At her bedroom door, the next morning, stood Lady Isabel, listening whether the coast was clear ere she descended1 to the gray parlor2, for she had a shrinking dread3 of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was glancing narrowly at her face the previous evening she had felt the gaze, and it impressed upon her the dread of his recognition. Not only that; he was the husband of another; therefore it was not expedient4 that she should see too much of him, for he was far dearer to her than he had ever been.
Almost at the same moment there burst out of a remote room—the nursery—an upright, fair, noble boy, of some five years old, who began careering along on the corridor, astride upon a hearth-broom. She did not need to be told it was her boy, Archibald; his likeness5 to Mr. Carlyle would have proclaimed it, even if her heart had not. In an impulse of unrestrainable tenderness, she seized the child, as he was galloping6 past her, and carried him into her room, broom and all.
“You must let me make acquaintance with you,” she said to him by way of excuse. “I love little boys.”
Love! Down she sat upon a low chair, the child held upon her lap, kissing him passionately8, and the tears raining from her eyes. She could not have helped the tears had it been to save her life; she could as little have helped the kisses. Lifting her eyes, there stood Wilson, who had entered without ceremony. A sick feeling came over Lady Isabel: she felt as if she had betrayed herself. All that could be done now, was to make the best of it; to offer some lame9 excuse. What possessed10 her thus to forget herself?
“He did so put me in remembrance of my own children,” she said to Wilson, gulping11 down her emotion, and hiding her tears in the best manner she could; whilst the astonished Archibald, released now, stood with his finger in his mouth and stared at her spectacles, his great blue eyes opened to their utmost width. “When we have lost children of our own, we are apt to love fondly all we come near.”
Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, for she deemed the new governess had gone suddenly mad, gave some voluble assent12, and turned her attention upon Archie.
“You naughty young monkey! How dare you rush out in that way with Sarah’s heart-broom? I’ll tell you what it is, sir, you are getting a might deal too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery. I shall speak to your mamma about it.”
She seized hold of the child and shook him. Lady Isabel started forward, her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty13.
“Oh, don’t, don’t beat him! I cannot see him beaten.”
“Beaten!” echoed Wilson; “if he got a good beating it would be all the better for him; but it’s what he never does get. A little shake, or a tap, is all I must give; and it’s not half enough. You wouldn’t believe the sturdy impudence14 of that boy, madame; he runs riot, he does. The other two never gave a quarter of the trouble. Come along, you figure! I’ll have a bolt put at the top of the nursery door; and if I did, he’d be for climbing up the door-post to get at it.”
The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, as she jerked Archie out of the room, along the passage, and into the nursery. Lady Isabel sat down with a wrung15 heart, a chafed16 spirit. Her own child! And she might not say to the servant, you shall not beat him.
She descended to the gray parlor. The two older children and breakfast were waiting; Joyce quitted the room when she entered it.
A graceful17 girl of eight years old, a fragile boy a year younger, both bearing her once lovely features—her once bright and delicate complexion—her large, soft brown eyes. How utterly18 her heart yearned20 to them; but there must be no scene like there had just been above. Nevertheless she stooped and kissed them both—one kiss each of impassioned fervor21. Lucy was naturally silent, William somewhat talkative.
“You are our new governess,” said he.
“Yes. We must be good friends.”
“Why not!” said the boy. “We were good friends with Miss Manning. I am to go into Latin soon—as soon as my cough’s gone. Do you know Latin?”
“No—not to teach it,” she said, studiously avoiding all endearing epithets22.
“Papa said you would be almost sure not to know Latin, for that ladies rarely did. He said he should send up Mr. Kane to teach me.”
“Mr. Kane?” repeated Lady Isabel, the name striking upon her memory. “Mr. Kane, the music-master?”
“How did you know he was a music-master?” cried shrewd William. And Lady Isabel felt the red blood flush to her face at the unlucky admission she had made. It flushed deeper at her own falsehood, as she muttered some evasive words about hearing of him from Mrs. Latimer.
“Yes, he is a music-master; but he does not get much money at it, and he teaches the classics as well. He has come up to teach us music since Miss Manning left; mamma said that we ought not to lose our lessons.”
Mamma! How the word, applied23 to Barbara, grated on her ear.
“Whom does he teach?” she asked.
“Us two,” replied William, pointing to his sister and himself.
“Do you always take bread and milk?” she inquired, perceiving that to be what they were eating.
“We get tired of it sometimes and then we have milk and water, and bread and butter, or honey; and then we take to bread and milk again. It’s Aunt Cornelia who thinks we should eat bread and milk for breakfast. She says papa never had anything else when he was a boy.”
Lucy looked up.
“Papa would give me an egg when I breakfasted with him,” cried she, “and Aunt Cornelia said it was not good for me, but papa gave it to me all the same. I always had breakfast with him then.”
“And why do you not now?” asked Lady Isabel.
“I don’t know. I have not since mamma came.”
The word “stepmother” rose up rebelliously24 in the heart of Lady Isabel. Was Mrs. Carlyle putting away the children from their father?
Breakfast over, she gathered them to her, asking them various questions about their studies, their hours of recreation, the daily routine of their lives.
“This is not the schoolroom, you know,” cried William, when she made some inquiry26 as to their books.
“No?”
“The schoolroom is upstairs. This is for our meals, and for you in an evening.”
The voice of Mr. Carlyle was heard at this juncture27 in the hall, and Lucy was springing toward the sound. Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand.
“Stay here, Isabel.”
“Her name’s Lucy,” said William, looking quickly up. “Why do you call her Isabel?”
“I thought—thought I had heard her called Isabel,” stammered28 the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was committing.
“My name is Isabel Lucy,” said the child; “but I don’t know who could have told you, for I am never called Isabel. I have not been since—since—shall I tell you?—since mamma went away,” she concluded, dropping her voice. “Mamma that was, you know.”
“Did she go?” cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion, and possessing a very faint idea of what she was saying.
“She was kidnapped,” whispered Lucy.
“Kidnapped!” was the surprised answer.
“Yes, or she would not have gone. There was a wicked man on a visit to papa, and he stole her. Wilson said she knew he was a kidnapper29 before he took mamma. Papa said I was never to be called Isabel again, but Lucy. Isabel was mamma’s name.”
“How do you know papa said it?” dreamily returned Lady Isabel.
“I heard him. He said it to Joyce, and Joyce told the servants. I put only Lucy to my copies. I did put Isabel Lucy, but papa saw it one day, and he drew his pencil through Isabel, and told me to show it to Miss Manning. After that, Miss Manning let me put nothing but Lucy. I asked her why, and she told me papa preferred the name, and that I was not to ask questions.”
She could not well stop the child, but every word was rending30 her heart.
“Lady Isabel was our very, very own mamma,” pursued Lucy. “This mamma is not.”
“Do you love this one as you did the other?” breathed Lady Isabel.
“Oh, I loved mamma—I loved mamma!” uttered Lucy, clasping her hands. “But its all over. Wilson said we must not love her any longer, and Aunt Cornelia said it. Wilson said, if she loved us she would not have gone away from us.”
“Wilson said so?” resentfully spoke31 Lady Isabel.
“She said she need not let that man kidnap her. I am afraid he beat her, for she died. I lie in my bed at night, and wonder whether he did beat her, and what made her die. It was after she died that our new mamma came home. Papa said that she was to be our mamma in place of Lady Isabel and we were to love her dearly.”
“Do you love her?” almost passionately asked Lady Isabel.
Lucy shook her head.
“Not as I loved mamma.”
Joyce entered to show the way to the schoolroom, and they followed her upstairs. As Lady Isabel stood at the window, she saw Mr. Carlyle depart on foot on his way to the office. Barbara was with him, hanging fondly on his arm, about to accompany him to the park gates. So had she fondly hung, so had she accompanied him, in the days gone forever.
Barbara came into the schoolroom in the course of the morning, and entered upon the subject of their studies, the different allotted32 hours, some to play, some to work. She spoke in a courteous33 but decided34 tone, showing that she was the unmistakable mistress of the house and children, and meant to be. Never had Lady Isabel felt her position so keenly—never did it so gall7 and fret35 her spirit; but she bowed to meek36 obedience37. A hundred times that day did she yearn19 to hold the children to her heart, and a hundred times she had to repress the longing38.
In a soft, damask dress, not unlike the color of the walls from which the room took its name, a cap of Honiton lace shading her delicate features, sat Mrs. Hare. The justice was in London with Squire39 Pinner, and Barbara had gone to the Grove40 and brought her mamma away in triumph. It was evening now, and Mrs. Hare was paying a visit to the gray parlor. Miss Carlyle had been dining there, and Lady Isabel, under plea of a violent headache, had begged to decline the invitation to take tea in the drawing-room, for she feared the sharp eyes of Miss Carlyle. Barbara, upon leaving the dessert-table, went to the nursery, as usual, to her baby, and Mrs. Hare took the opportunity to go and sit a few minutes with the governess—she feared the governess must be very lonely. Miss Carlyle, scorning usage and ceremony, had remained in the dining-room with Mr. Carlyle, a lecture for him, upon some defalcation41 or other most probably in store. Lady Isabel was alone. Lucy had gone to keep a birthday in the neighborhood, and William was in the nursery. Mrs. Hare found her in a sad attitude, her hands pressed upon her temples. She had not yet made acquaintance with her beyond a minute’s formal introduction.
“I am sorry to hear you are not well, this evening,” she gently said.
“Thank you. My head aches much”—which was no false plea.
“I fear you must feel your solitude42 irksome. It is dull for you to be here all alone.”
“I am so used to solitude.”
Mrs. Hare sat down, and gazed with sympathy at the young, though somewhat strange-looking woman before her. She detected the signs of mental suffering on her face.
“You have seen sorrow,” she uttered, bending forward, and speaking with the utmost sweetness.
“Oh, great sorrow!” burst from Lady Isabel, for her wretched fate was very palpable to her mind that evening, and the tone of sympathy rendered it nearly irrepressible.
“My daughter tells me that you have lost your children, and you have lost your fortune and position. Indeed I feel for you. I wish I could comfort you!”
This did not decrease her anguish43. She completely lost all self control, and a gush44 of tears fell from her eyes.
“Don’t pity me! Don’t pity me dear Mrs. Hare! Indeed, it only makes endurance harder. Some of us,” she added, looking up, with a sickly smile, “are born to sorrow.”
“We are all born to it,” cried Mrs. Hare. “I, in truth, have cause to say so. Oh, you know not what my position has been—the terrible weight of grief that I have to bear. For many years, I can truly say that I have not known one completely happy moment.”
“All do not have to bear this killing45 sorrow,” said Lady Isabel.
“Rely upon it, sorrow of some nature does sooner or later come to all. In the brightest apparent lot on earth, dark days must mix. Not that there is a doubt but that it falls unequally. Some, as you observe, seem born to it, for it clings to them all their days; others are more favored—as we reckon favor. Perhaps this great amount of trouble is no more than is necessary to take us to Heaven. You know the saying, ‘Adversity hardens the heart, or it opens it to Paradise.’ It may be that our hearts continue so hard, that the long-continued life’s trouble is requisite46 to soften47 them. My dear,” Mrs. Hare added, in a lower tone, while the tears glistened48 on her pale cheeks, “there will be a blessed rest for the weary, when this toilsome life is ended; let us find comfort in that thought.”
“Ay! Ay!” murmured Lady Isabel. “It is all that is left to me.”
“You are young to have acquired so much experience of sorrow.”
“We cannot estimate sorrow by years. We may live a whole lifetime of it in a single hour. But we generally bring ill fate upon ourselves,” she continued, in a desperation of remorse49; “as our conduct is, so will our happiness or misery50 be.”
“Not always,” sighed Mrs. Hare. “Sorrow, I grant you, does come all too frequently, from ill-doing; but the worst is, the consequences of this ill-doing fall upon the innocent as well as upon the guilty. A husband’s errors will involve his innocent wife; parent’s sins fall upon their children; children will break the hearts of their parents. I can truly say, speaking in all humble51 submission52, that I am unconscious of having deserved the great sorrow which came upon me; that no act of mine invited it on; but though it has nearly killed me, I entertain no doubt that it is lined with mercy, if I could only bring my weak rebellious25 heart to look for it. You, I feel sure, have been equally undeserving.”
She? Mrs. Hare marked not the flush of shame, the drooping53 of the eyelids54.
“You have lost your little ones,” Mrs. Hare resumed. “That is grief—great grief; I would not underrate it; but, believe me, it is as nothing compared to the awful fate, should it ever fall upon you, of finding your children grow up and become that which makes you wish they had died in their infancy55. There are times when I am tempted56 to regret that all my treasures are not in that other world; that they had not gone before me. Yes; sorrow is the lot of all.”
“Surely, not of all,” dissented57 Lady Isabel. “There are some bright lots on earth.”
“There is not a lot but must bear its appointed share,” returned Mrs. Hare. “Bright as it may appear, ay, and as it may continue to be for years, depend upon it, some darkness must overshadow it, earlier or later.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle—what sorrow can there be in store for them?” asked Lady Isabel, her voice ringing with a strange sound, which Mrs. Hare noted58, though she understood it not.
“Mrs. Carlyle’s lot is bright,” she said, a sweet smile illumining her features. “She loves her husband with an impassioned love; and he is worthy59 of it. A happy fate, indeed, is hers; but she must not expect to be exempted60 from sorrow. Mr. Carlyle has had his share of it,” continued Mrs. Hare.
“Ah!”
“You have doubtless been made acquainted with his history. His first wife left him—left home and her children. He bore it bravely before the world, but I know that it wrung his very heart-strings. She was his heart’s sole idol61.”
“She? Not Barbara?”
The moment the word “Barbara” had escaped her lips, Lady Isabel, recollected62 herself. She was only Madame Vine, the governess; what would Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity?
Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed it; she was absorbed in the subject.
“Barbara?” she uttered; “certainly not. Had his first love been given to Barbara, he would have chosen her then. It was given to Lady Isabel.”
“It is given his wife now?”
Mrs. Hare nearly laughed.
“Of course it is; would you wish it to be buried in the grave with the dead, and with one who was false to him? But, my dear, she was the sweetest woman, that unfortunate Lady Isabel. I loved her then, and I cannot help loving her still. Others blamed her, but I pitied. They were well matched; he so good and noble; she, so lovely and endearing.”
“And she left him—threw him to the winds with all his nobility and love!” exclaimed the poor governess, with a gesture of the hands that looked very much like despair.
“Yes. It will not do to talk of—it is a miserable63 subject. How she could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel64 to many; but to none more than it was to me and my daughter. The false step—though I feel almost ashamed to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to savor65 of triumph—while it must have secured her own wretchedness, led to the happiness of my child; for it is certain Barbara would never love one as she loves Mr. Carlyle.”
“It did secure wretchedness to her, you think?” cried Lady Isabel, her tone one of bitter mockery more than anything else.
Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question.
“No woman ever took that fatal step yet, without its entailing66 on her the most dire68 wretchedness,” she replied. “It cannot be otherwise. And Lady Isabel was of a nature to feel remorse beyond common—to meet it half-way. Refined, modest, with every feeling of an English gentlewoman, she was the very last, one would have thought, to act so. It was as if she had gone away in a dream, not knowing what she was doing; I have thought so many a time. That terrible mental wretchedness and remorse did overtake her, I know.”
“How did you know it? Did you hear it?” exclaimed Lady Isabel, her tone all too eager, had Mrs. Hare been suspicious. “Did he proclaim that—Francis Levison? Did you hear it from him?”
Mrs. Hare, gentle Mrs. Hare, drew herself up, for the words grated on her feelings and on her pride. Another moment, and she was mild and kind again, for she reflected that the poor, sorrowful governess must have spoken without thought.
“I know not what Sir Francis Levison may have chose to proclaim,” she said, “but you may be sure he would not be allowed opportunity to proclaim anything to me, or to any other friend of Mr. Carlyle’s; nay69, I should say, nor to any of the good and honorable. I heard it from Lord Mount Severn.”
“From Lord Mount Severn?” repeated Lady Isabel. And she opened her lips to say something more, but closed them again.
“He was here on a visit in the summer; he stayed a fortnight. Lady Isabel was the daughter of the late earl—perhaps you may not have known that. He—Lord Mount Severn—told me, in confidence, that he had sought out Lady Isabel when the man, Levison, left her; he found her sick, poor, broken-hearted, in some remote French town, utterly borne down with remorse and repentance70.”
“Could it be otherwise?” sharply asked Lady Isabel.
“My dear, I have said it could not. The very thought of her deserted71 children would entail67 it, if nothing she did. There was a baby born abroad,” added Mrs. Hare, dropping her voice, “an infant in its cradle, Lord Mount Severn said; but that child, we knew, could only bring pain and shame.”
“True,” issued from her trembling lips.
“Next came her death; and I cannot but think it was sent to her in mercy. I trust she was prepared for it, and had made her peace with God. When all else is taken from us, we turn to him; I hope she had learned to find the Refuge.”
“How did Mr. Carlyle receive the news of her death?” murmured Lady Isabel, a question which had been often in her thoughts.
“I cannot tell; he made no outward sign either of satisfaction or grief. It was too delicate a subject for any one to enter upon with him, and most assuredly he did not enter upon it himself. After he was engaged to my child, he told me he should never have married during Lady Isabel’s life.”
“From—from—the remains72 of affection?”
“I should think not. I inferred it to be from conscientious73 scruples74. All his affection is given to his present wife. There is no doubt that he loves her with a true, a fervent75, a lasting76 love: though there may have been more romantic sentiment in the early passion felt for Lady Isabel. Poor thing! She gave up a sincere heart, a happy home.”
Ay, poor thing! She had very nearly wailed77 forth78 her vain despair.
“I wonder whether the drawing-room is tenanted yet,” smiled Mrs. Hare, breaking a pause which had ensued. “If so I suppose they will be expecting me there.”
“I will ascertain79 for you,” said Lady Isabel, speaking in the impulse of the moment; for she was craving80 an instant to herself, even though it were but in the next hall.
She quitted the gray parlor and approached the drawing-room. Not a sound came from it; and, believing it was empty, she opened the door and looked cautiously in.
Quite empty. The fire blazed, the chandelier was lighted, but nobody was enjoying the warmth or the light. From the inner room, however, came the sound of the piano, and the tones of Mr. Carlyle’s voice. She recognized the chords of the music—they were those of the accompaniment to the song he had so loved when she sang it him. Who was about to sing it to him now?
Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room to the other door, which was ajar. Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carlyle stood by her, his arm on her chair, and bending his face on a level with hers, possibly to look at the music. So once had stolen, so once had peeped the unhappy Barbara, to hear this selfsame song. She had been his wife then; she had craved81, and received his kisses when it was over. Their positions were reversed.
Barbara began. Her voice had not the brilliant power of Lady Isabel’s, but it was a sweet and pleasant voice to listen to.
“When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well,
There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
Some recollection be,
Of days that have as happy been—
And you’ll remember me.”
Days that had as happy been! Ay! did he remember her? Did a thought of her, his first and best love, flit across him, as the words fell on his ear? Did a past vision of the time when she had sat there and sung it to him arouse his heart to even momentary82 recollection?
Terribly, indeed, were their positions reversed; most terribly was she feeling it. And by whose act and will had the change been wrought83? Barbara was now the cherished wife, East Lynne’s mistress. And what was she? Not even the courted, welcomed guest of an hour, as Barbara had been; but an interloper; a criminal woman who had thrust herself into the house; her act, in doing so, not justifiable84, her position a most false one. Was it right, even if she did succeed in remaining undiscovered, that she and Barbara should dwell in the same habitation, Mr. Carlyle being in it? Did she deem it to be right? No, she did not; but one act of ill-doing entails85 more. These thoughts were passing through her mind as she stood there, listening to the song; stood there as one turned to stone, her throbbing86 temples pressed against the door’s pillar.
The song was over, and Barbara turned to her husband, a whole world of love in her bright blue eyes. He laid his hand upon her head; Lady Isabel saw that, but she would not wait to see the caress87 that most probably followed it. She turned and crossed the room again, her hands clasped tightly on her bosom88, her breath catching89 itself in hysterical90 sobs91. Miss Carlyle was entering the hall. They had not yet met, and Lady Isabel swept meekly92 past her with a hurried courtesy. Miss Carlyle spoke, but she dared not answer, to wait would have been to betray herself.
Sunday came, and that was the worst of all. In the old East Lynne pew at St. Jude’s, so conspicuous93 to the congregation, sat she, as in former times; no excuse, dared she, the governess make, to remain away. It was the first time she had entered an English Protestant church since she had last sat in it, there, with Mr. Carlyle. Can you wonder that the fact alone, with all the terrible remembrances it brought in its train, was sufficient to overwhelm her with emotion? She sat at the upper end now, with Lucy; Barbara occupied the place that had been hers, by the side of Mr. Carlyle. Barbara there, in her own right his wife; she severed94 from him forever and forever!
She scarcely raised her head; she tightened95 her thick veil over her face; she kept her spectacles bent96 toward the ground. Lucy thought she must be crying; she never had seen anyone so still at church before. Lucy was mistaken; tears came not to solace97 the bitter anguish of hopeless, self-condemning remorse. How she sat out the service she could not tell; she could not tell how she could sit out other services, as the Sundays came round! The congregation did not forget to stare at her. What an extraordinary looking governess Mrs. Carlyle had picked up!
They went out when it was over. Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle in advance; she, humbly98 following them with Lucy. She glanced aside at the tomb in the churchyard’s corner, where moldered the remains of her father; and a yearning99 cry went forth from the very depth of her soul. “Oh, that I were laid there with him! Why did I come back again to East Lynne?”
Why, truly? But she had never thought that her cross would be so sharp as this.
收听单词发音 |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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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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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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gall
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passionately
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lame
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possessed
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gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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assent
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entreaty
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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chafed
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graceful
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utterly
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yearn
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yearned
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fervor
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epithets
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applied
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rebelliously
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rebellious
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inquiry
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kidnapper
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| n.绑架者，拐骗者 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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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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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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entailing
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| 使…成为必要( entail的现在分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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83
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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85
entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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87
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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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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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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