‘To hear with eyes is part of love’s rare wit.’
‘Custom calls me to’t :—
What custom wills, in all things should we do’t?
The dust on antique time would lie unswept,
And mountainous error be too highly heaped
For truth to over-peer.’ — Coriolanus.
IN the afternoon Mr Lyon went out to see the sick amongst his flock, and Esther, who had been passing the morning in dwelling2 on the memories and the few remaining relics3 of her parents, was left alone in the parlour amidst the lingering odours of the early dinner, not easily got rid of in that small house. Rich people, who know nothing of these vulgar details, can hardly imagine their significance in the history of multitudes of human lives in which the sensibilities are never adjusted to the external conditions. Esther always felt so much discomfort4 from those odours that she usually seized any possibility of escaping from them, and today they oppressed her the more because she was weary with long-continued agitation5. Why did she not put on her bonnet6 as usual and get out into the open air? It was one of those pleasant November afternoons — pleasant in the wide country — when the sunshine is on the clinging brown leaves of the young oaks, and the last yellow leaves of the elms flutter down in the fresh but not eager breeze. But Esther sat still on the sofa — pale and with reddened eyelids7, her curls all pushed back carelessly, and her elbow resting on the ridgy8 black horse-hair, which usually almost set her teeth on edge if she pressed it even through her sleeve — while her eyes rested blankly on the dull street. Lyddy had said, ‘Miss, you look sadly; if you can’t take a walk, go and lie down.’ She had never seen the curls in such disorder9, and she reflected that there had been a death from typhus recently. But the obstinate10 miss only shook her head.
Esther was waiting for the sake of — not a probability, but — a mere11 possibility, which made the brothy odours endurable. Apparently12, in less than half an hour, the possibility came to pass, for she changed her attitude, almost started from her seat, sat down again, and listened eagerly. If Lyddy should send him away, could she herself rush out and call him back? Why not? Such things were permissible13 where it was understood, from the necessity of the case, that there was only friendship. But Lyddy opened the door and said, ‘Here’s Mr Holt, miss, wants to know if you’ll give him leave to come in. I told him you was sadly.’
‘O yes, Lyddy, beg him to come in.’
‘I should not have persevered,’ said Felix, as they shook hands, ‘only I know Lyddy’s dismal14 way. But you do look ill,’ he went on, as he seated himself at the other end of the sofa. ‘Or rather — for that’s a false way of putting it — you look as if you had been very much distressed15. Do you mind about my taking notice of it?’
He spoke16 very kindly17, and looked at her more persistently18 than he had ever done before, when her hair was perfect.
‘You are quite right. I am not at all ill. But I have been very much agitated19 this morning. My father has been telling me things I never heard before about my mother, and giving me things that belonged to her. She died when I was a very little creature.’
‘Then it is no new pain or trouble for you and Mr Lyon? I could not help being anxious to know that.’
Esther passed her hand over her brow before she answered. ‘I hardly know whether it is pain, or something better than pleasure. It has made me see things I was blind to before — depths in my father’s nature.’
As she said this, she looked at Felix, and their eyes met very gravely.
‘It is such a beautiful day,’ he said, ‘it would do you good to go into the air. Let me take you along the river towards Little Treby, will you?’
‘I will put my bonnet on,’ said Esther, unhesitatingly, though they had never walked out together before.
It is true that to get into the fields they had to pass through the street; and when Esther saw some acquaintances, she reflected that her walking alone with Felix might be a subject of remark — all the more because of his cap, patched boots, no cravat20, and thick stick. Esther was a little amazed herself at what she had come to. So our lives glide21 on: the river ends we don’t know where, and the sea begins, and then there is no more jumping ashore22.
When they were in the streets Esther hardly spoke. Felix talked with his usual readiness, as easily as if he were not doing it solely23 to divert her thoughts, first about Job Tudge’s delicate chest, and the probability that the little white-faced monkey would not live long; and then about a miserable24 beginning of a night-school, which was all he could get together at Sproxton; and the dismalness25 of that hamlet, which was a sort of lip to the coalpit on one side and the ‘public’ on the other — and yet a paradise compared with the wynds of Glasgow, where there was little more than a chink of daylight to show the hatred26 in women’s faces.
But soon they got into the fields, where there was a right of way towards Little Treby, now following the course of the river, now crossing towards a lane, and now turning into a cart-track through a plantation27.
‘Here we are!’ said Felix, when they had crossed the wooden bridge, and were treading on the slanting28 shadows made by the elm trunks. ‘I think this is delicious. I never feel less unhappy than in these late autumn afternoons when they are sunny.’
‘Less unhappy! There now!’ said Esther, smiling at him with some of her habitual29 sauciness30, ‘I have caught you in self-contradiction. I have heard you quite furious against puling, melancholy31 people. If I had said what you have just said, you would have given me a long lecture, and told me to go home and interest myself in the reason of the rule of three.’
‘Very likely,’ said Felix, beating the weeds, according to the foible of our common humanity when it has a stick in its hand. ‘But I don’t think myself a fine fellow because I’m melancholy. I don’t measure my force by the negations in me, and think my soul must be a mighty32 one because it is more given to idle suffering than to beneficent activity. That’s what your favourite gentlemen do, of the Byronic bilious33 style.’ ‘I don’t admit that those are my favourite gentlemen.’
‘I’ve heard you defend them — gentlemen like your Renes, who have no particular talent for the finite, but a general sense that the infinite is the right thing for them. They might as well boast of nausea34 as a proof of a strong inside.’
‘Stop, stop! You run on in that way to get out of my reach. I convicted you of confessing that you are melancholy.’
‘Yes!’ said Felix, thrusting his left hand into his pocket, with a shrug35; ‘as I could confess to a great many other things I’m not proud of. The fact is, there are not many easy lots to be drawn36 in the world at present; and such as they are I am not envious37 of them. I don’t say life is not worth having: it is worth having to a man who has some sparks of sense and feeling and bravery in him. And the finest fellow of all would be the one who could be glad to have lived because the world was chiefly miserable, and his life had come to help some one who needed it. He would be the man who had the most powers and the fewest selfish wants. But I’m not up to the level of what I see to be best. I’m often a hungry discontented fellow.’
‘Why have you made life so hard then?’ said Esther, rather frightened as she asked the question. ‘It seems to me you have tried to find just the most difficult task.’
‘Not at all,’ said Felix, with curt38 decision. ‘My course was a very simple one. It was pointed39 out to me by conditions that I saw as clearly as I see the bars of this stile. It’s a difficult stile too,’ added Felix, striding over. ‘Shall I help you, or will you be left to yourself?’
‘I can do without help, thank you.’
‘It was all simple enough,’ continued Felix, as they walked on. ‘If I meant to put a stop to the sale of those drugs, I must keep my mother, and of course at her age she would not leave the place she had been used to. And I had made up my mind against what they call genteel businesses.’
‘But suppose every one did as you do? Please to forgive me for saying so; but I cannot see why you could not have lived as honourably40 with some employment that presupposes education and refinement41.’
‘Because you can’t see my history or my nature,’ said Felix, bluntly. ‘I have to determine for myself, and not for other men. I don’t blame them, or think I am better than they; their circumstances are different. I would never choose to withdraw myself from the labour and common burthen of the world; but I do choose to withdraw myself from the push and the scramble42 for money and position. Any man is at liberty to call me a fool, and say that mankind are benefited by the push and the scramble in the long-run. But I care for the people who live now and will not be living when the long-run comes. As it is, I prefer going shares with the unlucky.’
Esther did not speak, and there was silence between them for a minute or two, till they passed through a gate into a plantation where there was no large timber, but only thin-stemmed trees and underwood, so that the sunlight fell on the mossy spaces which lay open here and there.
‘See how beautiful those stooping birch-stems are with the light on them!’ said Felix. ‘Here is an old felled trunk they have not thought worth carrying away. Shall we sit down a little while?’
‘Yes, the mossy ground with the dry leaves sprinkled over it is delightful44 to one’s feet.’ Esther sat down and took off her bonnet, that the light breeze might fall on her head. Felix, too, threw down his cap and stick, lying on the ground with his back against the felled trunk.
‘I wish I felt more as you do,’ she said, looking at the point of her foot, which was playing with a tuft of moss43. ‘I can’t help caring very much what happens to me. And you seem to care so little about yourself.’
‘You are thoroughly45 mistaken,’ said Felix. ‘It is just because I’m a very ambitious fellow, with very hungry passions, wanting a great deal to satisfy me, that I have chosen to give up what people call worldly good. At least that has been one determining reason. It all depends on what a man gets into his consciousness — what life thrusts into his mind, so that it becomes present to him as remorse46 is present to the guilty, or a mechanical problem to an inventive genius. There are two things I’ve got present in that way: one of them is the picture of what I should hate to be. I’m determined47 never to go about making my face simpering or solemn, and telling professional lies for profit; or to get tangled48 in affairs where I must wink49 at dishonesty and pocket the proceeds, and justify50 that knavery51 as part of a system that I can’t alter. If I once went into that sort of struggle for success, I should want to win — I should defend the wrong that I had once identified myself with. I should become everything that I see now beforehand to be detestable. And what’s more, I should do this, as men are doing it every day, for a ridiculously small prize — perhaps for none at all — perhaps for the sake of two parlours, a rank eligible52 for the church-wardenship, a discontented wife and several unhopeful children.’
Esther felt a terrible pressure on her heart — the certainty of her remoteness from Felix — the sense that she was utterly53 trivial to him.
‘The other thing that’s got into my mind like a splinter,’ said Felix, after a pause, ‘is the life of the miserable — the spawning54 life of vice55 and hunger. I’ll never be one of the sleek56 dogs. The old Catholics are right, with their higher rule and their lower. Some are called to subject themselves to a harder discipline, and renounce57 things voluntarily which are lawful58 for others. It is the old word — “necessity is laid upon me”.’
‘It seems to me you are stricter than my father is.’
‘No! I quarrel with no delight that is not base or cruel, but one must sometimes accommodate one’s self to a small share. That is the lot of the majority. I would wish the minority joy, only they don’t want my wishes.’
Again there was silence. Esther’s cheeks were hot in spite of the breeze that sent her hair floating backward. She felt an inward strain, a demand on her to see things in a light that was not easy or soothing59. When Felix had asked her to walk, he had seemed so kind, so alive to what might be her feelings, that she had thought herself nearer to him than she had ever been before; but since they had come out, he had appeared to forget all that. And yet she was conscious that this impatience60 of hers was very petty. Battling in this way with her own little impulses, and looking at the birch-stems opposite till her gaze was too wide for her to see anything distinctly, she was unaware61 how long they had remained without speaking. She did not know that Felix had changed his attitude a little, and was resting his elbow on the tree-trunk, while he supported his head, which was turned towards her. Suddenly he said, in a lower tone than was habitual to him —
‘You are very beautiful.’
She started and looked round at him, to see whether his face would give some help to the interpretation62 of this novel speech. He was looking up at her quite calmly, very much as a reverential Protestant might look at a picture of the Virgin63, with a devoutness64 suggested by the type rather than by the image. Esther’s vanity was not in the least gratified: she felt that, somehow or other, Felix was going to reproach her.
‘I wonder,’ he went on, still looking at her, ‘whether the subtle measuring of forces will ever come to measuring the force there would be in one beautiful woman whose mind was as noble as her face was beautiful — who made a man’s passion for her rush in one current with all the great aims of his life.’
Esther’s eyes got hot and smarting. It was no use trying to be dignified65. She had turned away her head, and now said, rather bitterly, ‘It is difficult for a woman ever to try to be anything good when she is not believed in — when it is always supposed that she must be contemptible66.’
‘No, dear Esther’ — it was the first time Felix had been prompted to call her by her Christian67 name, and as he did so he laid his large hand on her two little hands, which were clasped on her knees. ‘You don’t believe that I think you contemptible. When I first saw you —’
‘I know, I know,’ said Esther, interrupting him impetuously, but still looking away. ‘You mean you did think me contemptible then. But it was very narrow of you to judge me in that way, when my life had been so different from yours. I have great faults. I know I am selfish, and think too much of my own small tastes and too little of what affects others. But I am not stupid. I am not unfeeling. I can see what is better.’
‘But I have not done you injustice68 since I knew more of you,’ said Felix, gently.
‘Yes, you have,’ said Esther, turning and smiling at him through her tears. ‘You talk to me like an angry pedagogue69. Were you always wise? Remember the time when you were foolish or naughty.’
‘That is not far off,’ said Felix, curtly70, taking away his hand and clasping it with the other at the back of his head. The talk, which seemed to be introducing a mutual71 understanding, such as had not existed before, seemed to have undergone some check.
‘Shall we get up and walk back now?’ said Esther, after a few moments.
‘No,’ said Felix, entreatingly72. ‘Don’t move yet. I daresay we shall never walk together or sit here again.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I am a man who am warned by visions. Those old stories of visions and dreams guiding men have their truth: we are saved by making the future present to ourselves.’
‘I wish I could get visions, then,’ said Esther, smiling at him, with an effort at playfulness, in resistance to something vaguely73 mournful within her.
‘That is what I want,’ said Felix, looking at her very earnestly. ‘Don’t turn your head. Do look at me, and then I shall know if I may go on speaking. I do believe in you; but I want you to have such a vision of the future that you may never lose your best self. Some charm or other may be flung about you — some of your atta-of-rose fascinations74 — and nothing but a good strong terrible vision will save you. And if it did save you, you might be that woman I was thinking of a little while ago when I looked at your face: the woman whose beauty makes a great task easier to men instead of turning them away from it. I am not likely to see such fine issues; but they may come where a woman’s spirit is finely touched. I should like to be sure they would come to you.’
‘Why are you not likely to know what becomes of me?’ said Esther, turning away her eyes in spite of his command. ‘Why should you not always be my father’s friend and mine?’
‘O, I shall go away as soon as I can to some large town,’ said Felix, in his more usual tone, — ‘some ugly, wicked, miserable place. I want to be a demagogue of a new sort; an honest one, if possible, who will tell the people they are blind and foolish, and neither flatter them nor fatten75 on them. I have my heritage — an order I belong to. I have the blood of a line of handicraftsmen in my veins76, and I want to stand up for the lot of the handicraftsmen as a good lot, in which a man may be better trained to all the best functions of his nature than if he belonged to the grimacing77 set who have visiting-cards, and are proud to be thought richer than their neighbours.’
‘Would nothing ever make it seem right to you to change your mind?’ said Esther (she had rapidly woven some possibilities out of the new uncertainties78 in her own lot, though she would not for the world have had Felix know of her weaving). ‘Suppose, by some means or other, a fortune might come to you honourably — by marriage, or in any other unexpected way — would you see no change in your course?’
‘No,’ said Felix, peremptorily79: ‘I will never be rich. I don’t count that as any peculiar80 virtue81. Some men do well to accept riches, but that is not my inward vocation82: I have no fellow-feeling with the rich as a class; the habits of their lives are odious83 to me. Thousands of men have wedded84 poverty because they expect to go to heaven for it; I don’t expect to go to heaven for it, but I wed85 it because it enables me to do what I most want to do on earth. Whatever the hopes for the world may be — whether great or small — I am a man of this generation; I will try to make life less bitter for a few within my reach. It is held reasonable enough to toil86 for the fortunes of a family, though it may turn to imbecility in the third generation. I choose a family with more chances in it.’
Esther looked before her dreamily till she said, ‘That seems a hard lot; yet it is a great one.’ She rose to walk back.
‘Then you don’t think I’m a fool,’ said Felix, loudly, starting to his feet, and then stooping to gather up his cap and stick.
‘Of course you suspected me of that stupidity.’
‘Well — women, unless they are Saint Theresas or Elizabeth Frys, generally think this sort of thing madness, unless when they read of it in the Bible.’
‘A woman can hardly ever choose in that way; she is dependent on what happens to her. She must take meaner things, because only meaner things are within her reach.’
‘Why, can you imagine yourself choosing hardship as the better lot?’ said Felix, looking at her with a sudden question in his eyes.
‘Yes, I can,’ she said, flushing over neck and brow.
Their words were charged with a meaning dependent entirely87 on the secret consciousness of each. Nothing had been said which was necessarily personal. They walked a few yards along the road by which they had come, without further speech, till Felix said gently, ‘Take my arm.’ She took it, and they walked home so, entirely without conversation. Felix was struggling as a firm man struggles with a temptation, seeing beyond it and disbelieving its lying promise. Esther was struggling as a woman struggles with the yearning88 for some expression of love, and with vexation under that subjection to a yearning which is not likely to be satisfied. Each was conscious of a silence which each was unable to break, till they entered Malthouse Lane, and were within a few yards of the minister’s door.
‘It is getting dusk,’ Felix then said; ‘will Mr Lyon be anxious about you?’
‘No, I think not. Lyddy would tell him that I went out with you, and that you carried a large stick,’ said Esther, with her light laugh.
Felix went in with Esther to take tea, but the conversation was entirely between him and Mr Lyon about the tricks of canvassing89, and foolish personality of the placards, and the probabilities of Transome’s return, as to which Felix declared himself to have become indifferent. This scepticism made the minister uneasy: he had great belief in the old political watchwords, had preached that universal suffrage90 and no ballot91 were agreeable to the will of God, and liked to believe that a visible ‘instrument’ was forthcoming in the Radical92 candidate who had pronounced emphatically against Whig finality. Felix, being in a perverse93 mood, contended that universal suffrage would be equally agreeable to the devil; that he would change his politics a little, having a larger traffic, and see himself more fully94 represented in parliament.
‘Nay, my friend,’ said the minister, ‘you are again sporting with paradox95; for you will not deny that you glory in the name of Radical, or Root-and-branch man, as they said in the great times when Nonconformity was in its giant youth.’
‘A Radical — yes; but I want to go to some roots a good deal lower down than the franchise96.’
‘Truly there is a work within which cannot be dispensed97 with; but it is our preliminary work to free men from the stifled98 life of political nullity, and bring them into what Milton calls “the liberal air”, wherein alone can be wrought99 the final triumphs of the Spirit.’
‘With all my heart. But while Caliban is Caliban, though you multiply him by a million, he’ll worship every Trinculo that carries a bottle. I forget, though — you don’t read Shakspeare, Mr Lyon.’
‘I am bound to confess that I have so far looked into a volume of Esther’s as to conceive your meaning; but the fantasies therein were so little to be reconciled with a steady contemplation of that divine economy which is hidden from sense and revealed to faith, that I forbore the reading, as likely to perturb100 my ministrations.’
Esther sat by in unusual silence. The conviction that Felix willed her exclusion101 from his life was making it plain that something more than friendship between them was not so thoroughly out of the question as she had always inwardly asserted. In her pain that his choice lay aloof102 from her, she was compelled frankly103 to admit to herself the longing104 that it had been otherwise, and that he had entreated105 her to share his difficult life. He was like no one else to her: he had seemed to bring at once a law, and the love that gave strength to obey the law. Yet the next moment, stung by his independence of her, she denied that she loved him; she had only longed for a moral support under the negations of her life. If she were not to have that support, all effort seemed useless.
Esther had been so long used to hear the formulas of her father’s belief without feeling or understanding them, that they had lost all power to touch her. The first religious experience of her life — the first self-questioning, the first voluntary subjection, the first longing to acquire the strength of greater motives106 and obey the more strenuous107 rule — had come to her through Felix Holt. No wonder that she felt as if the loss of him were inevitable108 backsliding.
But was it certain that she should lose him? She did not believe that he was really indifferent to her.
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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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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ridgy
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| adj.有脊的；有棱纹的；隆起的；有埂的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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persistently
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agitated
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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dismalness
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| 阴沉的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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sauciness
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| n.傲慢，鲁莽 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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41
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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42
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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43
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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44
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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45
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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46
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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50
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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51
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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52
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
spawning
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| 产卵 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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57
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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58
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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59
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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60
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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61
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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64
devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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66
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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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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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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76
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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83
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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84
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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86
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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89
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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91
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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93
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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94
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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96
franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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97
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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98
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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99
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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100
perturb
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| v.使不安，烦扰，扰乱，使紊乱 | |
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101
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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102
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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103
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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104
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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105
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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107
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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108
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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