The understanding appeared to have come to be that the Colonel and his wife were to present themselves toward the middle of July for the “good long visit” at Fawns1 on which Maggie had obtained from her father that he should genially2 insist; as well as that the couple from Eaton Square should welcome there earlier in the month, and less than a week after their own arrival, the advent3 of the couple from Portland Place. “Oh, we shall give you time to breathe!” Fanny remarked, in reference to the general prospect4, with a gaiety that announced itself as heedless of criticism, to each member of the party in turn; sustaining and bracing5 herself by her emphasis, pushed even to an amiable6 cynicism, of the confident view of these punctualities of the Assinghams. The ground she could best occupy, to her sense, was that of her being moved, as in this connexion she had always been moved, by the admitted grossness of her avidity, the way the hospitality of the Ververs met her convenience and ministered to her ease, destitute7 as the Colonel had kept her, from the first, of any rustic8 retreat, any leafy bower9 of her own, any fixed10 base for the stale season now at hand. She had explained at home, she had repeatedly reexplained, the terms of her dilemma11, the real difficulty of her, or — as she now put it — of their, position. When the pair could do nothing else, in Cadogan Place, they could still talk of marvellous little Maggie, and of the charm, the sinister12 charm, of their having to hold their breath to watch her; a topic the momentous13 midnight discussion at which we have been present was so far from having exhausted14. It came up, irrepressibly, at all private hours; they had planted it there between them, and it grew, from day to day, in a manner to make their sense of responsibility almost yield to their sense of fascination15. Mrs. Assingham declared at such moments that in the interest of this admirable young thing — to whom, she also declared, she had quite “come over”— she was ready to pass with all the world else, even with the Prince himself, the object, inconsequently, as well, of her continued, her explicitly16 shameless appreciation17, for a vulgar, indelicate, pestilential woman, showing her true character in an abandoned old age. The Colonel’s confessed attention had been enlisted18, we have seen, as never yet, under pressure from his wife, by any guaranteed imbroglio19; but this, she could assure him she perfectly20 knew, was not a bit because he was sorry for her, or touched by what she had let herself in for, but because, when once they had been opened, he couldn’t keep his eyes from resting complacently21, resting almost intelligently, on the Princess. If he was in love with HER now, however, so much the better; it would help them both not to wince22 at what they would have to do for her. Mrs. Assingham had come back to that, whenever he groaned23 or grunted24; she had at no beguiled25 moment — since Maggie’s little march WAS positively26 beguiling27 — let him lose sight of the grim necessity awaiting them. “We shall have, as I’ve again and again told you, to lie for her — to lie till we’re black in the face.”
“To lie ‘for’ her?” The Colonel often, at these hours, as from a vague vision of old chivalry28 in a new form, wandered into apparent lapses29 from lucidity30.
“To lie TO her, up and down, and in and out — it comes to the same thing. It will consist just as much of lying to the others too: to the Prince about one’s belief in HIM; to Charlotte about one’s belief in HER; to Mr. Verver, dear sweet man, about one’s belief in everyone. So we’ve work cut out — with the biggest lie, on top of all, being that we LIKE to be there for such a purpose. We hate it unspeakably — I’m more ready to be a coward before it, to let the whole thing, to let everyone, selfishly and pusillanimously31 slide, than before any social duty, any felt human call, that has ever forced me to be decent. I speak at least for myself. For you,” she had added, “as I’ve given you so perfect an opportunity to fall in love with Maggie, you’ll doubtless find your account in being so much nearer to her.”
“And what do you make,” the Colonel could, at this, always imperturbably32 enough ask, “of the account you yourself will find in being so much nearer to the Prince; of your confirmed, if not exasperated33, infatuation with whom — to say nothing of my weak good-nature about it — you give such a pretty picture?”
To the picture in question she had been always, in fact, able contemplatively to return. “The difficulty of my enjoyment34 of that is, don’t you see? that I’m making, in my loyalty35 to Maggie, a sad hash of his affection for me.”
“You find means to call it then, this whitewashing36 of his crime, being ‘loyal’ to Maggie?”
“Oh, about that particular crime there is always much to say. It is always more interesting to us than any other crime; it has at least that for it. But of course I call everything I have in mind at all being loyal to Maggie. Being loyal to her is, more than anything else, helping37 her with her father — which is what she most wants and needs.”
The Colonel had had it before, but he could apparently38 never have too much of it. “Helping her ‘with’ him —?”
“Helping her against him then. Against what we’ve already so fully39 talked of — its having to be recognised between them that he doubts. That’s where my part is so plain — to see her through, to see her through to the end.” Exaltation, for the moment, always lighted Mrs. Assingham’s reference to this plainness; yet she at the same time seldom failed, the next instant, to qualify her view of it. “When I talk of my obligation as clear I mean that it’s absolute; for just HOW, from day to day and through thick and thin, to keep the thing up is, I grant you, another matter. There’s one way, luckily, nevertheless, in which I’m strong. I can perfectly count on her.”
The Colonel seldom failed here, as from the insidious40 growth of an excitement, to wonder, to encourage. “Not to see you’re lying?”
“To stick to me fast, whatever she sees. If I stick to her — that is to my own poor struggling way, under providence41, of watching over them ALL— she’ll stand by me to the death. She won’t give me away. For, you know, she easily can.”
This, regularly, was the most lurid42 turn of their road; but Bob Assingham, with each journey, met it as for the first time. “Easily?”
“She can utterly43 dishonour44 me with her father. She can let him know that I was aware, at the time of his marriage — as I had been aware at the time of her own — of the relations that had preexisted between his wife and her husband.”
“And how can she do so if, up to this minute, by your own statement, she is herself in ignorance of your knowledge?”
It was a question that Mrs. Assingham had ever, for dealing45 with, a manner to which repeated practice had given almost a grand effect; very much as if she was invited by it to say that about this, exactly, she proposed to do her best lying. But she said, and with full lucidity, something quite other: it could give itself a little the air, still, of a triumph over his coarseness. “By acting46, immediately with the blind resentment47 with which, in her place, ninety-nine women out of a hundred would act; and by so making Mr. Verver, in turn, act with the same natural passion, the passion of ninety-nine men out of a hundred. They’ve only to agree about me,” the poor lady said; “they’ve only to feel at one over it, feel bitterly practised upon, cheated and injured; they’ve only to denounce me to each other as false and infamous48, for me to be quite irretrievably dished. Of course it’s I who have been, and who continue to be, cheated — cheated by the Prince and Charlotte; but they’re not obliged to give me the benefit of that, or to give either of us the benefit of anything. They’ll be within their rights to lump us all together as a false, cruel, conspiring49 crew, and, if they can find the right facts to support them, get rid of us root and branch.”
This, on each occasion, put the matter so at the worst that repetition even scarce controlled the hot flush with which she was compelled to see the parts of the whole history, all its ugly consistency50 and its temporary gloss51, hang together. She enjoyed, invariably, the sense of making her danger present, of making it real, to her husband, and of his almost turning pale, when their eyes met, at this possibility of their compromised state and their shared discredit52. The beauty was that, as under a touch of one of the ivory notes at the left of the keyboard, he sounded out with the short sharpness of the dear fond stupid uneasy man. “Conspiring — so far as YOU were concerned — to what end?”
“Why, to the obvious end of getting the Prince a wife — at Maggie’s expense. And then to that of getting Charlotte a husband at Mr. Verver’s.”
“Of rendering53 friendly services, yes — which have produced, as it turns out, complications. But from the moment you didn’t do it FOR the complications, why shouldn’t you have rendered them?”
It was extraordinary for her, always, in this connexion, how, with time given him, he fell to speaking better for her than she could, in the presence of her clear-cut image of the “worst,” speak for herself. Troubled as she was she thus never wholly failed of her amusement by the way. “Oh, isn’t what I may have meddled55 ‘for’— so far as it can be proved I did meddle54 — open to interpretation56; by which I mean to Mr. Verver’s and Maggie’s? Mayn’t they see my motive57, in the light of that appreciation, as the wish to be decidedly more friendly to the others than to the victimised father and daughter?” She positively liked to keep it up. “Mayn’t they see my motive as the determination to serve the Prince, in any case, and at any price, first; to ‘place’ him comfortably; in other words to find him his fill of money? Mayn’t it have all the air for them of a really equivocal, sinister bargain between us — something quite unholy and louche?”
It produced in the poor Colonel, infallibly, the echo. “‘Louche,’ love —?”
“Why, haven’t you said as much yourself?— haven’t you put your finger on that awful possibility?”
She had a way now, with his felicities, that made him enjoy being reminded of them. “In speaking of your having always had such a ‘mash58’—?”
“Such a mash, precisely59, for the man I was to help to put so splendidly at his ease. A motherly mash an impartial60 look at it would show it only as likely to have been — but we’re not talking, of course, about impartial looks. We’re talking of good innocent people deeply worked upon by a horrid61 discovery, and going much further, in their view of the lurid, as such people almost always do, than those who have been wider awake, all round, from the first. What I was to have got from my friend, in such a view, in exchange for what I had been able to do for him — well, that would have been an equivalent, of a kind best known to myself, for me shrewdly to consider.” And she easily lost herself, each time, in the anxious satisfaction of filling out the picture. “It would have been seen, it would have been heard of, before, the case of the woman a man doesn’t want, or of whom he’s tired, or for whom he has no use but SUCH uses, and who is capable, in her infatuation, in her passion, of promoting his interests with other women rather than lose sight of him, lose touch of him, cease to have to do with him at all. Cela s’est vu, my dear; and stranger things still — as I needn’t tell YOU! Very good then,” she wound up; “there is a perfectly possible conception of the behaviour of your sweet wife; since, as I say, there’s no imagination so lively, once it’s started, as that of really agitated62 lambs. Lions are nothing to them, for lions are sophisticated, are blases, are brought up, from the first, to prowling and mauling. It does give us, you’ll admit, something to think about. My relief is luckily, however, in what I finally do think.”
He was well enough aware, by this time, of what she finally did think; but he was not without a sense, again, also for his amusement by the way. It would have made him, for a spectator of these passages between the pair, resemble not a little the artless child who hears his favourite story told for the twentieth time and enjoys it exactly because he knows what is next to happen. “What of course will pull them up, if they turn out to have less imagination than you assume, is the profit you can have found in furthering Mrs. Verver’s marriage. You weren’t at least in love with Charlotte.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Assingham, at this, always brought out, “my hand in that is easily accounted for by my desire to be agreeable to HIM.”
“To Mr. Verver?”
“To the Prince — by preventing her in that way from taking, as he was in danger of seeing her do, some husband with whom he wouldn’t be able to open, to keep open, so large an account as with his father-inlaw. I’ve brought her near him, kept her within his reach, as she could never have remained either as a single woman or as the wife of a different man.”
“Kept her, on that sweet construction, to be his mistress?”
“Kept her, on that sweet construction, to be his mistress.” She brought it out grandly — it had always so, for her own ear as well as, visibly, for her husband’s, its effect. “The facilities in the case, thanks to the particular conditions, being so quite ideal.”
“Down even to the facility of your minding everything so little — from your own point of view — as to have supplied him with the enjoyment of TWO beautiful women.”
“Down even to THAT— to the monstrosity of my folly63. But not,” Mrs. Assingham added, “‘two’ of anything. One beautiful woman — and one beautiful fortune. That’s what a creature of pure virtue64 exposes herself to when she suffers her pure virtue, suffers her sympathy, her disinterestedness65, her exquisite66 sense for the lives of others, to carry her too far. Voila.”
“I see. It’s the way the Ververs have you.”
“It’s the way the Ververs ‘have’ me. It’s in other words the way they would be able to make such a show to each other of having me — if Maggie weren’t so divine.”
“She lets you off?” He never failed to insist on all this to the very end; which was how he had become so versed67 in what she finally thought.
“She lets me off. So that now, horrified68 and contrite69 at what I’ve done, I may work to help her out. And Mr. Verver,” she was fond of adding, “lets me off too.”
“Then you do believe he knows?”
It determined70 in her always, there, with a significant pause, a deep immersion71 in her thought. “I believe he would let me off if he did know — so that I might work to help HIM out. Or rather, really,” she went on, “that I might work to help Maggie. That would be his motive, that would be his condition, in forgiving me; just as hers, for me, in fact, her motive and her condition, are my acting to spare her father. But it’s with Maggie only that I’m directly concerned; nothing, ever — not a breath, not a look, I’ll guarantee — shall I have, whatever happens, from Mr. Verver himself. So it is, therefore, that I shall probably, by the closest possible shave, escape the penalty of my crimes.”
“You mean being held responsible.”
“I mean being held responsible. My advantage will be that Maggie’s such a trump72.”
“Such a trump that, as you say, she’ll stick to you.”
“Stick to me, on our understanding — stick to me. For our understanding’s signed and sealed.” And to brood over it again was ever, for Mrs. Assingham, to break out again with exaltation. “It’s a grand, high compact. She has solemnly promised.”
“But in words —?”
“Oh yes, in words enough — since it’s a matter of words. To keep up HER lie so long as I keep up mine.”
“And what do you call ‘her’ lie?”
“Why, the pretence73 that she believes me. Believes they’re innocent.”
“She positively believes then they’re guilty? She has arrived at that, she’s really content with it, in the absence of proof?” It was here, each time, that Fanny Assingham most faltered74; but always at last to get the matter, for her own sense, and with a long sigh, sufficiently75 straight. “It isn’t a question of belief or of proof, absent or present; it’s inevitably76, with her, a question of natural perception, of insurmountable feeling. She irresistibly77 knows that there’s something between them. But she hasn’t ‘arrived’ at it, as you say, at all; that’s exactly what she hasn’t done, what she so steadily78 and intensely refuses to do. She stands off and off, so as not to arrive; she keeps out to sea and away from the rocks, and what she most wants of me is to keep at a safe distance with her — as I, for my own skin, only ask not to come nearer.” After which, invariably, she let him have it all. “So far from wanting proof — which she must get, in a manner, by my siding with her — she wants DISproof, as against herself, and has appealed to me, so extraordinarily79, to side against her. It’s really magnificent, when you come to think of it, the spirit of her appeal. If I’ll but cover them up brazenly80 enough, the others, so as to show, round and about them, as happy as a bird, she on her side will do what she can. If I’ll keep them quiet, in a word, it will enable her to gain time — time as against any idea of her father’s — and so, somehow, come out. If I’ll take care of Charlotte, in particular, she’ll take care of the Prince; and it’s beautiful and wonderful, really pathetic and exquisite, to see what she feels that time may do for her.”
“Ah, but what does she call, poor little thing, ‘time’?”
“Well, this summer at Fawns, to begin with. She can live as yet, of course, but from hand to mouth; but she has worked it out for herself, I think, that the very danger of Fawns, superficially looked at, may practically amount to a greater protection. THERE the lovers — if they ARE lovers!— will have to mind. They’ll feel it for themselves, unless things are too utterly far gone with them.”
“And things are NOT too utterly far gone with them?”
She had inevitably, poor woman, her hesitation81 for this, but she put down her answer as, for the purchase of some absolutely indispensable article, she would have put down her last shilling. “No.”
It made him always grin at her. “Is THAT a lie?”
“Do you think you’re worth lying to? If it weren’t the truth, for me,” she added, “I wouldn’t have accepted for Fawns. I CAN, I believe, keep the wretches82 quiet.”
“But how — at the worst?”
“Oh, ‘the worst’— don’t talk about the worst! I can keep them quiet at the best, I seem to feel, simply by our being there. It will work, from week to week, of itself. You’ll see.”
He was willing enough to see, but he desired to provide —! “Yet if it doesn’t work?”
“Ah, that’s talking about the worst!”
Well, it might be; but what were they doing, from morning to night, at this crisis, but talk? “Who’ll keep the others?”
“The others —?”
“Who’ll keep THEM quiet? If your couple have had a life together, they can’t have had it completely without witnesses, without the help of persons, however few, who must have some knowledge, some idea about them. They’ve had to meet, secretly, protectedly, they’ve had to arrange; for if they haven’t met, and haven’t arranged, and haven’t thereby83, in some quarter or other, had to give themselves away, why are we piling it up so? Therefore if there’s evidence, up and down London —”
“There must be people in possession of it? Ah, it isn’t all,” she always remembered, “up and down London. Some of it must connect them — I mean,” she musingly84 added, “it naturally WOULD— with other places; with who knows what strange adventures, opportunities, dissimulations? But whatever there may have been, it will also all have been buried on the spot. Oh, they’ve known HOW— too beautifully! But nothing, all the same, is likely to find its way to Maggie of itself.”
“Because every one who may have anything to tell, you hold, will have been so squared?” And then inveterately85, before she could say — he enjoyed so much coming to this: “What will have squared Lady Castledean?”
“The consciousness”— she had never lost her promptness —“of having no stones to throw at any one else’s windows. She has enough to do to guard her own glass. That was what she was doing,” Fanny said, “that last morning at Matcham when all of us went off and she kept the Prince and Charlotte over. She helped them simply that she might herself be helped — if it wasn’t perhaps, rather, with her ridiculous Mr. Blint, that HE might be. They put in together, therefore, of course, that day; they got it clear — and quite under her eyes; inasmuch as they didn’t become traceable again, as we know, till late in the evening.” On this historic circumstance Mrs. Assingham was always ready afresh to brood; but she was no less ready, after her brooding, devoutly86 to add “Only we know nothing whatever else — for which all our stars be thanked!”
The Colonel’s gratitude87 was apt to be less marked. “What did they do for themselves, all the same, from the moment they got that free hand to the moment (long after dinner-time, haven’t you told me?) of their turning up at their respective homes?”
“Well, it’s none of your business!”
“I don’t speak of it as mine, but it’s only too much theirs. People are always traceable, in England, when tracings are required. Something, sooner or later, happens; somebody, sooner or later, breaks the holy calm. Murder will out.”
“Murder will — but this isn’t murder. Quite the contrary perhaps! I verily believe,” she had her moments of adding, “that, for the amusement of the row, you would prefer an explosion.”
This, however, was a remark he seldom noticed; he wound up, for the most part, after a long, contemplative smoke, with a transition from which no exposed futility88 in it had succeeded in weaning him. “What I can’t for my life make out is your idea of the old boy.”
“Charlotte’s too inconceivably funny husband? I HAVE no idea.”
“I beg your pardon — you’ve just shown it. You never speak of him but as too inconceivably funny.”
“Well, he is,” she always confessed. “That is he may be, for all I know, too inconceivably great. But that’s not an idea. It represents only my weak necessity of feeling that he’s beyond me — which isn’t an idea either. You see he MAY be stupid too.”
“Precisely — there you are.”
“Yet on the other hand,” she always went on, “he MAY be sublime89: sublimer90 even than Maggie herself. He may in fact have already been. But we shall never know.” With which her tone betrayed perhaps a shade of soreness for the single exemption91 she didn’t yearningly92 welcome. “THAT I can see.”
“Oh, I say —!” It came to affect the Colonel himself with a sense of privation.
“I’m not sure, even, that Charlotte will.”
“Oh, my dear, what Charlotte doesn’t know —!”
But she brooded and brooded. “I’m not sure even that the Prince will.” It seemed privation, in short, for them all. “They’ll be mystified, confounded, tormented93. But they won’t know — and all their possible putting their heads together won’t make them. That,” said Fanny Assingham, “will be their punishment.” And she ended, ever, when she had come so far, at the same pitch. “It will probably also — if I get off with so little — be mine.”
“And what,” her husband liked to ask, “will be mine?”
“Nothing — you’re not worthy94 of any. One’s punishment is in what one feels, and what will make ours effective is that we SHALL feel.” She was splendid with her “ours”; she flared95 up with this prophecy. “It will be Maggie herself who will mete96 it out.”
“Maggie —?”
“SHE’LL know — about her father; everything. Everything,” she repeated. On the vision of which, each time, Mrs. Assingham, as with the presentiment97 of an odd despair, turned away from it. “But she’ll never tell us.”
收听单词发音 |
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fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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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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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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imbroglio
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| n.纷乱，纠葛，纷扰，一团糟 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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pusillanimously
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| adv.胆怯地，优柔寡断地 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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whitewashing
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的现在分词 )； 喷浆 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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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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mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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disinterestedness
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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72
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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76
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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80
brazenly
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| adv.厚颜无耻地；厚脸皮地肆无忌惮地 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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82
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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83
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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84
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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85
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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86
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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87
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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88
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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89
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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90
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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92
yearningly
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| 怀念地，思慕地，同情地； 渴 | |
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93
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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94
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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95
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96
mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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97
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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