood-relatives, she could do worse, and was to be dreaded50 up to the hour of the nuptials51.
‘I meant no harm in coming,’ she said, at the shaking of hands.
‘No, no; I understand,’ said her hostess: ‘you are hen-hearted over your adopted brood. The situation is perceptible and your intention creditable.’
As one of the good women of the world, Lady Wathin in departing was indignant at the tone and dialect of a younger woman not modestly concealing52 her possession of the larger brain. Brains in women she both dreaded and detested53; she believed them to be devilish. Here were instances:—they had driven poor Sir Lukin to evil courses, and that poor Mr. Warwick straight under the wheels of a cab. Sir Lukin’s name was trotting54 in public with a naughty Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett’s: Mrs. Warwick might still trim her arts to baffle the marriage. Women with brains, moreover, are all heartless: they have no pity for distress55, no horror of catastrophes56, no joy in the happiness of the deserving. Brains in men advance a household to station; but brains in women divide it and are the wrecking57 of society. Fortunately Lady Wathin knew she could rally a powerful moral contingent58, the aptitude59 of which for a one-minded cohesion60 enabled it to crush those fractional daughters of mischief61. She was a really good woman of the world, heading a multitude; the same whom you are accustomed to hear exalted62; lucky in having had a guided girlhood, a thick-curtained prudence63; and in having stock in the moral funds, shares in the sentimental64 tramways. Wherever the world laid its hoards65 or ran its lines, she was found, and forcible enough to be eminent66; though at fixed67 hours of the day, even as she washed her hands, she abjured68 worldliness: a performance that cleansed69 her. If she did not make morality appear loveable to the objects of her dislike, it was owing to her want of brains to see the origin, nature and right ends of morality. But a world yet more deficient70 than she, esteemed71 her cordially for being a bulwark72 of the present edifice73; which looks a solid structure when the microscope is not applied74 to its components75.
Supposing Percy Dacier a dishonourable tattler as well as an icy lover, and that Lady Wathin, through his bride, had become privy76 to the secret between him and Diana? There is reason to think that she would have held it in terror over the baneful77 woman, but not have persecuted78 her: for she was by no means the active malignant79 of theatrical80 plots. No, she would have charged it upon the possession of brains by women, and have had a further motive81 for inciting82 the potent83 dignitary her husband to employ his authority to repress the sex’s exercise of those fell weapons, hurtful alike to them and all coming near them.
So extreme was her dread49 of Mrs. Warwick, that she drove from the London railway station to see Constance and be reassured84 by her tranquil85 aspect.
Sweet Constance and her betrothed86 Percy were together, examining a missal.
Lady Dunstane despatched a few words of the facts to Diana. She hoped to hear from her; rather hoped, for the moment, not to see her. No answer came. The great day of the nuptials came and passed. She counted on her husband’s appearance the next morning, as the good gentleman made a point of visiting her, to entertain the wife he adored, whenever he had a wallet of gossip that would overlay the blank of his absence. He had been to the church of the wedding—he did not say with whom: all the world was there; and he rapturously described the ceremony, stating that it set women weeping and caused him to behave like a fool.
‘You are impressionable,’ said his wife.
He murmured something in praise of the institution of marriage—when celebrated impressively, it seemed.
‘Tony calls the social world “the theatre of appetites,” as we have it at present,’ she said; ‘and the world at a wedding is, one may reckon, in the second act of the hungry tragicomedy.’
‘Yes, there’s the breakfast,’ Sir Lukin assented87. Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett was much more intelligible88 to him: in fact, quite so, as to her speech.
Emma’s heart now yearned89 to her Tony: Consulting her strength, she thought she might journey to London, and on the third morning after the Dacier–Asper marriage, she started.
Diana’s door was open to Arthur Rhodes when Emma reached it.
‘Have you seen her?’ she asked him.
His head shook dolefully. ‘Mrs. Warwick is unwell; she has been working too hard.’
‘You also, I’m afraid.’
‘No.’ He could deny that, whatever the look of him.
‘Come to me at Copsley soon,’ said she, entering to Danvers in the passage.
‘My mistress is upstairs, my lady,’ said Danvers. ‘She is lying on her bed.’
‘She is ill?’
‘She has been lying on her bed ever since.’
‘Since what?’ Lady Dunstane spoke90 sharply.
Danvers retrieved91 her indiscretion. ‘Since she heard of the accident, my lady.’
‘Take my name to her. Or no: I can venture.’
‘I am not allowed to go in and speak to her. You will find the room quite dark, my lady, and very cold. It is her command. My mistress will not let me light the fire; and she has not eaten or drunk of anything since... She will die, if you do not persuade her to take nourishment92: a little, for a beginning. It wants the beginning.’
Emma went upstairs, thinking of the enigmatical maid, that she must be a good soul after all. Diana’s bedroom door was opened slowly.
‘You will not be able to see at first, my lady,’ Danvers whispered. ‘The bed is to the left, and a chair. I would bring in a candle, but it hurts her eyes. She forbids it.’
Emma stepped in. The chill thick air of the unlighted London room was cavernous. She almost forgot the beloved of her heart in the thought that a living woman had been lying here more than two days and nights, fasting. The proof of an uttermost misery revived the circumstances within her to render her friend’s presence in this desert of darkness credible93. She found the bed by touch, silently, and distinguished94 a dark heap on the bed; she heard no breathing. She sat and listened; then she stretched out her hand and met her Tony’s. It lay open. It was the hand of a drowned woman.
Shutters95 and curtains and the fireless grate gave the room an appalling96 likeness97 to the vaults98.
So like to the home of death it seemed, that in a few minutes the watcher had lost count of time and kept but a wormy memory of the daylight. She dared not speak, for some fear of startling; for the worse fear of never getting answer. Tony’s hand was lifeless. Her clasp of it struck no warmth.
She stung herself with bitter reproaches for having let common mundane99 sentiments, worthy100 of a Lady Wathin, bar her instant offer of her bosom101 to the beloved who suffered in this depth of mortal agony. Tony’s love of a man, as she should have known, would be wrought102 of the elements of our being: when other women named Happiness, she said Life; in division, Death. Her body lying still upon the bed here was a soul borne onward103 by the river of Death.
The darkness gave sight after a while, like a curtain lifting on a veil: the dead light of the underworld. Tony lay with her face up, her underlip dropped; straight from head to feet. The outline of her face, without hue104 of it, could be seen: sign of the hapless women that have souls in love. Hateful love of men! Emma thought, and was; moved to feel at the wrist for her darling’s pulse. He has, killed her! the thought flashed, as, with pangs105 chilling her frame, the pressure at the wrist continued insensible of the faintest beat. She clasped it, trembling, in pain to stop an outcry.
‘It is Emmy,’ said the voice.
Emma’s heart sprang to heaven on a rush of thanks.
‘My Tony,’ she breathed softly.
She hung for a further proof of life in the motionless body. ‘Tony!’ she said.
The answer was at her hand, a thread-like return of her clasp.
‘It is Emmy come to stay with you, never to leave you.’
The thin still answer was at her hand a moment; the fingers fell away. A deep breath was taken twice to say:
‘Don’t talk to me.’
Emma retained the hand. She was warned not to press it by the deadness following its effort to reply.
But Tony lived; she had given proof of life. Over this little wavering taper106 in the vaults Emma cowered107, cherishing the hand, silently hoping for the voice.
It came: ‘Winter.’
‘It is a cold winter, Tony.’
‘My dear will be cold.’
‘I will light the fire.’
Emma lost no time in deciding to seek the match-box. The fire was lit and it flamed; it seemed a revival108 in the room. Coming back to the bedside, she discerned her Tony’s lacklustre large dark eyes and her hollow cheeks: her mouth open to air as to the drawing-in of a sword; rather as to the releaser than the sustainer. Her feet were on the rug her maid had placed to cover them. Emma leaned across the bed to put them to her breast, beneath her fur mantle109, and held them there despite the half-animate tug110 of the limbs and the shaft111 of iciness they sent to her very heart. When she had restored them to some warmth, she threw aside her bonnet112 and lying beside Tony, took her in her arms, heaving now and then a deep sigh.
She kissed her cheek.
‘It is Emmy.’
‘Kiss her.’
‘I have no strength.’
Emma laid her face on the lips. They were cold; even the breath between them cold.
‘Has Emmy been long...?’
‘Here, dear? I think so. I am with my darling.’
Tony moaned. The warmth and the love were bringing back her anguish113.
She said: ‘I have been happy. It is not hard to go.’
Emma strained to her. ‘Tony will wait for her soul’s own soul to go, the two together.’
There was a faint convulsion in the body. ‘If I cry, I shall go in pain.’
‘You are in Emmy’s arms, my beloved.’
Tony’s eyes closed for forgetfulness under that sensation. A tear ran down from her, but the pain was lag and neighboured sleep, like the pleasure.
So passed the short winter day, little spoken.
Then Emma bethought her of a way of leading Tony to take food, and she said: ‘I shall stay with you; I shall send for clothes; I am rather hungry. Don’t stir, dear. I will be mistress of the house.’
She went below to the kitchen, where a few words in the ear of a Frenchwoman were sufficient to waken immediate114 comprehension of what was wanted, and smart service: within ten minutes an appetizing bouillon sent its odour over the bedroom. Tony, days back, had said her last to the act of eating; but Emma sipping115 at the spoon and expressing satisfaction, was a pleasant picture. The bouillon smelt116 pleasantly.
‘Your servants love you,’ Emma said.
‘Ah, poor good souls.’
‘They crowded up to me to hear of you. Madame of course at the first word was off to her pots. And we English have the habit of calling ourselves the practical people!—This bouillon is consummate117.—However, we have the virtues118 of barbarians119; we can love and serve for love. I never tasted anything so good. I could become a glutton120.’
‘Do,’ said Tony.
‘I should be ashamed to “drain the bowl” all to myself: a solitary121 toper is a horrid122 creature, unless he makes a song of it.’
‘Emmy makes a song of it to me.’
‘But “pledge me” is a noble saying, when you think of humanity’s original hunger for the whole. It is there that our civilizing123 commenced, and I am particularly fond of hearing the call. It is grandly historic. So pledge me, Tony. We two can feed from one spoon; it is a closer, bond than the loving cup. I want you just to taste it and excuse my gluttony.’
Tony murmured, ‘No.’ The spoon was put to her mouth. She sighed to resist. The stronger will compelled her to move her lips. Emma fed her as a child, and nature sucked for life.
The first effect was a gush124 of tears.
Emma lay with her that night, when the patient was, the better sleeper125. But during the night at intervals126 she had the happiness of feeling Tony’s hand travelling to make sure of her.
收听单词发音 |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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espouses
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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eyelids
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| 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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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53
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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55
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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56
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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57
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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58
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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59
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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60
cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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61
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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62
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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63
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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64
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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65
hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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67
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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68
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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69
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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72
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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73
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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74
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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components
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| （机器、设备等的）构成要素，零件，成分； 成分( component的名词复数 )； [物理化学]组分； [数学]分量； （混合物的）组成部分 | |
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76
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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78
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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79
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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80
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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84
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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85
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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89
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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92
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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93
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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95
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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97
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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100
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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101
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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102
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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103
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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104
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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105
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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107
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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108
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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109
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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110
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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111
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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112
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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113
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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114
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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115
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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116
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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117
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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118
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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119
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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120
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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121
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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122
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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123
civilizing
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| v.使文明，使开化( civilize的现在分词 ) | |
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124
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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125
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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126
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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